Next year, I will officially be a published author.

[Stephen]

Well, self-published, but published nonetheless. At least I'll have an audience.

Over the years as a humor columnist for a Baton Rouge paper, I've grown in popularity and I've decided to write a book that covers some of mundane things in life. Turns out I can market the book through our publisher and I'll have a small start-up audience for it. I'm excited. It will be a collection of 60 stories, rants, and pieces of advice that I am writing from scratch, and I should be finished with it by early next year. I'd be done sooner if it weren't for school.

I know this isn't a writing forum, but I thought I would post one of the stories as a freebee, for anyone who might be entertained by such things.

III. Milk, Bread, and Miles Davis

This is the story of Peter Outland, 36, middle class, married to a woman named Jenny, and father of three. Peter spends most of his time going through the motions of life – getting up, showering, eating, going to work, and dealing with menial tasks in between. He runs errands, changes diapers and watches TV before bed. Peter is ordinary and meaningless in the eyes of literature, but the Peters of our reality have stories, too.

The last sliver of Friday’s sun said its goodbyes as the streetlights flickered and the wind howled. Rain threatened to make an appearance that evening, and indistinct shadows from the trees danced through the sheer curtains in Peter’s home. Additional imagery took place as the family prepared to eat dinner in the dining room.

“Get out of the ******* living room!” shouted Jenny to her 13-year-old son, Jeffrey. “We’re eating as a family – hurry the hell up!”

“Jesus Mom,” Jeffrey called back. “Leave me alone.” Jenny shot a look at Peter, as if it was time for the patriarchal hand to make itself known.

“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Peter grunted as he poured the packet of cheese powder into the overcooked macaroni. On the opposite side of the kitchen, Jenny compiled the ingredients for instant mashed potatoes. She backed up a couple of inches and elbowed Peter. Mr. Fluffington jumped up onto the counter and sniffed at the macaroni. Peter casually swept the cat off the table and one paw landed in his water bowl, flipping it and soaking Mr. Fluffington’s face. The cat strutted off to retain a small amount of dignity.

Nine-year-old Caitlin shuffled into the kitchen. Her eyes were glazed with the influence of unsupervised television.

“I need you to feed Drew,” Jenny told Caitlin.

“Why do I have to do it?” she whined.

Jenny ignored her and continued to stir the instant mashed potatoes beyond textural recognition. Caitlin sighed and opened the cabinet where the baby formula would normally reside.

“Empty,” Caitlin said and walked away.

“How are we out of formula?” Jenny asked.

“Huh,” Peter managed to say.

“I asked you to get baby formula two days ago, enough for the week,” Jenny nagged ferociously.

“Baby formula?” Peter turned around and looked at the dining table in disbelief. He indeed had a two-month-old boy. A translucent ooze crept its way out of baby Drew’s shiny wet mouth. The boy’s face would need to be cleaned, thought Peter. Then a wave of freshly soiled diaper met with Peter’s nostrils. The diaper would have to be changed as well.

“I’m so very sorry, honey. I’ll go to the grocery store right now.” Peter grabbed his keys and hurried out the door.

The rain was coming down hard by the time he pulled up to the local mega-mart. FR SH FOOD, P ARMACY – the various lettering on the wide, concrete building illuminated the parking lot. The cars were lined up like depressed little soldiers, and Peter had no choice but to join the ranks in the back. He got out of the car and made a run for it. No umbrella.

His worn-out sneakers squeaked on the freshly waxed floor. Shoppers carefully stepped over the residual beads of water guarding a safe exit. An elderly store employee pushed the “Wet Floor” sign a few more inches toward the door to make the display slightly more prominent, which was exactly what Peter needed to see to avoid slipping. Free from the initial danger, Peter power-walked to the baby food isle. He weaved around collapsed, neglected product displays, took a short cut through frozen foods and managed to grab a free sample of sausage on the way. Peter had learned the routine well. He reached for the baby formula. Victory.

Until Miles Davis’ rendition of “But Not for Me” called out from Peter’s pocket. Sadness. It was force of habit to bring his cell phone wherever he went, though he tried to make a point of leaving it at home. He always failed. The Miles Davis ring tone was set for when someone called from Peter’s house, so he immediately knew exactly what to expect. Peter had even made up a song for such an occasion. When his wife called, it was always for an errand.

