NYCM Short Story: R1 8th Place

“You need to find yourself a woman.”

It was the first thing Afa had said to Anton every morning for the past sixty years.

Anton rose each day at dawn, not because he was a morning person but because Afa was, his old bones creaking and squawking in protest as he swung his shaky old legs out of bed, rising with an ungraceful grunt. He would turn on his kettle, the click click whoosh of his gas stove as familiar to him as Afa’s voice, brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink and spitting with a flourish, hawking it like he did in the loogie competition he’d won in sixth grade.

Afa still claimed he’d cheated.

He’d pour the hot water into his favourite thermos, mixing in a packet of instant coffee (much to Afa’s chagrin) before pulling on his pressed khakis, tucking in one of six identical green golf shirts, and securing his fanny pack firmly around his waist. Then Anton would pick up the folding chair leaning against the wall and amble out onto the porch of his semi-detached bungalow, where Afa would emerge, thermos in his left hand and his chair in his right, and cheerfully remind him that he was in desperate need of some necking.

They’d limp down the sidewalk to The Creamy Dream, set up their chairs against the crumbling brick wall and watch the sun rise, the smell of hot coffee and yeast snaking its way out from under the door and into their greedy noses.

“You’re never going to woo a woman while wearing a fanny pack,” Afa would say.

“I’m amazed you wooed any woman at all with that ugly mug,” Anton would reply.

Clara, Afa’s late wife, had been a lovely woman with soft hands, but clearly there was no accounting for taste since she’d married Afa when they were seventeen and he didn’t even have a proper moustache, yet.

Afa would pull out a cigarette, his shaky hands fumbling with the matches for an eternity until he finally got it lit, the smell as mouth-watering to Anton as the smell of the cinnamon rolls wafting over to them from inside the shop.

When Clara died (breast cancer) Anton had flushed his pack of cigarettes down the toilet, which was a poor choice as he then spent the rest of the afternoon mopping toilet water up off the floor. When he bent over to pick up the soggy pack of cigarettes, his khakis split right up the seam exposing his bleach-stained underpants, and he’d waddled next door to Afa’s and knocked, knees soaked and buns in the breeze.

“Looks like Clara made it to heaven,” Afa said, choking on a laugh and slapping his knee. “Nobody else could have made me smile, today.”

Afa would whistle at every woman over the age of forty, saying things like Do you know what my shirt is made of? Boyfriend material, and Do you like raisins? How would you feel about a date?

The truth was, Anton would have loved to find a woman. But God had already given him his soul mate (irritating as he was), blessed them with a long and happy life together, and Anton figured God had more important things on His mind than helping a tired old man wet his wick.

It was a cold, blustery morning in February when both Afa and Anton emerged from their front doors, glanced at each other once, and plunked their chairs down right there on their covered porches.

“Must’ve gotten at least three feet of snow last night,” Anton said.

“Huh?” Afa called.

“Three feet!”

“Sweet cheeks?”

“Three. Feet.”

“What?”

Anton grabbed his chair and picked his way carefully through the snow mound on his steps, grumbling under his breath as he trudged across the four-foot gap between their walkways and dragged his chair up onto Afa’s porch.

“We must have got three feet last night,” said Afa, pointing at the snow Anton had just trekked his way through.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Anton said.

They watched the weak, wintry sun come up over the rooflines of the houses across the street, reflecting off the clean, white snow and burning their eyeballs. Anton pulled out a pair of sunglasses from his fanny pack.

“Hand me those, would ya?” Afa said.

“No.”

“Why didn’t you bring me a pair?”

“I wouldn’t carry a thing for you in this!” Anton chirped, patting his fanny pack.

“Doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?!”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s still that bad.”

But Afa’s eyes were watering, and twenty minutes later he pushed himself out of his chair with a lengthy groan, limping back into the house and returning with a pair of aviators, flicking the side of Anton’s head with his thumb and middle finger as he settled back into his chair.

“Hey, Maverick, keep your hands to yourself,” Anton said.

“I’m dangerous, Iceman,” Afa warned.

They spent the rest of the morning quoting Tom Cruise movies, passing the Heat Buddy back and forth to keep their fingers and toes warm.

In the afternoon, once the sidewalks were plowed, they made their way (carefully!) to the coffee shop, an orange extension cord looped around Afa’s shoulder, the Heat Buddy under Anton’s arm. Afa waved to the girls inside – baristas, they called themselves – plugged in the extension cord and carried it back out the door where they connected it to the Heat Buddy with a contented sigh.

Afa elbowed Anton as a Town of Huntsville van pulled up, a tall, greying woman clambering out of the passenger door.

“An extra-large!” the man in the driver’s seat called. She grimaced at him before slamming the door shut, slipping and sliding her way up the curb and to the entrance of the coffee shop, where she narrowed her eyes at Anton and pursed her lips at the Heat Buddy.

“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” Afa said to her with a wink.

