THE SCRIBBLER'S ROOST
Original Creative Writing
THE FINGER by Derek Brodehl
It was a bad day. Working as an on-call, underpaid plumber can make you wanna end it all. By the end of the day I was in the dumps with little hope of recovery, despite it being a Saturday night. Even the prospect of beer and typical bar rejections could not improve my ragged state of mind.
I was driving south down Marks Avenue and thinking back on a conversation I'd had a few days ago. I recall it was something about taking pleasure in the details. Finding joy in the little things. I started trying to think of the good things. Cats, pornography, a full pack of cigarettes, for instance. I though of kids playing "tag" around the monkey bars. Hmm........ kids. Yeah, ya gotta love kids. As I see it, they are without sin. Without guilt. The epitome of the innocence that we all lack. Kids don't finance Hummers. They don't grind their baby teeth when they haven't had their morning latte. They don't need pills and they don't talk about American Idol. Kids are totally cool.
I was rolling all this around in my head when I pulled up to a red light and looked over to see an adorable little girl in the backseat of a Volvo station wagon. She had whitish-blonde hair with square bangs and Buddy Holly-style horn rimmed glasses (a look most little girls can't pull off). She was the cutest kid I'd met in a long time and she was looking at me. Not staring at me maliciously or stupidly, just looking at me like she was wondering where I might be going or why a grown man is driving around in a fucked up Hyundai with no side mirror. I decided I liked this kid and I smiled at her. She grinned a big buck-toothed smile back at me.
So I took my own advice. I found joy in the little things. I turned up my stereo, puffed on my cigarette, and gave that sweet little girl the finger. The light turned green and I headed home.
Like I said, the pleasure is in the little things.