Here’s part of a short story I haven’t finished yet, that I wrote for my MFA program and never turned in. Figured it was about time I started sharing some of my writing with the world instead of burying it in files on my computer.
Read, critique, enjoy 
Crucified
It is my first Christmas on Spinney Lane. First holiday actually, unless you count Thanksgiving, which I don’t, because I have very little to be thankful for this year. In my old neighborhood, packed to the brim with stay-at-home-moms sporting matching Lululemon yoga pants and hoodies at their baby yoga classes, decorating your house for Christmas was something of a Big Deal. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, up go the tasteful white icicle lights and window candles, the perfectly sized Douglas Fir, tagged and toted home on a Family Outing (don’t worry, if you missed it, the proof is up on Facebook.) By unspoken agreement, colored lights, plastic reindeer and giant blowup Santas are strictly forbidden.
Here on Spinney Lane, the holiday seems to mean something different. Many houses are still undecorated on December 19 and I have not received one single Christmas card in my mailbox, showing off Dad’s new boat or little Bobby’s adorable penchant for breathing air. It’s kind of refreshing.
What is not refreshing is the life-size crucifix my neighbor, Jerry, has constructed from 2x4s in his front yard. Finally finished after several weeks of Home Depot trips and countless cans of PBR, it is a monstrosity that both terrifies me and makes me feel judged, though I have no basis for the latter. At night, with Jesus’ plastic face illuminated by the soft glow of a hundred multi colored bulbs, I don’t find it so offensive looking. In the harsh light of day, however, it is nothing more than a hick’s homage to a man in which, I can only assume, he probably doesn’t believe. I say this, not because of Jerry’s general un-religious aura—he favors Iron Maiden at ear-bleeding decibels and spits tobacco continuously—I only mention it because he is a known sex predator and I don’t think they believe in Jesus. But maybe I’m mistaken—there’s a lot I don’t know. About sex predators. And Jesus. And life in general.
Of course this accusation is unconfirmed. Unless you count Mrs. Garrison’s input, which I do. She’s the token old lady in my neighborhood that has assigned herself the post-retirement day job of keeping tabs on every resident of Spinney Lane. On moving day, she wandered in the open front door of my house, bearing a potted holly plant that she said signified domestic happiness and “some other shit like that.” Though the plant was definitely out of season and I very much doubted I’d be the recipient of domestic happiness having moved here alone after my recent ugly divorce, I liked Mrs. Garrison immediately. Maybe it was the whiskey on her breath at barely noon or her endearing way of barging into my house completely uninvited, but I sensed we could be friends. By way of explanation for her sudden appearance in my kitchen she said, “Dotty and I used to sew together. I spent a lot of time here before she kicked the bucket. Shame. That broad made a mean meatloaf.”
Then she got down to business.
“Avoid Richard and Mary if you can—#24, blue house. They’re hippie tree huggers. Feed their kids roots and berries and God only knows what else. Angela in 13 is a kleptomaniac—Jessica and her husband, Dave, said she stole a vase from their house when they invited her over to dinner last summer. Artie in 6 is harmless, but he has Alzheimer’s and forgets who and where he is some days. Don’t be alarmed if you see him taking a crap on your lawn; he does that sometimes,” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Then a serious look clouded her wrinkled face. “But Jerry, at the end of the street, don’t even look at him. Pretty thing like you—he’ll be over here in a second. Sex Predator,” she uttered, in a stage whisper. “Raped a girl two towns over. Real creep.” Mrs. Garrison doesn’t undermine her statements with words like “I’ve heard” or “rumor has it.” She deals in facts. I have learned to believe them.
This morning, a thick coating of ice is covering my windshield when I emerge from my house, heading to my job at the pharmacy. I make a mental note to buy myself an automatic car starter as a Christmas present. I’ve been a good girl this year, even if I do drink too many gin and tonics alone. And have taken up smoking again. It’s so cold in my car I can feel the icicles forming on my nose hairs and when I put my key in the ignition the car does nothing. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. I have been late every day this week for work and I’m pretty sure my overly self-important manager, Phil, is going to fire me if I show up at 6:35 one more time. I try the key again but all it does is make a painful sound that says, “You are at my mercy, bitch.” Piece of shit Corolla. I make another mental note to get a better job so I can afford a new car that doesn’t give out every single time I need to be somewhere.
There’s a knock on my driver’s side window that makes me jump in my seat in an exaggerated cartoon way. It’s Jerry, standing outside my car wearing a short sleeve shirt and flip-flops. Like it’s fuckin Cancun out there.
“Can I help?” he asks, and I think, “If you mean leave me alone you creepy weirdo, then yes, you can help.” But instead I say, “Um, sure.” Because I’m a coward. And apparently an easy target for sex predators.
“Your interior light is on,” he says, pointing to the one at the very back of the car. “Probably killed the battery over night.”
Sweet Jesus. Of course I left the light on. Just my luck.
“I can give you a jump,” he offers, a wad of chew bulging in his left cheek.
I bet you would like that, I think to myself, but say, “OK,” instead. What am I some kind of idiot?
He walks back across the street and returns minutes later with his rusty Ford pickup complete with NRA bumper sticker and a set of jumper cables. He motions for me to pop the hood and starts affixing the cables to our batteries.
“Alright, let it rip,” he yells, indicating, I suppose, that I should try the key. The car turns over immediately and, Sex Predator or not, Jerry has suddenly become my hero.
“Thank you so much,” I say sincerely and roll down my window, which is as close as I’ll come to a display of good will toward him.
“No problem, I’m a mechanic, I do this stuff all the time. If you ever need anything fixed, give me a call,” he says, slipping me a piece of paper that has mysteriously materialized from his cargo shorts. “But you should probably get a better car—this Corolla’s a piece of shit.”
“No kidding,” I laugh, suddenly engaging in conversation with the Sex Predator. Holy hell, this needs to stop.
“We sell used cars at the shop where I work. If you ever want to stop by, let me know and I can get you a small discount.”
Discount, you say? Maybe this guy isn’t so bad after all. “Cool. I know where you live if I need to get ahold of you,” I say in a lame attempt at a joke. Dear God, I’m flirting with the Sex Predator.
“I gotta get to work before they fire me, but thanks for the jump,” I say, closing the door abruptly and waving. I need to get out of here before my single-desperate-horny self continues to flirt with this creep.
As Jerry shrinks in my rearview, I can’t help but think that he’s kind of handsome.
I’ve gotta be losing it.
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