Shell Out Read online

  But, as his entrance to massage therapy school drew closer and his wallet became increasingly weakened–which really wasn’t saying much anymore–his ability to dodge the financial truth got tougher. There had been several occasions when Mandy insisted on coming over to see his place, but he insisted harder that his apartment was too messy from his mountains of possessions to be comfortable, and that they would find more room hanging out at a hotel lobby wherever continental dinners were served and a complimentary viewing of the local news was offered. She always responded that she could help him sort things out, but he consistently retorted that there would be no fun in that, and that it would be more fun to take a walk somewhere, anywhere, instead. It gave him a slight thrill to know that he was taking charge.

  During this season of tactical evasion, he managed to land a job sweeping floors for a burger place. He did it for sixty hours a week and made close to two hundred dollars a paycheck. By every Sunday he was exhausted, but he managed to slow the decent of his wealth, which was a milestone in his life. Whenever his battle to stop Mandy from coming over to his “messy” apartment failed, he relied on the pseudo truth that he was too busy making money to entertain her company. It kept him out of trouble.

  Then, when massage therapy school started and he had successfully dodged Mandy’s every attempt to uncover his poverty, he breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that in a few short weeks he would finally be well on his way to financial freedom. All he had to do was to keep working, keep her out of his apartment, and stay awake for each class. He also had to pass the final exam. The plan was foolproof.

  Relief reached an additional height when he finally passed his class a blink of an eye later. Between working at the fast-food place and taking lessons, Greg had no time to do anything else. But it was worth it. When he received his certificate that stated that he could administer backrubs for money, he set out to land his first job. This time no one could accuse him of setting fire to the business without giving him a fair chance. With the proper qualifications under his belt, he couldn’t be turned down. He ended up working at a downtown massage parlor for three days a week, and returned to the University of State to fill in his remaining vacant days.

  After three paychecks, Greg had enough to start furnishing his apartment with tables and chairs and anything else necessary to make the place seem livable. After his fourth paycheck, he decided he was making enough money to quit his sweeping job, which was great considering he hadn’t slept much in the last month. After his eighth paycheck, he concluded that he was able to fill his apartment with enough nice things to start inviting Mandy over. After his ninth paycheck, he realized he was in too far over his head with these crazy ambitions to really know what the heck he was doing with his life anymore. It was Mandy’s first visit to his apartment that he had this revelation:

  Part 7: Finale

  Greg situated the potted bonsai tree next to his new microfiber couch–the replacement to his old sofa–when he heard the knock on the door. There was no time to make it perfect, so he quickly adjusted the thinner side of the plant so it faced the back wall, and primped the leaves so they looked fuller than they were. It took him a few seconds longer than he had anticipated, but Mandy, a real trooper, was kind enough to remind him that she was still waiting when she knocked a couple more times on his door. Satisfied, he proceeded to answer. As he set his hand to the doorknob, he made one final check of his surroundings: couch, bonsai tree, 25-inch television, stereo system with two speakers–he would upgrade to surround sound after his next paycheck–and a brand new black leather coffee table. Everything seemed to be in order, so he opened the door.

  “Greg, hey,” said the beautiful blonde, Mandy, as she reached in to give him a hug. “So we finally get to meet at the pad?”

  “Finally? How many times have I invited you over?”

  “None.”

  “Several,” he corrected her. “It’s just that things always kept coming up. But now…welcome to my home.”

  Mandy stepped over the threshold into the living room. She nodded as she surveyed the area. Something about her eyes disturbed Greg. He couldn’t figure out what, but he noticed her eyebrows dipping into the bridge of her nose. It was something he had never seen her do before.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “Though…”

  Greg stood nervously by the door, feeling his heart skip as he waited for her to finish her thought.

  “Though what?” he finally blurted out.

  She clutched her chin as she subtly worked her way toward the couch. In the past, her walk was generally silky, with hips swaying beneath her skirt. Now she merely shuffled across his floor, hardly trying to contain her boredom.

  “Though it seems a bit sparse…”

  “Sparse?”

  “I guess I was expecting a bit more–I don’t know, like maybe a statue next to the television or something.”

  “A statue?”

  Mandy finally reached the couch and plopped down. She spread one arm across the back against the wall. Then there was a pause. She crossed her knee to conceal the gap in her skirt, but she was so preoccupied with the state of Greg’s living room that she took a few seconds to remember her femininity.

  “It’s nice, though,” she said, nodding slowly. “Yeah…”

  Greg remained suspicious from that point on. He thought for certain his apartment was ready for her eyes to see, but now he wasn’t sure.

