LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Fiction Submission 2003

Jessica Bacon

(revised submission)                                                                                                                         

Crash Course Dummy

Red light.  Green light.  15 more minutes until I get to work, park in the same parking lot, go up the same elevator, and greet the same neurotic boss. 
                 “Damn.  Another red one.
            I never seem to get more than two green lights in a row.  I guess I have to be able to defy some law of physics to make it to three.  One green, two green, come on just one more…
                “Almost got it…hmm, guess not today.”
                The guy in the car next to me is singing along to whatever is playing on his radio.  I think it’s a hair band.  I can hear the familiar screeching guitars through both of our windows.  Same old song every time.  Boy meets girl, they fall in love, and his mullet stops them dead in their tracks.  God, I love eighties music!
                 He looks over at me and I pretend to be changing the radio stations.  He’s cute, so I don’t look back right away.  Instead, I press my gum against my front teeth with my tongue and give him a wide, green smile.  He looks over and pauses for a second, then looks away and stares in horror at the light.  I found out long ago that my soul mate needs to have a sense of humor.     
                 This building gets uglier every time I see it.  It’s a Martha Stewart pink nightmare, caught somewhere between taupe and mauve.  Ugh!  Why does the elevator smell like the inside of my fridge?  Maybe I should clean it out more…
                 “Good morning, Champ!  Did you have a good weekend?  Mine was great!  I took Carol and the kids to the lake house.  Played some golf,” he says as he makes an obnoxious putting stance, “a little water-skiing, you know…the usual.”
                 “Wow…that’s great, Bob.  You look like you got some sun.  Well, I have to make a couple of phone calls this morning.  We’ll chat a little later, okay?”
                 “Okay.  I’ll see you later, Sport!”
                 Another close encounter with my boss, the train-wreck named Bob.  He would be a game show host if his full time job wasn’t to make my life hell.  He insists on calling me “Champ” or “Sport” or “Slugger” at all times, as if any other form of addressing me would be non-P.C.  I am female and incredibly uncoordinated.  Maybe I just look like I could be athletic, the gym-going girl that wakes up at 6 a.m. for the daily endorphin rush.  This cheeseburger diet is really working!
A pile of work to be done is already scattered across my desk and phone.  I push it aside and form a neat pile in an attempt to look busy, as weak as that attempt may be.  First things first… I take a deep breath and dial.

“Hi Mom.”

“Mija!  I haven’t heard from in forever!  I was worried…”

“Mom, it’s only been two days since I saw you, remember?”

“Well, I was still worried…you didn’t come to dinner.”

“Sorry, I was busy cleaning my apartment and working on another project for work.  I promise I’ll make it to next Sunday’s dinner.  Was everyone there?”

“No, Aunt Toni was sick, your cousin Joe was arrested for driving with an open beer in his hand, Uncle Cheo had his tool shed catch on fire.  He still doesn’t know how it happened, but I think it was God’s way of showing him not to be working on Sunday, not even with his tools.  I lit a candle for everyone, they should be okay now.  So it was just the grandparents, half of your cousins, your brothers, and me and your father.  And I made my special albundigas and tamales too!  You say you were working on a new project?  Let me know when it gets published so I can put it in my book.”

“Okay, Mom.  I will.  I just wanted to let you know that everything is okay, I just didn’t have time to call or stop by this weekend.”

“You never have time for your mother.  Ten hours I spent in terrible labor, this was before those epidural things too, you remember.  Well, I will see you later this week, honey. Bye!”

“Okay, Mom.  I love you and I’ll call you later.”

“Love you too…Bye honey.”

Catholic Mexican-American mother…what did I ever do to deserve that?  Every Sunday, tamales are served with a side of guilt and fervent prayer.  Mom is great, though.  She wholeheartedly believes that what I do is a career.  I write advertisements for off-the-wall products.  The seven-in-one crank radio/flashlight is just an example.  Over the past couple of years that I have worked at this job, she has compiled an album of all of the advertisements that I have written.  A stranger would open what appears to be a family album and find an assortment of carefully organized ads leading that person to believe my mother has a sort of mental illness, this has happened before.  It’s nice to know that my work is appreciated by someone, even though she may be a lunatic and slightly biased. 

This job has its ups though.  I work only 30 hours per week with very good pay, even if I can’t respect what I do to pay the bills.  I have the free time to try to work on my book.  A master’s degree in English and I am only on page one of my best-selling novel, at least I am ambitious if not tenacious. 

