Why were there only three choices? Damn it. I hate being limited like that.
Stanton looked once more at the three small, perfectly aligned, boxes in front of
him. One of them could hold the ticket to what he wanted the most. Another a
one-way trip to failure. And who knows what the third one contained?
“Take your time.”
Blow me, Pal! It wasn’t this asshole’s future, fucking attorneys. Stanton asked
again, “Is this legal?”
“Perfectly. These were your father’s explicit instructions. We went over them
just last year, after he had first been diagnosed.”
The bloodsucker looked at his watch again and then aligned a set of golden ink
pens from damn near parallel to perfucking parallel.
“Please, take your time. It’s your future.”
The son-of-a-bitch was enjoying this. He had the same smirk, like on every
other occasion Stanton had come for help, in trouble again, to this place of last
resort—his father—accessible only through his attorney, of course.
He fumbled for a cigarette.
“No smoking, please.”
Stanton placed his box of discount brand of smokes on the desk. “Can I touch
them?”
“Yes, of course, but no smoking.”
What an idiot! “The three boxes.”
“No, you may not touch those.” He adjusted Stanton’s box of cigarettes;
aligning its right angles with the right angles of his desk.
He hated this man slightly less than he hated his father. “Tell me the rules
again.”
His leather chair popped as he scooted closer to his desk. Manicured fingers
adjusted what Stanton could not touch. “It’s as simple as touching one.”
“No, no. What do I stand to lose or gain?” Stanton considered possessing his
father’s wealth—his body shuddered, or losing the trust fund, his sole source of
income. Stanton spun his cigarette box in circles on the smooth desktop.
His father’s attorney grinned and said, “More financial resources than even you
could piss away. Nothing of value, to you. And last…well…it is a surprise.” Now
he smiled.
Even his breath was manicured, sage or sandalwood. My god, he realigned my
cigarette box. He probably used individualized sheets of sterilized toilet paper to
wipe his ass. Stanton focused on the three boxes. Surprise? Well, the boxes
were certainly small enough to contain all the love his father had ever shown him.
He leaned back, rotated his neck, wishing for a drink.
In basket, out basket, and hold basket no need for labels. Left to Right. Shit! It’
s left to right. From his first memories, his father had tried to force order in
Stanton’s life.
Stanton stood. Grabbed his smokes, lit one, and exhaled round rings of smoke
in his widely opened eyes. He picked up, tossed in the air, and caught the box
that had been on the attorney’s left-hand side.
“I’ll expect you at my apartment, say ten o’clock.” Stanton held the door. “Oh,
and stop by Starbucks on the way: Venti drip, no room.” He closed the door.
The End
Round Corners
(2007) (Unpublished)
A Short Story by Russell Traughber
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