Gary Smallwell - June 2015 Mini-Sledgehammer

The following is a short story that I wrote in 36 minutes at the Mini-Sledgehammer writing contest that takes place monthly at a wine bar in NE Portland. Participants take turns reading their stories aloud and two volunteer judges, John and Daniel, come to a decision about who will take the coveted bottle of wine and free book (to be chosen from the plastic bin) home with them. The winner's story is also published on Indigo Publishing's website. Mine did not win (or wine) this month, so I must self-publish on this blog. The following prompts needed to be included, to be a contestant for the prize.

Character: Drummer
Action: Tipping a waiter
Setting: Cemetary
Prop: Cellar Door

Gary Smallwell 

Gary tipped the waiter in his usual way, casually, almost sly, though of course he wanted the pretty young ladies to see his generosity. It was all so natural. By today's standards, Gary Smallwell would be considered overweight, but in his day, over a half century ago now, all the most powerful men in Danesbury sported an expansive torso. Eaiting steak was one of the ways he displayed his wealth. In truth, his nightly tips to the staff at the Nightglow were only marginally above those of the average customer. He flashed a large grin with wide eyes to the drummer of the jazz quartet in the corner of the room. The seasoned musician had seen many men of his type, and gave the respectful smile given to those whose relative status is assumed higher. It was easy and required only smiling in his general direction and gently rocking his head forward and back as he continued to punctuate the passage of time in that cavernous lounge. Mr. Smallwell passed through the swinging black door, shiny with black paint but revealing the battered wood beneath in the irregularity of its shine. He stepped into the foyer, feeling the lower temperature of this room as he stepped over the weathered red mat and into the night beyond another door, this one made of metal and heavier than the first.

41st Avenue was poorly lit and the Nightglow's entrance marked a safe haven where one could rest a few minutes, though its safety ended upon its patrons' exits. Gary crossed the street, still damp with rain that had since halted, and walked toward the light that emanated from the intersection a quarter mile north. The street was now on his right and a chain-link fence ran along the left of the sidewalk. Dim lights lit the cemetery on the other side of the fence. Robust elm trees sprung from the ground and created a canopy over many of the lawns, reflecting light back down from the plots whose graves were lit. Gary often lost track of time during this portion of his nightly walk. The scattered light was enough to ease his fear and cars rarely passed. Occasionally the sound of a car could be heard in the distance but the spaciousness of the night air was louder. For some time he had no thoughts. He was pleasantly tired after several glasses of his favorite wine, a french white. His ears reverberated with the sounds of the lounge, perhaps louder than the first time, now that he had the silence to compare it to. Some time later he realized he was on the street in which he lived, and had been for several hundred yards. He hadn't forgot where he was, but hadn't been thinking any thoughts either to remind him. He saw the stairs leading to his cellar door amid the leopard print of shadows that fell upon the houses and lawns.