Thursday, July 9, 2009

Short Stories Written by a 13-Year-Old

I wrote the following short story in 1996 at the robust age of 13. I'd like to say its not too bad, but that would be disengenuous. I think an appropriate tag would be "unintentionally funny." Cheers.

The Great Laptop Adventure

“32 cents, please,” said the balding bus driver. It was a cold, blustery, December morning, as mornings usually are in Chicago, when I stepped on board of bus 14. I swished my hands through pockets, searching for loose change. I found the 32 cents and dropped it in the coin deposit and took my seat. The day started as any other day in my adult life did. The bus started down the street.

I reached into my briefcase and pulled out my laptop, to put the finishing touches on the Baxter Account, which the firm (Dewy, Cheatum, and Howe) had assigned to me. From what I had heard around the office, the Baxter Account was the biggest jobs we had had in a while. If I aced it, a promotion would certainly be in my future. I had just finished up the account and started saving it, when some big leather clad biker bum got on stood by my seat and ordered,

“Get out of my seat, nerd boy.” Now, I wasn’t about to let this oaf talk to me like that, so I set down my laptop, got up, rolled up my sleeves and said,

“Oh? And who’s gonna make me?”

“Me,” he answered in a deep tone.

“You and what army?”

“Me and this army!!” And with that he socked me one right in the kisser. I was right about to sock him right back when the bus stopped. It was my stop. I took my briefcase in my left hand and stormed off the bus onto the sidewalk in front of the Coffee Hut, which is where I always stopped before work. I walked in, and sat at the counter, which was right in front of the door.

“What’ll it be, mac?” The tender asked me.

“I’ll have a cappichino, extra caffeine,” I stated.

“That’ll be $2.75, buddy,” he answered. I forked over the cash and sat waiting for my drink. I looked around the place. Some band was playing in the left corner, which was farthest from me. It was the alternative type band that usually played in the Coffee Hut. I reached into my briefcase for my laptop, but all I felt was the pencils that littered the bottom of the case! Stupid me! In the confusion of the fight, I had left my laptop on the bus, and it was still on! My laptop had a four hour pack, so I figured I had about two hours until the memory erased totally, along with the Baxter Account, and that promotion that came with it. The tender handed me the cappichino. I guzzled it down and let out a yell, for the cappichino was still hot, and had burned my throat. I then grabbed my briefcase and ran out onto the sidewalk. My first stop -- the Bus Garage.

I quickened my pace as I reached 5th Ave., which was three blocks away from the garage. The only thing I could think about the whole way there, was what would happen to me if I lost the Baxter account. After what seemed like years I saw the entrance to the bus garage. I rushed in, straight to the front desk.

“Where is bus 14?!”

“What’s it to ya’?” The man behind the counter asked

“It’s a life and death matter! My laptop computer is on that bus!!” I frantically yelled.

“Keep your hairpiece on, mister. I’ll check,” the man took the phone, and after dialing a series of numbers, a surprised look covered his face.

“So. . . ?” I asked

“14 got hit head on by a semi on route 66. Mark is usually so careful. . . .”

“Ahhhhhhh!” I screamed in a high girlish tone, “Where is it now?”

“At the wrecking yard, I suppose.”

I rushed out the door and called a cab, for it was much too far to walk to the wrecking yard. A cab drove up, and I got in.

“The wrecking yard, please. Make it snappy.”

“Imishibu nagastaff miffa . . .”

“Ahhhh!” I screamed. The cabbie was from India! (Though I should have been able to guess by the giant turban on his head) I was fed up. I cocked back my arm and let loose a fierce right hook into the cabbie’s jaw. He slumped in the bucket seat, knocked senseless. I opened the driver’s side door, and threw the cabbie into the street. I then jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and threw it into first. I slammed on the gas, and with a skid and a squeal, I was off. I drove with a lead foot, never going under 55 (what a rush!), and neglecting all road signs. After about three minutes of driving around town at about 75 miles per hour, I saw the wrecking yard. I slammed on the brakes and got out of the cab. I looked out of place in the wrecking yard, midst all the junk in a suit and tie. I scanned the yard until I saw a glint of yellow. I rushed toward it. It was! It was bus 14! My heart leapt with joy. I rushed onto the wreck that was formerly bus 14 and went to seat 15. There it was. My laptop! I checked the memory, and the Baxter Account was still there! Hallelujah! I took my computer under my arm and rushed back to the cab.

But I wasn’t too happy to be back at the cab, for when I got there, there was a legion of police officers, and with them, the cabbie. The cabbie was shouting obscenities and waving his arms, and the officers were trying to calm him. Then the cabbie noticed me standing there. He pointed at me and yelled something, and then the police started running after me.

“You! Stop, in the name of the law!” An officer yelled. I was frozen. I couldn’t run away.

“Listen, you’re reasonable people, right?” An officer grabbed hold of me, “Hey watch it, buddy! That’s Armony!”

“You have the right to remain silent. . .” the officer started

“Listen mac, I had good reason behind my actions! Just let me explain!” I pleaded.

“. . . anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . .” He went on.

“Millions of dollars are riding on this laptop!! The happiness of the customers of Dewy, Cheatum, and Howe depends on me!”

“. . . You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be appointed to you . . .” the officer continued.

I started begging, “Please, please, I’ll do anything, anything! Just let me go! My happiness and well being depends on this one assignment! Please, oh please” The officer gave me a look.

“. . . You have the right to a trial by jury. . .”

I didn’t need to hear the rest. I knew what was going to happen.

“This is really going to ruin my weekend,” I said.

By: Keith Good, 1996

No comments:

Post a Comment