NEW SHORT STORY! "Friday Shoes"

I really hope you guys enjoy this one. It’s something or a personal story, so it was a bit of a bear to write, but I really love how it turned out. More subtle than my usual stuff, but truth be told, I need a bit of that every now and then lol. Anyway, enjoy, and thank you for reading as always. Love you guys :)

“Friday Shoes”

Junie was short for Junior, which itself was short for Lyle, Jr. It was an odd name for a boy, but that was very much the point. It was a brand in many ways. A mark. Junie was quiet and mild, and he was all tangled up in a way his family never cared to speak about. Junie was a difficult thing, and difficult things just weren’t discussed, so they said nothing more about it, and hoped his name would always be discussion enough. But that was very much the point.

“Junie!”

Junie, of course, was asleep. He was slumped over a corner table with a dishrag still in his hand, as if he’d been plucked right out of time. It should’ve been strange thing to see at a place like The Hamilton Diner, but to any of the regulars, it was as familiar as the bell above the door or the vinyl booths. And it was just as familiar to Mr. Hamilton himself, who could only look on from behind the counter with a gentle shake of his head.

But there was no disappointment in his eyes. Nothing worth a damn, anyway. Nothing beyond just a moment of it, and even that was half-hearted, because even though Junie was very much asleep on the job, he was the furthest thing from lazy.

In fact, Junie was true and he was dependable, and Mr. Hamilton had come to trust him. He’d even let him work the register from time to time, which is a job he usually only trusted to family. Junie may have been young, but he was never one to shirk his duties, rather he would often just fall asleep right in the middle of them. He hated himself for it most days, but there was little to be done. It had just become so hard to get any sleep at home, and that only made the rest of his days that much longer.

“Junie! Can you take this!? Junie!” It was enough to shake him awake this time, and Junie’s head snapped to the counter to find Mr. Hamilton waiting with a delivery.

“Sorry! Sorry,” said Junie. “I was just—”

“Mmhmm.”

Junie emptied his bus tray and hung his apron by the kitchen, and as he slipped inside his jacket, he waved goodbye to the crew of two in the kitchen. It was mighty slow for a Friday, so he was unsurprised he was being let go early. But disappointed as he was to be short of work, he was glad for the grace of the evening’s last delivery, because any extra change in his pocket was always welcome.

“Did you get his—”

“Yeah, I got his ketchup,” answered Mr. Hamilton with a little roll of his eyes.

Junie took the bag, and with it, the responsibility of tradition. There was no name or address on the order, but there didn’t need to be. There didn’t need to be because it was a Friday, and on Friday, Mr. Jay ordered meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, and some of the good ketchup. It had been that way for ages now. So long that it had become a standing order, and Mr. Hamilton never let a good customer slip his mind. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, and some of the good ketchup for Mr. Jay in Union Park. Every Friday.

“You watch yourself out there now,” said Mr. Hamilton.

“You act like I never seen snow before,” added Junie.

“I know you seen snow. Just don’t want you fallin’ asleep in the middle of the street or whatever.”

Junie chuckled as his gaze drifted through the big diner windows. He could see the weather in the breath of the streetlamps, which was more the norm than anything these days. The holidays had already come and gone without so much as a break in the storms, and Junie could hardly remember the last bit of blue sky he’d seen.

It had been a season of wicked, unkind stuff, and tonight was more of the same. Junie was ready for it, but that didn’t make it any easier to brook, and the very moment he stepped outside, he caught a kick of wind that made him wince. It was uncommon cold, and the snow was sharp and sleety. It had a way of finding every little hole in his coat, and every last bit of bare skin he had to his name, and it bullied him without so much as a word.

It all left Junie feeling rather defeated by the thought of the walk ahead. But it was hard for him to leave The Hamilton, even in the best of weather. Junie had been there his whole life, in one way or another. Even as a boy, it was often the best part of his day. He would slink through the door after school, and Mr. Hamilton would find him a quiet booth in a corner away from the windows. Junie would do every last bit of schoolwork he could find, and if a stray plate of French fries happened to find their way to his table, he’d smile and say thank you. And Mr. Hamilton would only shrug.

“For what? I didn’t see nothin. And you didn’t see nothin, either,” he would say, leaving a bottle of the good ketchup behind and pressing his finger to his lips.

Junie had hardly missed a day since, and he was glad for the habit. The Hamilton was a good place, and good places were rare, and he counted himself lucky to have found one on his side of the city. It was hard for him to leave, because he knew he would only find himself somewhere worse in time. Somewhere colder. Somewhere meaner. Somewhere he couldn’t sleep. Junie was young, but he was no child, and he had long since learned that home was more than a bed or a roof or an address.

