Previously I believed I could not write fiction. It’s not important why I thought so, just note that I went from “I can’t,” to “here’s a short story I wrote”.

Not gonna lie. Writing a short story a month has been a challenge. Every time I finish one I worry I won’t ever be able to write another. I wrestle with the grammar, the tense changes, the story arc, all of it. And then, there it is, a complete short story. It feels good to be back in creative mode.

I will pause here to give credit to my mother. I grew up in a very messy house which means I’m not a perfectionist. I know a cluttered desk or a dangling participle will not make or break anything and won’t matter in the long run. Besides, I cut myself slack for being on a learning curve. Mistakes are part of the journey. Improvements will occur.

When I was writing my comic strip I operated under the motto, “Done is better than perfect.”—Still works for short stories. 

There is a level of self-consciousness that goes with sharing your creations regardless of the medium. No one wants to show their work and be rejected or laughed at. Based on my experience putting my comic out to the world, I know I’ll survive.

After all, what is the purpose of creating without sharing? 

Below is a short story for you; of the four stories I’ve written, this one was the second. I’ve considered making multiple changes to it, but that would result in never ending edits and corrections. I’d rather share it than perfect it.

Keep your joy.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger, unless it’s a holiday weekend. Or summertime. Facebook or email.

Driving Away

My son squeals the tires of my car as he takes off out of the driveway without my permission. He ended our latest fight with a ferocious slam of the front door, shouting,

“Get off my back! I don’t need you!”

He thinks he knows everything. He knows nothing. He is only seventeen. He’s a good kid but naive as hell. He’s just like his mother was.

I’m so frustrated with him. I need to get some air and try to relax. I slam the back door. The moon is bright enough to cast shadows so I head to the far corner of the yard where it is darkest and I can smell the pines.

This latest argument started because he’s got the bright idea to take a gap year. He thinks he’s going to backpack around Europe and India, living in hostels. I just can’t picture him surviving that kind of unstructured life. He’ll get chewed up and spit out.

I don’t want to tell him outright that he can’t handle it but I know he’ll end up getting his pocket picked, or mugged, or worse. I offered to take him to Italy for the summer. No way, he wants to do this by himself. Son-of-a-bitch he can be like his mother.

Why does it feel like I’m living proof that nice guys finish last? I was a good husband and I am a good father.

I scuff my feet on the grass. It’s getting long and I make a mental note to mow it tomorrow. Mowing the lawn is the sort of straightforward, satisfying, start-to-finish kind of chore I like. Too many things in life are never ending. One headache after another.

It’s been just me and my boy since my wife died. I never wanted to remarry. I did all the things a single dad is supposed to do; teacher’s meetings, cooking, camping, laundry, little league.

The first time I held him he curled his tiny fingers around my pinky and that was it for me. I sobbed and swore I’d always look out for him.

Did my father ever hold me when I was a baby? Doubt it. He sure as hell never did when I was a kid. Seemed like nothing pleased him. He had a short temper and by the time I was ten I was an expert at staying out of his hair and dodging his reach. My mother tried her best but she had her own battles to fight. By the time she was fifty her face was lined with resigned fatigue. She protected me as best she could. I regret I didn’t support her more.

I was eighteen when I left home. I chose a college halfway across the country so I wouldn’t feel obliged to visit.

I drove out there by myself in a day and a half with Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird on repeat. My first day on campus I made a friend; a friendship that began, blossomed and ended all in one day. We were in one of those over-hyped orientation assemblies that was a little too rah-rah for my taste. I was looking around for the exit when another student made eye contact with me. He contorted his face and body into an exact imitation of the girl up on stage—a too-bright smile and overarched back. I had to laugh. He jerked his head toward the door and out we went. In the pecking order of cool, he was at least three points on the scale above me.

We went downtown to the area that catered to students. Pubs and cheap beer everywhere. He was fun to hang out with; he could tell a good story and he told plenty. He was easy to be with, easy to talk to. I swear I was in love in the buddy-to-buddy sense.

By late evening, we were swaggering down the street, arms around each other’s shoulders singing Hard Day’s Night at the top of our lungs. Drunk on beer and stoned on youth.

We entered another bar, the last one of the evening, and he immediately disappeared into the back. When he returned he put his arm around me and surreptitiously opened his palm to show me a small tin foil packet.

“What’s that?” I asked.
“PCP. Angel Dust. I scored it for us.”

I was all for drinking beer, maybe smoking some pot. But there was no way in hell I was going to try something bought in the backroom of a seedy bar. It turned me off to know he was like that.

We went back and forth; “C’mon try it.”
“I don’t want to.”

“What are you afraid of?”

