RM Ahmose Fiction Writer

 "The Office Manager"

(pp.20-23)

   Monica  chuckled  a musical little laugh, “You are  so  funny… and  smart.  Well,  I’ll  see you later, if you’re back when I get in.”

   “Looking forward to it. Bye-bye.” 

   The  sofa had rather a plush feel to it, surpris-ingly so for an item of décor in a furnished rental unit. The two women sitting sidewise on it a few feet   apart   conversed  in   happy,  confidential tones. In their hands was balanced a stout chal-lis  within  which  swayed  lightly  the  elixir that buoyed   the  women’s  spirits.  Adding  to their feeling  of  contentment  was the memory of the exquisitely prepared dinner to which they treat-ed themselves an hour or so earlier.

   “I said it before Kellie, and I’m saying it again: The best way to get over your divorce is to start, gradually  of  course,  meeting  and dating good prospects  for  a meaningful relationship.” Mea-gan Winslow spoke in earnest terms. She was a  thirty-three  year old legal secretary who had finally,  some  weeks earlier, wrangled from her love interest of six years a commitment to mar-riage.

   Kellie  leaned backward looking at the ceiling. “Yeah,  down the road ‘a piece,’ I can see a re-newed  interest  in  it. First though, I want to fo-cus  all my energies on getting settled comfort-ably in my new job. I mean, there were some in-dications  during  the  interview that the job has its challenges. I’m hoping I can establish myself there  and  find opportunities for advancement or at least have it serve as a springboard to some-thing else.”

   “Oh,  absolutely.  I can understand your being career focused…having been thrust out of finan-cial  security,  in  your  marriage. I can imagine your  feeling of emergency…to find that stability again.  But just stay open at least to the possi-bility  of new romance.” Meagan leaned slightly toward her new friend with a serious and buzzed expression.

   “Kellie… I’m not saying that  you would… but  if  you   wanted to…you  must  know  that  with with your looks and intelligence, you could have your pick of the choicest ‘beef’ out there to toy  with.”  She  noted  Kellie’s  look  of  mild  cyni-cism but  continued.  “Justin has some friends and…you know…work associates who are deli-ciously   attractive  and  successful.  So  when you’re  ready,  I can arrange a very comfortable meeting.”

   “Meagan,  my  friend,  with you looking out for me  during  this  time  of  insecurity  in  my  life, there’s no way I’ll sink and fade into oblivion, as predicted in my fears. So, when I’m ready I’ll re-gard you as a main source…for…connection.”

   Gratified  by  Kellie’s expression  of apprecia-tion  of  her,  Meagan  touched  her friend’s arm

gently. “I’m here for you. We thirty-ish, and near thirty-ish, girls have to stick together.”

   Conversations  between  the  two women con-tinued  in  that cordial vein for half an hour when came  a  light  tap  at  Kellie’s  door. Noting the light in Kellie’s living room window from outside, Monica arrived as pre-announced to share in her downstairs neighbor’s mildly festive evening.

   “Hi,  Monica!”  Kellie greeted. “You’ve come at a  perfect  time.  There’s still plenty ‘juice’ in the jug.”  Monica,  smiling,  stepped  into the apart-ment. “Monica, this is my new friend and neigh-bor, Meagan. She lives right across the hall…in one of the big, front and back patio apartments.” Kellie continued in a playfully teasing tone with the   new  guest,  “Only  the  rich  can  afford it, right?”

     “Oh, it’s certainly no cozier than this immac-ulate jewel we’re in,” Meagan returned.

   “And  Meagan,  this  is  Monica who lives in a unit upstairs.”

   “Hi,  Monica,”  nodded  Meagan  smiling.  “I’m sure  we’ve  seen  one  another  about the com-plex.”

   “Let’s   broaden  the  accommodations  here,” Kellie remarked, moving the end table back far-ther  from  the  long  settee. She then pulled an ottoman   up  close  preparing  to  seat  herself, while  beckoning  Monica  to  take  her previous place  on  the  sofa.  Just before that, Kellie had motioned  Monica  to avail herself of the refresh-ments positioned nearby.

   “So what do you do, Monica?” asked Meagan conversationally.

   “I   work  check-out  at   Apple’s   department store.  I’m  also  a full-time student at Vorhease College.  When the spring semester starts next week  I’ll  be  allowed, again, to work a ‘floating’ schedule.  They’re  nice  enough  to  juggle my work hours to fit around my day class time.”

