WRONG SONG
And here I am again, responding to a Chuck Wendig challenge. This time it was to set my iPod to shuffle and use the first song to come up as the title of a 500-word story. The song that came up for me was Kielbasa by Tenacious D.
Damn my juvenile tastes in music!
Kaufmann grunted and doubled over.
It was the kielbasa, had to be. The fucking kielbasa! He
knew better than to eat something from that goddamn wop street vender… but he
was in a hurry, and it was convenient.
Walked right past the greasy-haired bastard and his steaming vat of sausages
every day. Plus, he, Kaufmann, was from solid, tow-headed German stock—Kielbasa
was practically his native dish! But now here he was, sweating and crapping his
brains out in the executive bathroom. He knew exactly what was waiting for him
in the conference room: two partners, his account assistant, Marsha, and four
impatient businessmen. Four businessmen who were waiting to hear his
presentation to decide if they would grace the firm with their business. Four
businessmen who, with the stroke of a pen, would indirectly earn him a cash
bonus of $1.2 million dollars. Four businessmen who weren’t going to tolerate Marsha’s
excuses and offers of fresh cups of coffee for much longer. Kaufmann wiped his
ass for the third time, stood and pulled up his slacks. He made it all the way
to the sink before rushing pell-mell back to the stall, barely getting his
pants down before another torrent of fury hit the bowl at Mach one.
Magarelli whistled as he cleaned.
He took great pains to make sure his equipment was spotless
before he closed down for the night. It might be okay for other venders to sell
their hot dogs or pizza or tacos out of disrespectable grease-splattered carts,
but he took more pride in his work than that. He father had taught him that if
you were going to do a thing, then you should do that thing well. Magarelli had
no illusions that he was a great chef, but he served good food at a fair price.
And he always had a broad smile for his customers, for Magarelli truly
appreciated those who choose his cart other the small herd of other food carts
in the plaza. But as much as he enjoyed serving his customers, and he enjoyed observing
them more. Something else his father had said: to understand the true nature of
a man watch how he treats his subordinates. And Magarelli saw plenty of bad
behavior… barked orders to harried underlings, secretaries sent out to fetch
lunch in rainstorms, berating obscenities screamed into cellphones. For the worst
of these men, Magarelli had a surprise gift. Under the gleaming stainless steel
surface of his cart, beneath the basin that held the warming water, Magarelli
had a secret cubbyhole. Here he would tuck away a sausage or kielbasa that had gone
off. When Magarelli was presented with the opportunity to teach the worst of
these men a lesson—like the horrible blond man this afternoon—he took it.
Through crafty slight of hand he retrieved the rancid meat, placed it lovingly
in a fresh bun, and flashed a wider-than-usual smile.
It was no grand life that he lived, but it was good enough.
###
Labels: writing
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home