It’s Just Lunch
by Chris North
Jack yanked open the center console and fished out an airplane-sized bottle of cinnamon whiskey. At the light, he twisted the red cap and shot half of it back.
Why the hell did I agree to this?
His right foot went on and off the brake as he inched along with the traffic, while the other foot bounced nervously against the floorboard. The whiskey buzz softened his annoyance, but only slightly. He found himself hoping he wouldn’t make the light. Another red would mean another three minutes of glorious, guilt free, ‘me time’.
The podcast playing through the car’s speakers cut out and a soft robot voice announced that his wife was calling. Burying his nose in his palm, he squeezed his whole face with his hand and mumbled, “answer.”
“Hey babe,” she said, “just thought I’d catch you during your lunch break.”
“You caught me.”
She paused. “You sound upset. I didn’t interrupt your ‘eat-while-watching-YouTube’ routine, did I?”
“I wish. I finally caved to Ed’s incessant requests to meet for lunch. So, I’m on my way to waste the only hour of the day I get to myself.”
His wife sighed her exasperated sigh. “Jack, you can't be so antisocial. You’ve been dodging this guy for months. I know he’s a little odd but he wants to be your friend. It’s just lunch for God’s sake.”
The bitter emotions of being misunderstood immediately bubbled up. “Rebecca,” he pleaded, “I get so little time to myself. And the precious few minutes I do get, soul-sucking people like Ed seem hell bent on siphoning it away from me!”
She sighed that sigh again. And when she spoke it was flat, like the car’s robot voice. “Anyway. I called so you don’t forget your daughter has practice tonight. Make sure you’re home by five.”
Jack could hear his own heavy breath, a lifelong side effect of jamming his emotions down and canning them tight. It seemed his whole life he would always be nothing but a cog in a never-ending wheel. Everyday, at the mercy of his wife, kids, parents, teachers, professors, bosses… Was there ever an end?
With as steady a voice as he could manage, he said. “Okay, hun.”
“Thanks babe. Please, try to have fun at lunch.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She hung up and the podcast returned. Jack downed the other half of the cinnamon whiskey, preparing himself for the hour-long barrage of humdrum questions that made him want to rip his face off:
“How are you?” (The most pointless question of all.)
“How’s work?” (If I don’t care, why would you?)
“How are the kids?” (They’re fine.)
“What’s new?” (Not a goddamn thing.)
He wished he had the balls to say what was in his head. But, of course, he would be polite, and smile, and pretend like he was having a good time. Ed would never hear Jack screaming on the inside when Ed pulls out his calendar and asks when they can do this again.
Jack pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. It was packed. He squirmed against his seatbelt as he crept through the little rows, searching for a space amongst the squeezing sea of metal.
If I get a door ding for this shit, I swear to God…
As Jack drove through the lot, he caught a glimpse of Ed sitting at a table by the window. Ed wasn’t looking at his phone or reading a paper or browsing the menu. He was just sitting there. Looking straight ahead. Blank faced.
Freaking. Psychopath.
Jack parked, again pawing through the center console, this time pulling up a tin of cinnamon Altoids. He swirled three in his mouth as he opened the door and squeezed out. This time it was his turn to sigh.
Let’s get this over with…
C.K. North was born and raised in a 200-year-old farmhouse in Virginia. He enjoys creating fiction that almost always includes some kind of moonshine. He worked in corporate sales for eight years and is an avid fisherman, woodworker, husband, and father. He has a flash fiction published with Compass Rose Literary Journal and forthcoming flash with Shotgun Honey. Visit him on Twitter @Author_CKNorth.