This book is dedicated to Marc Trauffer, Swiss Musician, and outstanding storyteller.
MICHEL F. BOLLE
AMAZING SHORT STORIES FOR YOUR NEXT TRIP
© 2017 Michel F. Bolle
| Cover | : www.fiverr.com/vencho |
| Artwork | : Michel F. Bolle |
| Corrections | : Michelle Whitfield |
Publisher: Tredition
| ISBN | |
| Paperback | 978-3-7323-8971-1 |
| Hardcover | 978-3-7323-8972-8 |
| eBook | 978-3-7323-8973-5 |
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Travelling has always been an amazing experience to me. I love to learn about the culture in other countries. I love to see landscapes we do not have at home. And most of all I like to make friends all around the world.
The following three short stories have grown in my mind during a US trip in 2016. In two weeks, I have visited five different states and 7 different cities. That was just a “rush” “rush” and “never get to sleep” business trip. Just as crazy as my life has been for the past 47 years.
The Miranda story came into my head after I’ve seen in an airplane, a few rows in front of me, a girl that was just chatting with everyone around her for a six-hour trip.
Well, I was really tired at that time and wanted to sleep. But sleeping was just impossible with this crazy girl contributing to the animation of the whole row she was sitting in.
I hope you will like reading my stories as much as I liked writing them….
Michel F. Bolle – March 2017
Miranda dropped into the middle seat in Economy class, also dropping her laptop bag, a doughnut, her pen, and glasses; her coffee sloshed, threatening to splash her vanilla-colored business suit. She sighed as she struggled to gather her recalcitrant belongings and settle her turbulent coffee. Great start, first thing in the morning, running late, barely made the flight after a bloody random bag search!
Miranda did not like New York. Scratch that. Miranda despised New York. Bigger than London, the people were generally rude as a bugger; things were just too fast for her taste. But big business is big business, and pharmacology is Big Business. She gathered her laptop to rest on her knees, popped it open and began sliding her fingers around the mousepad when she was bumped on her shoulder, causing the laptop’s cursor to skitter all over the screen. She looked up, annoyed, into the smiling face of an older woman. “Yes?” Miranda queried the woman.
“I’m next to the window, dear.”
Miranda snapped her laptop closed with a loud sigh, stood up and stepped into the aisle to allow the woman to her seat. Miranda glanced around the cabin of the plane; it was jammed full, and the cacophony of voices slammed into her. She groaned inwardly as a piercing wail of a baby cut through the din and stabbed her over-worked and stressed brain. She plopped to her seat and frantically searched her bags for headphones, to no avail. Miranda felt the painful twitch of a migraine announcing its forthcoming arrival.
And finally, just for good measure, came the last member of her row of three seats, and the man had to be well over three-hundred pounds, over three times Miranda’s size; he was nothing short of gargantuan. He sat rather gingerly and his immensity pressed into her right side inexorably, cramping her down into a microscopic plot of airline real-estate. He should have to pay for two seats!
This flight might very well qualify as the absolute worst of her young career.
She felt a nudge on her left; the older woman whispering conspiratorially, “He’s a big one, eh?”
Miranda bit back an angry retort. “Think so, do you?” She rubbed her temples and turned to her right to look at his arm. Good Lord, that’s bigger than my thigh. Perhaps even bigger than my waist! She continued to assess the giant, amazed at the sheer depth of his chest; and upward to a thick, corded, clean-shaven neck, to his sharp jaw, hawkish nose, brooding forehead and long, flowing chestnut hair. Professional American football player perhaps? Or maybe he is one of those professional wrestlers on the telly.
The man’s baritone seemed to rumble from afar. “Hi there, little lady.”
“Eh, what?” Miranda’s face flushed as she realized he was aware of her staring at him. “Hi.” She squeaked out.
He chuckled. “No worries, ma’am. I get all kinds of stares.” And then a scream of an angry infant sliced through their awkwardness. The man smiled. “Someone ain’t too happy.”