The night had grown colder by the time Junie passed the train station, and he could feel his toes begin to sting from it. He was scurrying for the sake of the food he was carrying, and as he headed further into the west end, the city grew dark around him. There were streetlights here, of course, but it had been ages since they had been tended to, and the moon seemed just as broken. It was bleak, and it only felt bleaker with each step, and the only warmth Junie found in the heart of Union Park was addressed to somebody else entirely.

Mr. Jay’s building was a ragged little thing, just like the rest of them. It was a boxy old place that had been a dozen different shops over the years until it finally settled into three unremarkable flats. And it would surely be something else in time. The city was littered with a thousand places just like it, right down to the yellowed newspapers covering the old shop window, and the crackled glass set into the front door.

Junie stepped inside to find the entranceway a familiar mess. There was simply no escaping the water this winter. The stuff was streaming in from the ceiling, and the buckets that had been set out to collect it were long past overflowing. It was a sickening chorus, the sound of it all. Some uncomfortable space between rhythm and chaos. It had become the season’s score, in a way. Its anthem. And every last corner of the city played its part.

The old tile on the floor looked wet and surely slick. But Junie was spry and keen to turn in for the night, so he sloshed his way to the stairs and took them two at a time to the third floor where Mr. Jay’s flat was surely waiting.

Junie always liked Mr. Jay, though he didn’t really know him beyond a nod and a thank you. Even when he was healthy enough to walk down to The Hamilton on his own, Mr. Jay always kept to himself, and that was fine with them both.

Mr. Jay was older, and lonely at a glance, and he had always seemed a little sickly. He was quiet, but pleasant enough. Nice, even. And there was always some little kindness falling form his fingers. The way he stacked his plates at the edge of the table when he was finished so as not to be a bother. The way he waited patiently to be seated, even though he knew there was a booth waiting just for him. He seemed like a good enough man, but Junie never cared to know his story, because he was sure it was a sad one.

He simply didn’t want to know why he came to The Hamilton every week by himself, and why he sat in the same booth and ordered the same thing. He didn’t want to know why he wore his nice suit and good hat, and why his white shoes were always polished just so. These were difficult things, and difficult things just weren’t discussed, so a nod and a thank you would just have to do. Hello. See you next time. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, and some of the good ketchup.

It was all very fine for a Friday until Junie knocked on Mr. Jay’s door. To his surprise, it eased away under the weight of his fist, and it settled open just enough for Junie to taste what was on the other side. He felt wrong for it, but the lights inside were bright enough to leak out into the hallway, and the television was just as loud. And as hard as he tried to ignore it all, there was little to be done.

“Mr. Jay!?” he asked. “Mr. Jay!? I…I have your food!” Junie waited for an answer, but there was none. He knocked loudly on the door frame. “Mr. Jay!” he belted again, but still, there was nothing.

“I’m just gonna leave it here, okay?!” It wasn’t really a question, but it was answered by the whine of old hinges and the feeling of something against his leg. Junie flinched but found only a little gray housecat at his feet, which was just the thing to pull a sigh and a smile from his tangle of nerves. Junie didn’t know him, but he liked cats well enough, and he seemed like a friendly thing, so he was careful to scoop him up before he made a break for the stairs.

Junie took the cat in his arms and checked the little tag on his collar. “Hamilton, huh?” He chuckled at the thought, but even he couldn’t deny it was an objectively good name for a cat. “Where’s your daddy at?” he said as he gave him a little scratch under his chin.

But Hamilton soon began to wriggle, and Junie set him down. He trotted back inside and made his way to the kitchen, but as Junie saw him off, he couldn’t help but notice a telephone dangling from its cradle. He wasn’t trying to pry. Quite the opposite, really. But it struck him odd in a way he had no index for, and he couldn’t turn away. It was like something had gone rotten in the small of his gut. Some awful little thing. It crawled up his throat, and he found it cold and bitter, and as he tried to speak, it stoned his tongue. It thumped his heart something terrible, and before he could stop it, it fled to his fingers, and Junie pushed the door all the way open.

It felt strange to be looking in on someone else’s life without their blessing, even with the permission of concern. Backwards, even. It was a thousand answers to a thousand questions Junie never meant to ask, and even as he took them all in, he tried his best not to let any of it settle on his curiosity for too long.

The space was small. Cramped, to be kind. The size of it was unsurprising, given the building, but the reality of it was just so different than the thought. It was barely one room, but there were little pieces carved out for a kitchen and a den, and one of the corners by the stove was set with a spindly little bistro table and a pair of chairs. There was a modest bumpout for a bed on the north side, and a little bathroom just next to it. And even though none of the bits looked particularly desirable or well made, it was all very nicely squared away.