Every morning I open the file for my novel, hoping that a little inspiration will strike before the daily grind.  So far I only have this:

“Crash Course Dummy”

I have ideas to make my character some sort of a heroine.  She could save 5 children from a blazing fire or take down a car company for making a faulty car Erin Brockovich style.  Even if my book is a flop, my “fans” a.k.a. family will buy out an entire store’s worth.  This thought is comforting.  I might not have achieved greatness yet, but I am the best gadget advertisement writer around.  That has to count for something.

(original submission)

Crash Course Dummy

Red light.  Green light.  15 more minutes until I get to work, park in the same parking spot, go up the same elevator, and greet the same neurotic boss. 

“Damn.  Another red one.”

                 I can never seem to get more than two green lights in a row.  I guess I have to be able to defy some law of physics to make it to three.  I can just practice for now. 

                 “Almost got it…hmm, guess not today.”

                 The guy next to me is singing along to whatever hair band is on the radio.  I can hear the familiar screeching guitars through both of our windows.  Same old song every time.  Boy meets girl, they fall in love, and his mullet stops them dead in their tracks.  God, I love eighties music!

                 He looks over at me and I pretend to be changing the radio stations.  He’s cute, so I can’t just look back right away.  Instead, I press my gum against my front teeth with my tongue and give him a wide smile.  He looks over and pauses for a second, then looks away and stares in horror at the light.  I found out long ago that my soul mate needs to have a sense of humor.    

                 Ugh!  Why does the elevator smell like the inside of my fridge?  Maybe I should clean out my fridge more…

                 “Good morning, Champ!  Did you have a good weekend?  Mine was great!  I took Carol and the kids to the lake house.  Played some golf, a little water-skiing, you know…the usual.”

                 “Wow…that’s great, Bob.  You look like you got some sun.  Well, I have to make a couple of phone calls this morning.  We’ll chat a little later, okay?”

                 “Okay.  I’ll see you later, Sport!”

                 Another close encounter with my boss, the train-wreck named Bob.  He would be a game show host if his full time job wasn’t to make my life hell.  He insists on calling me “Champ” or “Sport” or “Slugger” at all times, as if any other form of addressing me would be non-P.C.  I am female and incredibly uncoordinated.  Maybe I just look like I could be athletic, the gym-going girl that wakes up at 6 a.m. for the daily endorphin rush.  This cheeseburger diet is really working!

A pile of work to be done is already scattered across my desk and phone.  I push it aside and form a neat pile in an attempt to look busy, as weak as that attempt may be.  First things first… I take a deep breath and dial.

“Hi Mom.”

“Mija!  I haven’t heard from in forever!  I was worried…”

“Mom, it’s only been two days since I saw you, remember?”

“Well, I was still worried…”

“Sorry, I was busy cleaning my apartment, catching up with Meg, and working on another project for work.  I promise I’ll make it to next Sunday’s dinner.  Was everyone there?”

“No, Aunt Toni was sick, your cousin Joe was arrested for driving with a beer in his hand, Uncle Cheo had his tool shed catch on fire.  He still doesn’t know how it happened, but I think it was God’s way of showing him not to be working on Sunday, not even with his tools.  I lit a candle for everyone, they should be okay now.  So it was just the grandparents, half of your cousins, your brothers, and me and your father.  And I made my special albundigas and tamales too!  You say you were working on a new project?  Let me know when it gets published so I can put it in my book.”

“Okay, Mom.  I will.  I just wanted to let you know that everything is okay, I just didn’t have time to call or stop by this weekend.”

“You never have time for your mother.  Ten hours I spent in terrible labor, this was before those epidural things too, you remember.  Well, I will see you later this week, honey. Bye!”

“Bye, Mom.”

Catholic Mexican-American mother…what did I ever do to deserve that?  Every Sunday, tamales are served with a side of guilt and fervent prayer.  Mom is great, though.  She wholeheartedly believes that what I do is a career.  I write advertisements for off-the-wall products.  The seven-in-one crank radio/flashlight is just an example.  Over the past couple of years that I have worked at this job, she has compiled an album of all of the advertisements that I have written.  A stranger would open what appears to be a family album and find an assortment of carefully organized ads leading that person to believe my mother has a sort of mental illness, this has happened before.  It’s nice to know that my work is appreciated by someone, even though she may be a lunatic and slightly biased. 

This job has its ups though.  I work only 30 hours per week with very good pay, even if I can’t respect what I do to pay the bills.  I have the free time to try to work on my book.  A master’s degree in English and I am only on page one of my best-selling novel, at least I am ambitious if not tenacious. 

Every morning I open the file for my novel, hoping that a little inspiration will strike before the daily grind.  So far I only have this:

“Crash Course Dummy”