   “Oh, that’s so fortunate. What are you study-ing  at  Vorhease?”  Meagan inquired with wine glass tilting to her mouth to finish its contents.

   “They  just  recently  included classes leading to  a  degree  and  certification in hotel manage-ment, so I switched over from general business management.”

   “Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  heard  something  about that.  There’re  offering  it as one of their associ-ate  arts  programs.”  Meagan  was  reaching to place  her  glass  on a side table as she spoke. Kellie   picked   up   the   conversation   adding, “Hmm.  I  might  do well, myself, to look into an associate arts program there.”

   “Sure, Kellie, do that and embarrass your pro-gram-mates  by  completing the course require-ments  in  a  quarter  of  the  time.   …Oh, my,” Meagan  gasped  gazing  at her watch, “look at the  time.  Kellie you must forgive me for having to get back to my apartment. I have a few briefs to put together for attorneys in the morning. Oh, but it has been a most enjoyable evening. Con-gratulations,  again,  on  your  new  job.  I know you’re going to be a smashing success.”

   “Oh,  well, alright Meagan. I’m sorry you have to leave. You know how I enjoy your company.”

   “Well,  the  pleasure is always mine. Oh, and it’s been very nice meeting you formally, Moni-ca.”

   “Thank you, Meagan. At least now when I see you I can greet you by name.  …Bye.”

   Watching  Kellie  close  her  front door gently, after Meagan had entered her apartment, Moni-ca  reported  somberly,  “I don’t  think she likes me.”

   “Meagan   shows   a   little…tunnel  vision  at times,  but  she’s really a sweet person,” Kellie offered.

   “Tunnel vision?”

   “Yes, she’s kind of…singularly focused some-times?  …Well often. It’s like she doesn’t seem to flow from one situation or condition to another easily.”

   “You don’t think it’s because I’m black?”

   Kellie  wasn’t  prepared  for the abruptness of the proposition, but she recovered after a couple of  seconds and responded colloquially, “Well, I hope  not…that  would  be  a  ‘sucky’ way to go about one’s life.”

   Laughing   and  feeling  her  mood  lightening, Monica replied, “You’re so funny.”

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 "A Nice Family"

(pp.212-215)

...conducted with the dolls and other characters at her play table.

   Through the backdoor screen Mrs. Lark could hear the approach of the familiar voice, the com-forting  sound  of  her  husband’s  chatting light-heartedly  with  a  neighbor. Still, she was pain-fully  aware  of  tension that had evolved slowly, insidiously, between her and the man she loved so  dearly.  Soon, his voice reached Trina’s de-tection.

   “Daddy’s home, Mommy!” Trina arose quickly from  her  little  chair  but was stopped from her intended  flight  to  the back door. The rerouting came  via  her  mother’s order for her to visit the downstairs   bathroom  to  get  herself  properly cleaned up for dinner. Donning her most pleas-ant expression, Mrs. Lark made the walk to join her  husband  in  the clean and neatly arranged back   yard  area.  When  she  had  spoken  to Christopher  and  the  neighbor,  she paused to listen  to  the  conversation  the two had struck, which just happened to concern the Nies family.

   “Actually,  a  lot  of  folks  in the community,” claimed the Larks’ neighbor, Mr. Horner, “are a little  nervous  about having a family of mentally challenged  people  living right in our midst. It’s like  you don’t know what they may be capable of  doing.  I  mean  most  of us are raising kids here, for God’s sake.”

   “Yeah,  I’ve been hearing a lot of talk recently about  them.  They’ve  been living down there in that  south  end  for  a  few years now. I wonder why  suddenly   there’s  so much concern. Has either of them done anything?”

   “Well…I think it’s that those Nies offspring are getting  older,  you  know? And our kids are no-ticing  that the Nies kids are…how shall I say…slow,   like  their  parents?  Now,  most  of  our people…well,  kind  of,  tolerated  the parents…they  keep  to  themselves,  don’t  try  to  force themselves  on  the normal folk, you know. But the  real concern is with those young ones, you know?  They’re bound to cause problems, or at least that’s how everyone feels. It’s like, as they get  older,  you  just  know  they’re not going to stay…contained like the older ones.”