Everything seemed to have its place, and every place seemed to have its purpose, and there was some lovely balance in that. The walls were peeling and sickly yellow, but at least they were cluttered with pretty pictures. And the only window looked out on the plain brick exterior of the building next door, but Junie was glad to see it covered by a collection of healthy plants.

But there was still no sign of Mr. Jay, and no one to be heard above the din of the television. Junie felt strange, standing in the middle of it all. And as he grew desperate for direction, the arms of purpose pushed him towards the kitchen table where he finally made his delivery. Meatloaf, carrots, mashed potatoes, and some of the good ketchup.

But as he turned to leave, Hamilton gave a desperate cry, and Junie found him standing over an empty water bowl. It was a second strangeness, but he didn’t really understand the sum of it until he saw them all over the floor. Little white things. Little pink and blue things too. Hailstones, but from some strange sky. And as if to spot a cloud, Junie turned to the kitchen counter.

There was panic in it. Desperation and scurry. It was all scattered pill bottles and loose lids, and there had been no attempt to make any of it right. It was bloodless but gruesome at the same time, and Junie could feel the weight of prayers still in the air.

Junie wanted to fix it all, because he knew it was wrong. Because he knew it shouldn’t be that way. He wanted to put all the little broken pieces back into their places, but Junie hadn’t slept, and his legs felt so heavy, and he felt foolish for forgetting how tired he was. His eyes fell shut then, but he fought the urge to allow it. And when he opened them again a moment later, it all seemed miles away, and he couldn’t understand why.

He slipped away again, and this time, he was only shaken back awake by the din of the television. It was playing some middling medical drama or another, and while the picture was a mess of static, the audio was strong. It all sounded so expectedly dire, as dramas do, but it grabbed him still. It was only a moment before he was lost in it, and it was only another before he set himself on the couch to know it better.

It was wild and all chaos, but he felt tethered to it. The shouting and the noise of the machines. The endless jargon and the formality of desperation. He wanted so badly to understand it, but the urge to fade away was strong, and it wasn’t long before he felt his head begin to wobble, and his hands begin to fall. Junie gave himself over, but he was sobered by the strangest little nothing. A moment out of time. A flash of white.

It was a pair of shoes, of course. Tucked under the coffee table and freshly polished. Junie knew them well, but it had been ages since he’d seen them. Even before the winter had come, Mr. Jay’s health had kept him home, so it had been more than a season since he’d set foot inside The Hamilton. It was strange to think about life in those terms. The days when I wore my white shoes. The days when I couldn’t. It was strange to think about it like that.

Junie reached for them, but he found something strange tucked under one of their tongues. It was a stack of photographs. Dozens and dozens of them, all yellowed with age and worn along the sides. They were pictures from all over the city. Every corner worth a damn, it seemed. Downtown and East Bridge. Scottsdale and Wesley Row and City Hall Square. They were places, but they were months and they were seasons too. They were moments and they were decades. It was a history. A book of days gone.

They were difficult things, the two of them, and even Junie could tell. Always next to each other in the same modest pose. Always in front of a reason. They were difficult things, but they were things worth remembering, Mr. Jay and the dapper Stranger. And that was very much the point.

There were landmarks and there were movie marquees. Restaurants and street signs. All the bits that make up a life. There was even one taken just outside of The Hamilton, white shoes and all. And written underneath every last photo was just one word. Friday. They looked happy then, Mr. Jay and the Stranger, and Junie was glad to see it. To know there had been days like that. And they looked happy still when the Stranger began to grow thin, and the bags under his eyes grew too heavy to hide with a hat. When his face turned sunken and pale, and he no longer looked like himself. They looked happy then too.

Junie could’ve cried then, but he drank of it instead. The endless past. He drank of it now because he couldn’t when he was younger, though he would’ve given the world to taste it back then. Back when his nights were sleepless and his days were long. When he had no good place to lay his head.

He missed his Fridays already. And he missed his white shoes, too. He was scared, then. Scared to be in a part of town where the streetlights didn’t work. Scared to be on his way to a place that might be kind or cruel or any manner of either. He was scared, but there was little to be done, and even the din of the machines told him so. He asked himself then if he was happy with his life, and though he wasn’t sure he knew the answer, he was certain that was an easier question on a Friday.

And so, Junie laid his head down on the little piece of the world he had cut away from the bone, and was glad to have a pace to sleep. Junie was a difficult thing, and he was sure he’d be forgotten. But it was peace enough to know he lived. And some days in his white shoes, at that. And that was very much the point.