Can I Come In?

#realwritersmarket, #Flashbytes by #PhilipLoyd…

About every twenty years or so I find myself cruising by the little three-bedroom house where I grew up. The idea is that all those wonderful memories will come rushing through like some time machine, transporting me to the glory days of my youth.

It never quite pans out that way though, and I usually spend no more than a few moments just passing by. What’s there to see anyway? Right? The way I remember it is probably way more accurate than if I saw it again.

Some people, however, who aren’t cowards like me, do actually park their cars and stay a while. Others, longing so for the good-ole days, even make it as far as the front door. If only they could pass into their past so easily.

So you can understand how I wasn’t really surprised when the other night there was a pounding on my door. The gate was broken over a year now. I gotta get that fixed. It was late: around 3AM.

I looked through the peephole and saw this guy standing there. Little dude. Barely five foot. He was soaking from the rain and wearing a Members Only jacket. Members Only?

I decided to open the door and see what the little fella wanted. My community isn’t a dangerous one, and despite everything you see on TV, I try to be a good neighbor. Good neighbor or not, there are limits.

He introduced himself as Larry. Larry? Why did that name sound familiar? Larry…

“Yes.” I said. “What is this about?”

“Well,” he said, “Here’s the thing. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I come inside.”

“Come inside?”

“Yes. I was wondering if I can come inside.”

Ah. Okay.

“Because you used to live here?” I said.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

Then what?

“You see,” he said, “The thing is, I used to fuck your wife.

What?

“Back in high school,” he said. “I was wondering if I can come inside. You know; for old times’ sake.”

I didn’t know whether to beat his ass or shake his hand. This little dude surely had some balls.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here from before.”

“From before?”

“Yeah,: he said. “Can I come inside?”

“You better leave,” I said. “Now, Poindexter, before I stuff you in the mailbox.”

He looked at me, puzzled; then slithered away.

By the look on his face, I don’t think he even knew what he was really asking. Fuck my wife? Here from before? Interesting concept. I gotta get that gate fixed.

Before trying his hand at fiction, Philip Loyd spent a lifetime as a financial and insurance writer, contributing to Forbes, McGraw Hill, and Jim Kramer’s The Street, among others. Loyd now writes fiction and reference books exclusively.. Titles available at Amazon.com.