She sneered at him. “You’re not walking. You’re sitting.”

Afa’s smile faded, and Anton sat up a little straighter.

“You can’t be doing… this,” she said, waving her hand at the extension cord and the Heat Buddy.

“It’s cold,” Anton replied, his tone pickled with displeasure.

“It’s a tripping hazard.” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at them. “I work for by-law.”

“Snow’s a tripping hazard,” Anton said, gesturing to the curb. “You want to regulate God, too?”

She glowered at them, her gaze hot enough to melt a hole right through an igloo, before she stormed inside, pointing at them through the window and waving her arms at the extension cord.

The baristas were all eyeing her with distaste.

“I think we should go,” Anton said.

Afa chortled. “No way, Anton. That’s your woman, right there.”

“She’s rude,” Anton pouted.

“So are you.”

“I’m not rude!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Name one time I was rude!”

“Last week when we picked up food from that Thai place? You told the guy he didn’t deserve a tip.”

“I ordered online, and it was take-out!” Anton spluttered. He didn’t understand why he had to tip somebody for reading an order off an iPad.

“My birthday last year, when you told Kelly that her stuffed animal looked like roadkill.”

Anton frowned. Kelly was Afa’s granddaughter, and she’d been carrying around a strange, motley, sloth-looking creature with black buttons for eyes.

“It did look like roadkill,” he muttered.

“June nineteenth, 1957,” Afa said in a loud voice.

“Oh Christ, not this again…”

“Betty-Ann Masterson asked you to the Sadie Hawkins dance.” Afa glared at Anton.

“And what did you tell her?”

Anton shifted uncomfortably.

“You told her that you’d rather take the creature from the black lagoon.”

“She was mean!” Anton exclaimed. “She said you were a drip and called Clara a wet rag!”

Afa chuckled. “So what?! She was a damn looker! Like Bridget Bardot and Sophia Lauren had a threesome with Fabio.”

“Pass me one of them things,” Anton grumbled irritably, reaching for Afa’s cigarettes.

“Oh, no. No way. Not unless you ask Miss By-Law out on a date.”

He waggled the pack of smokes just beyond Anton’s reach. Anton rose out of his chair, his knee aching, trying to snatch them from Afa’s hand, but Afa pulled them back. Anton swiped again, and Afa tucked them under his butt with a cackle.

“You’re an ass, Afa.”

“You’ll have to kiss my ass if you want these smokes, Anton.”

“I’ll just go buy my own.”

“Be my guest.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

Anton crossed his arms in a sullen silence when Aubrey, the gangly redhead who always snuck them free croissants, stuck her head out the door.

“I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but by-law says she’ll cite us if we don’t pick up the extension cord. Health and safety violation, or some shit.”

She picked up the cord and coiled it around her elbow, handing it back to Afa. “Why don’t you come inside instead?”

“Okay,” Afa said.

“No,” said Anton.

“We are definitely coming inside.”

“We are absolutely not coming inside.”

Aubrey’s mouth twitched. “Well, you’re welcome to come in out of the cold, boys, you just let us know what you decide.”

After several minutes of pithy silence, Afa caved. “I’ll give you a cigarette if we can go inside.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Anton grumbled. “And I’m not talking to her.”

“You don’t have to talk to her,” Afa sighed. “But it’s colder than a banker’s heart, out here. I think my pea knuckles have frostbite.”

“Fine. But cigarette first.”

Afa handed him the pack and Anton pulled a cigarette out with his teeth, lighting the match in one quick swoop and inhaling, his eyes closed with pleasure at the ancient ritual, smoke curling around his fingers and lips like a caress.

He inhaled, the smoke filling his lungs and coating his tongue, and he sighed, long and loud, smoke and February air blending together in the sunshine, shrouding his head in a warm, grey cloud.

“Who needs women when you’ve got this?” he murmured happily.

He puffed slowly, sweetly, rolling the column between his fingers with delight.

The bell of the coffee shop tinkled, and the cranky woman emerged with a cup of coffee in each hand.

“Watch your step,” Anton said, nodding at the icy spot just to the left of the door, but she ignored him and stomped off, her boot catching the corner of the ice and sliding out from under her.

They watched as she crashed to the ground, her coffees flying up into the air as if she were an artist throwing paint at a canvas, landing with a splatter and decorating the snow like brown piss.

She glared up at Anton, as if it were his fault she’d fallen.

“Guess God doesn’t approve of by-law enforcement,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

Afa stifled a snicker, but Anton sighed as she struggled to get up, slipping and sliding on the ice. He stood with a grunt and held out his hand, pulling her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t sound thankful at all.

“You’re welcome,” he replied brightly, his voice mockingly sincere.

As she stepped into the van and they drove away, Anton opened the door to the coffee shop for his friend.

“Bros before hoes,” he said.

They stepped into the warmth, where Aubrey was waiting with not one but two chocolate covered croissants for each of them.

Now that’s a woman, he thought.