Pick up some eggs and milk
Maybe some bread.
And if you get a chance, I need
More of that pore cleanser.
Oh, if you wouldn’t mind
I would like a Wendy’s Frosty.
And for a brief solo riff – Also make sure the baby has enough diapers to last through next week because I’m working late tomorrow and it was my only time to swing by the store without missing Deal or No Deal.

At that point the song started over and began to loop. Peter never wrote the lyrics down, so the song went differently in his head every time. But he was sure both Davis and Gershwin would’ve been proud.

He answered the phone. It was Jeffrey, calling on behalf of Queen Jenny. The conversation, as predicted, had put Peter into a new situation. This quick pre-dinner mission for baby formula had turned into a shopping cart trip. A shopping cart trip, obviously, was defined by the necessity of using a shopping cart to carry the products Peter had to buy.

The single canister of powdered formula could’ve easily been carried by hand. And even a gallon of milk could’ve been put in the other hand; Peter could’ve carried the bag of sliced bread in the same hand as the formula. But not the cat food. Jenny had effectively added just enough items to Peter’s list to create a shopping cart trip. Sigh.

It took twenty minutes for Peter to gather all the items – that includes the walk back to the front to get a cart and the several minutes of patiently waiting for two cackling chickens to quit blocking the cat food isle. Peter also had to spend extra time grabbing the milk from the back of the shelf. Jenny felt that the family was entitled to the freshest milk in the store, while others should have no problem dealing with the ticking time bomb of dairy products that expire in a week.

The bread was an important decision, too. Make every slice count. It had turned into a family motto. Being middle class meant the family deserved perfect bread, flawless from discarded end-piece to discarded end-piece. Every grocery had to meet the inflated standards of the Outland family.

But not the cat food. As long as the bag clarified that its contents consisted of cat food, it met the family’s standards. Bags with fancy graphics printed on them meant that the company paid for a graphic designer, thereby increasing the cost of the cat food. The cat was not an Outland; it was a disrespectful nuisance that Caitlin promised, and failed, to feed and take care of. Peter grabbed the biggest, most uninteresting bag of cat food he could find. And it was four dollars.

Peter approached the line of cash registers. There were more than twenty registers, and four of them were open. No express lane. The lines were long, and the shopping carts were full. Normally, Peter had a keen eye for which line would be the quickest, but it all seemed equally frustrating that evening. The cashiers were beyond their prime, feebly scanning items and bagging like there is a good, long tomorrow.

At register nine, Gladys made multiple attempts to type in barcode numbers for the same bag of charcoal. Register twelve, however, boasted a young, lively cashier. But it was her first day on the job. The line at register six may as well have been a museum display. But register eight’s line was moving! Peter quickly committed himself to the line at register eight. He arrived just in time to witness the beginning of an excruciatingly long process, the price check. But it was too late to go to another line. Time was of the essence. The potatoes and macaroni were getting cold, and the leftover roasted chicken wouldn’t be able to survive another round in the microwave.

As he approached the electronic credit card screen, he noticed a poll question: “Did your cashier greet you today?” No, she did not, Peter thought. Still, he decided not to answer the question, since he had never personally greeted a cashier in his life. Peter assumed that placing items on a conveyor belt and standing in front of the cashier was an acceptable replacement for words. He wanted nothing more and nothing less than the other people who didn’t greet her. It didn’t seem fair that she was obligated to say hello to a hundred people, while a hundred people couldn’t say hello to one person.

The heroic Peter walked through the back door of his home with everything Jenny had asked him to buy. He put the milk, bread, and cat food away and began preparing a bottle for Drew. The chicken, potatoes, and macaroni were packed away neatly in the fridge, eagerly waiting for Peter to make a cold plate. Caitlin came into the kitchen to fulfill her duty of giving the bottle to the crying baby. Jenny walked past Peter and grabbed her car keys.

“I’m taking Jeffrey over to Matt’s for the night,” she said. Peter made a grunt of acknowledgement and pulled the food containers from the fridge.

“Before you eat,” Jenny said, “Drew needs to be changed.”

[Itspuppyluv]

Congratulations on getting published!!!! I enjoyed reading it.

I think I've learned way too much about pet food though. It bothered me when he chose the four dollar bag of cat food.

[charly]

Goodluck on your career as a writer. Good story.

[Izzy Princess]

Congratulations - I know it's hard work to not only be an author but to get anything published these days. Good luck to you and enjoyed reading your post.

[girlybella]

Wow, what great news for you, congratulations and best of luck to you in your writing career!!!

[sabsab00]

Im so happy for you! Congratulations, I wish you alot of success.