He got a little pushy, a little nasty. The fun dissolved to a bitter taste in my mouth. He said he’d do it by himself and he disappeared again down the hallway. I didn’t wait for him. I went back to the student dorm.

He didn’t show up on campus the next day but the police did. He’d been arrested for possession of a narcotic with intent to sell. I told the police all I knew and everything I could remember. It turned out he was not a registered student at all. The police knew who he was, they showed me his mug shot. He’d been at the orientation meeting to look for marks—students willing to bring drugs onto campus to sell.

It was a gut punch. I’d felt like he was my friend for life but to him I’d been a fish on a hook.

For the rest of my college career I put my head down. I had my share of fun, sure, but I always kept one foot out the door. I played it cool and safe. I took a good long look at anybody who thought they were going to be buddies with me.

After graduating I stayed out west, got a good job, and met my wife at the local bowling alley. Sounds corny but I took one look at her and knew I would make her mine.

I asked her to marry me after three months of dating. Why wait when you know she’s the one? I used to tell her she fit into my arms like we were puzzle pieces. She always said I squeezed too tight.

I try not to think of her too often but when I do, I prefer to remember the beginning of our marriage. It was goddamm near perfect. I loved her, I loved being married. I was happy. But sometime around year three, after our son was born, she said she couldn’t take it anymore. Take what? Being cared for? Having a good husband? I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I never ran around.

She insisted on getting her licence. She wouldn’t even let me be the one to teach her to drive. She wanted a job. I didn’t get the logic in that;

“I make more than enough money for both of us! Why do you want to work? Stay home with our son. No one can raise him but us.”

She wouldn’t agree.

“It’s not about the money. Listen to me! Maybe I want something more to do than laundry and groceries! It’s only part time, I can pick the baby up from daycare and still get dinner. It’ll be good for all of us.”

I let her take the job.

It didn’t turn out. Apparently finding independence includes finding another man’s bed.

She fell victim to that manipulative son-of-a-bitch and then she fell victim to cancer. But who did she turn to after the diagnosis? Not him. He didn’t stick around for that. Who drove her home after her surgery? Me. That’s who.

There was no way I could forgive her for cheating but I couldn’t let her go through the treatments alone either. We’d been separated for about a year. I brought her home and took care of her as best I could. Our son was only five. I did what was right.

I breathe in the scent of the pines, hum a few bars of A Hard Day’s Night and what flashes through my mind is that that song exactly describes the kind of marriage I had wanted; I make the money to buy her things, I come home, she makes me feel

alright. I get that maybe she might have wanted something a little different. Funny what you realise too late.

I scuff the grass some more. Am I squeezing my son too hard? I swear, if my father had squeezed me just once I would have been grateful.

My son is fresh faced and wide eyed in a way that I never was. If I looked like a mark to that scum pusher, my son would stand out like a painted target. He’ll fall prey to something. There is no way I am going to let him fly off with nothing but a backpack and a phone.

Why is he in such a hurry to get away? I let him learn to drive. I let him use the car most weekends even though I can’t sleep until he’s home. I would still prefer to pick him up and drop him off everywhere, but I know that’s not realistic.

We fought toe to toe tonight but I realise we’re no longer eye to eye. Somehow he’s gotten taller than me. When did that happen? I want to keep him in the batting cage while I stand behind him and shout encouragement. Maybe because that’s the kind of dad I wanted.

He’s trying to grow up, be a man. He wants to spread his wings, have an adventure. I want to keep being a dad. The opening bars of Free Bird skitter through my mind.

I look at how far the moon has travelled since I’ve been outside. I am between a rock and a hard place. If I keep my son at home he will resent me. If I let him go I could lose him to some disaster. Even if I try to forbid it… I’m not stupid. I’ll end up losing him anyway.

We’re not in little league anymore. He needs me to be a coach more than he needs me to be a dad. Or a guide maybe.

What if we travelled together for one month? We can go to whatever country he chooses, we’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll teach him what to watch out for, how to play his cards close to his chest, how to get his bearings in a new city, that sort of thing. After a month, if he wants to continue, I’ll fly home and he can carry on. I still don’t like it but if I can’t come up with some sort of plan or compromise, he’ll do to me what I did to my parents. His mother is not the only one he takes after.

In my heart of hearts I hope that after a month away he will realise travelling alone is not all it’s cracked up to be and he’ll come home with me. For now, this seems like a decent compromise. If I can let go a little bit, get off his back like he says, maybe he’ll meet me halfway. I chuckle at how he’ll have to coach me on how to do that.

The sound of the front doorbell catches me off guard. It’s too late for a friend or neighbour to be calling. The back of my neck goes cold. I hear it ring a second time and I jog across the yard and go through the house.

I open the door and step back. The police officer’s eyes meet mine. I turn away.