Hafaman Construction

 
   It amused his customers that Jimmy Hafaman had an MFA in Creative Writing and taught it part-time, in the evening program at the Community College. When he showed up wearing his Carhartts and a tool belt, with a copy of Bukowski’s Maybe Tomorrow in the nail pouch, it always started a conversation that ended badly.
   At his age – thirty-eight – people didn’t know whether he was a failed college professor on the way down or a day-job remodel carpenter hoping to start a literary upswing.
   He didn’t bother to tell them he could just as easily be a failed general contractor, trying to follow in his father’s large footsteps, the man who built Hafaman Construction and half of downtown Port Hudson. Or maybe a small-change community college instructor aspiring to build something out of more than just words, something people could raise a family in; generations of a family, for that matter.
   In fact, he was none of the above. Jimmy Hafaman wanted nothing more or less than to spend all day writing stories.

   The rest of the story is HERE.

 

Get a Job

 
   His throat was dry and tight as a bowstring. He could hear his eyelids squeaking. He scanned his 3X5 card every thirty seconds, until he could no longer tell if the words were correctly spelled. But he knew the set was good. Even Jana laughed a little when he made her sit down long enough to run it for her.
   “Jerry,” she said, “Too bad you can’t get paid for this, you big goof.”
   He looked up when he saw Abe Gleason, the emcee of Last Laugh, Comedia’s Open Mic night, slip between the curtains and shamble toward him.
   “Dude,” he said, “I’m really sorry, man, but Craig sucked so bad he emptied the place out. Randolph is pissed and he killed the rest of the show.” Randolph was the late shift manager.
   Jerry slumped in his chair and massaged his temples. “This will play right into Jana’s hands. She wanted us to go out to celebrate our fifth anniversary of hooking up and I said I had to be here.”
   When he got back to their two-room apartment, she was asleep. He climbed in next to her and she edged away from him as far as she could without going over the edge.

   The rest of the story is HERE.

 

Walter B. Goode

 
   Walter B. Goode, Title Officer. His mother would have loved his new card. Not just because it meant he now had his own office and was considered Management, but because, in her honor, he had included his middle initial and perpetuated her little birth certificate joke. Walter Be Goode.
   If Walter’s father had been around he would have insisted on something more serious. But J. Bernard Goode, M.D., had more important things to do than acknowledge paternity. When the nanny for his three children stopped taking the birth control pills he prescribed for her, she didn’t stop staying over to entertain him when the good doctor’s wife was out of town touring with her latest book. Walter was pretty sure Dr. Goode had planted the seed from which he sprouted while Ursula Goode was out promoting Planting An Authentic Medieval English Garden.
   When Walter’s freshly disemployed mother filled out his birth certificate, she listed his father as Johnny B. Goode. Nobody asked any questions.

   The rest of the story is HERE.