   “Humph.  That’s  too  bad they’re causing that much  alarm,” responded Christopher Lark. “The father just seems like a regular working stiff like everyone  else around here. I see him riding the commute  van  to  and from work at Allied Print. I’ve always wondered what he does there. May-be clean up or something?”

   “No…I heard he’s a scribe…whatever the hell that is. I guess they pay him minimum wage to scribble  some nonsense on the walls, as ther-apy  for  imbecilic  rage, and then pay him over-time  to  clean it up.  …Ha-ha-ha! Is that a good one  or what?!” Mr. Horner continued boisterous laughter  at  his  own joke. Smiling and shaking his  head,  Christopher  bid  his neighbor a “see you later” and joined his wife in walking into the house.

   Christopher   complimented   Phyllis   on  the pleasing  aroma  of dinner, but his tone seemed spare of enthusiasm. To Phyllis, it was just one more  indication that something was missing in his present regard for her. His expression during eye contact had become bland. His words were increasingly spare in both conversation and dis-putes.  He  seemed  disinclined  now  to confer the  embraces  and  caresses  she  so desired. And those conditions were taking a toll. Where-as, in earlier times, when they argued, she was inclined  to temper her words and attitude, now, she found herself lapsing sometimes into crude insensitivity as they bickered.

   Somewhat  awkwardly,  they moved about the kitchen in the passing seconds, he attired in his appliance  repairman  uniform,  she  in the spot-less  white  dress  of a lab technician. Then the one  glowing source of total agreement for them both burst suddenly into the kitchen. Each was equally  convinced that the sun rose and set for Trina.  Joyfully  shouting  “Daddy!” as ran to hug her father, she was the light of their lives.

   In  the  upcoming  days the conversational fo-cus on the Nieses intensified in the community of  Mooral.  The  ill  will  was almost like a virus transferring  from one family member to another, from one resident to another. Fortunately, there were  those  who seemed totally immune to the infectious  spread  of gossip and the occasions of   rancor-driven  and  fantasy-driven  machina-tions.  But  others seemed to become addicted to  their engagements in the hateful talk. In low, confidential  tones,  some  of  the  denizens felt free  to  confess  to  one  another  instances of past, and sometimes petty, ill treatment of one or  more  of  the  Nieses. Examples to describe were many.

   For  instance,  the  cabbie, Mr. Panti, learned to  make  himself  regularly  available to taxi Mr.

Nies’  wife  to  and  from  the  supermarket and other important facilities. But, slyly, he confided to  a  groceries  clerk  that  he  repeatedly over-charged  Mrs.  Nies  for the trips, through meter manipulations and other deceitful acts.

   Mrs.  Paugh,  who  operated the community’s main  dry  cleaning shop, typically received with a  smile  the collection of the Nies family’s sec-ond-hand  garments  that  were tagged not suit-able  for  machine  washing.  But she found that never  once  was a complaint made by the Nies patrons  when  their clothes were simply placed on  hangers  and  covered with the familiar clear plastic,  awaiting  pickup,  without  having been cleaned or pressed.

   On  several  occasions,  the  “president,”  Mr. Gator,  of  a  tiny  and fledgling home renovation business  received  permission from Mr. Nies to use the curbside area of his property as the col-lection  site for tons of bagged rubbish accruing from   Gator’s  refurbishing  work.  He  gave  Mr. Nies  the  false  sob  story  that  his “license” to dump,  at  cost,  in the county was revoked and that  Mr.  Nies’  help stood between him and his family’s  ruin.  With  minimal  effort  by cohorts, Gator  had been convinced by false reports that the  Nieses would receive only a subsidized ex-cess-trash-collection bill from the county, relat-ing to the family’s disabled condition.

   In  elementary  school,  one  of  the  cafeteria workers, a  Mrs. Small, reported to a smug and insensitive  realtor  friend  her  delight  in serving two  of  the  Nies  children,  nine-year-old Victor and his little sister, Faith-Marie, the least desir-able portions from the lunchroom steam table.

   Aided  by  some  of  the  female  students,  a group   of  the  boys  at  Chastity  Nies’  middle school  cooked  up the  odious  scheme to con-struct  an inconspicuous spying arrangement in the  girl’s  locker  room  to  watch  the Nies  girl changing for gym class.

   Such  accounts  represent approximately half of the episodes reflecting the malice of a portion of the Mooral residents. Happily, it was relative-ly a small portion.

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