“Yeah.” American for sure. Had to be American. Is all of America on growth hormones? Miranda turned to face forward and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will an encroaching headache away. She immediately returned to the conversation with her boyfriend from last night, replaying it over and over. Another disaster on the relationship front of her life…
Dinner at the Golden Palace Tea House with Joel, a spontaneous decision made together because neither wanted to spend an hour preparing dinner. Joel did not live with Miranda, but he may as well have, as he was there every evening and greeted her every morning. She had given him a key to her apartment. Miranda chastised herself for that decision.
The couple sat across from each other quietly, Miranda contemplating her upcoming trip to the States, while Joel picked morosely at sautéed gyoza. He looked up at her, met her eyes, calmly placed his chopsticks on his plate and said, “Miranda, marry me.”
“What?”
“Let’s get married.” He reached for her hand. She pulled her hands back, away from him. Why did she react that way to him?
“Bloody hell Joel. Where did THAT come from, ya selfish prat?”
His gaze fell to his plate; likely not the reaction he was expecting. “We may as well honey, we’re pretty much married anyway.”
She sputtered. Anger flared in her irrationally; she knew her reaction was irrational, but it didn’t stop her biting tongue. “You KNOW how I feel about that Joel; we’ve discussed this!”
“I know.” He said softly.
Her anger surged forth. “Where’s the ring, eh? No ring? Just as I thought.” And she knew in her heart at that moment that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong man. She abruptly pushed her chair back; the sound was hugely LOUD and it seemed that the restaurant grew silent. She threw her napkin on the table, spun on heel and stormed off as he called after her.
That little battle led to a restless night of not sleeping until very late and as she neglected to set her door alarm, she found herself being awakened by the sound of Joel stumbling drunkenly into her apartment in the wee hours. This led to Miranda kicking him out, which in turn demanded frenzied packing, a slow and surly cabbie, and the frantic, headlong rush into Heathrow.
Miranda sighed. Her life sucked. And now this sevenhour flight to a place she hated, smashed into her seat like a bloody sardine to chase after some crap business bozo in New York who was more interested in her legs than signing a contract.
Miranda wanted to get off the plane, which was finally taxiing down the runway for takeoff. She wanted to punch everyone and everything around her. She wanted to choke the crap out of Joel. Quit this garbage job. And most of all, right at this very moment, she wanted to STOP… THAT… SCREAMING… BABY!
She angrily brushed a tear from her cheek. “What’s the matter, dear? You seem upset.”
Miranda glanced at the woman beside her, seeing concern on the woman’s seamed face. She was older than Miranda originally supposed, guessing the woman to be in her late 60’s, perhaps early 70’s. “I’m fine. Just a trying morning.”
“So trying that it would cause you to cry?”
She fished in her bag for a tissue when one appeared in front of her nose, courtesy of her seat-buddy. “Thank you,” she said, dabbing at her cheek, hoping that her mascara didn’t streak. “My significant other and I had a fight last night that didn’t go very well.”
“They rarely do, child. My name is Elaine. Elaine Ricketts. Why not tell me about it, honey, it might make you feel better.”
“Not bloody likely, Ms. Ricketts. Pleased to meet you, by the way. I’m Miranda.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miranda. And it’s ‘Missus Ricketts’ dear. Been married to my Carl for well over half a century, bless the man’s soul.”
Miranda dabbed her check. “And Mr. Ricketts is not with you on your trip today?” She sniffled.
Elaine paused a moment, her smile tilting slightly askew before she collected herself and righted it. “No dear. Mr. Ricketts is no longer with us. He passed away here in London four weeks ago. Very small memorial, but it was beautifully done.”
“Oh my, I’m sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs. Ricketts.” Said Miranda, gently touching the old woman’s arm.
“It is what it is, dear. Life. Beginnings and endings. It’s what we do in between the beginnings and the endings that matter.”
Miranda nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Do you have any children?”
“No. No children. My career was always my baby. Interesting how we construe the importance of our jobs, isn’t it?”
Miranda nodded, more out of courtesy than understanding. Elaine continued, “Did you know that the word career derives from the Latin word for ‘cart’, and later from the Middle French word for ‘racetrack’?
“I did not know that,” said Miranda pensively.