  “Would you rather I had a statue?”

  Mandy continued to scrutinize the room, but didn’t say much more. She just kept nodding away, holding her lips pursed and eyebrows narrowed.

  A few minutes later, when he showed her the furnished bedroom, she commented about how it was missing a fountain.

  “It’s just that I met this guy a few days ago who had a statue in his living room, and a fountain in his bedroom, and…”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know…he just seemed really cool. And he had a Porsche in his garage, and he lived in a mansion, and…”

  “And?”

  “And I guess I just thought you would have a palace of your own, too.”

  “Even though you know I’m a college student?”

  Mandy didn’t respond to this question. Instead, she stared blankly out the window.

  Greg fixed his attention on her with exasperation. He fought hard for eight weeks, or rather, for two years to get this apartment up to livable standards, and here Mandy was slamming him because he didn’t have a fountain. For the first time since he had met her, he thought she was wrong. Even crazier was that for the first time since meeting her, he was actually proud of the state of his apartment. In just two short months, he had surpassed the wealth of his immediate family, and that, for heaven’s sakes, made him feel accomplished, if economy, in fact, even mattered.

  “Well, this is my palace,” he said, “like it or not.”

  Her eyes remained fixated on the window. He noticed her lip curling under her teeth as her cheeks took on a slight purplish tint. It seemed she wanted to say something, but didn’t know what, so she kept silent.

  “Mandy?” said Greg, to break the silence.

  She lurched out of her trance.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you ready to go out or shall we continue staring out the window?”

  She held her breath for another moment until the weight was ready to leap from her chest. At that point she faced him head on.

  “Greg, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these last few minutes and I don’t think it’s gonna work between us.”

  Greg froze. He felt his feet touching the floor, but wasn’t sure how to move them. His heart also continued beating, sort of, with the occasional independent dive every few seconds. His arms for the most part lost all feeling.

  “What’s not gonna work?”

  “Us…this…everything.”

  “Why, because I don’t have a fountain in my bedroom?”

  Mandy once again turned her atten
tion toward the window.

  “Please. It’s not because you don’t have a fountain in your bedroom.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s just…well, you don’t have a Porsche in your garage…or a statue in your living room…or–”

  “Or a fountain in my bedroom?”

  “Right…”

  She stood there a moment, clearly trying to think of ways to escape. Greg, meanwhile, continued to hang frozen as he waited for her next move, wondering why in the world he bothered to put on his nicest shirt this evening. After at least another half minute of silence, she finally made that move when she turned to face him.

  “I’m sorry, Greg.” Her eyes were sagging. “You’re a nice guy, and I like you, but I’m not looking for a nice guy or someone I like. I’m…”

  “Looking for a guy who can afford you?”

  She nodded sheepishly.

  Greg finally recovered the energy to move his legs. The spark wakening his knees led him to step aside from the bedroom door. He also found enough life in his arms to lift one up to show Mandy the way out. The extra burst of strength in his forefinger pointed at the doorknob.

  “Then I guess your dream guy is somewhere outside this door. Good luck finding him.”

  Mandy lowered her eyes as she stepped toward the door. On passing Greg, she patted him on the arm.

  “I was gonna kiss you tonight,” she said, bittersweetly. “But that was when I thought you were rich. I’m sorry I was wrong about you.”

  “And I’m sorry I was right about you. But take care. You’ll make a beautiful gold-digger to some senile old man one day.”

  Suddenly, her awkward slouch in her back straightened, and a smile brighter than the froth in her imaginary fountain crossed her lips.

  “Aww, that’s so sweet.” Her voice elevated into nearly a screech. “Maybe when you’re rich, you could finally be that old man to me.”

  With that, she continued by, walked what remained of the short path through the living room, and stepped out of Greg’s life.

  Greg, meanwhile, trudged toward his bedside. There he shot his feet out from under his knees and collapsed on his soft mattress. As his face hit the pillow he heard his living room door close. A moment later he closed his eyes and wondered whether he even cared.

  $$$

  A month later, Greg sold most of the stuff he had bought with his massage therapy income to pay off a portion of his credit card debt. To his delight, eBay worked out better this time, but he still fell short when it came time to write his checks. His rent was due, which rose in price because of increasing costs of living, and his electric managed to climb more significantly since he had more toys to plug into the wall. All of his expenses, including credit card bills, car insurance, and cable ultimately added to a small fortune that even his massage therapy job couldn’t keep under control. But, despite giving waves of green to the money siphon, for some reason he didn’t let it destroy his hopes for a future this time. After all he had come through, and after all the years of having nothing to his name, somehow he still reached this point and it really didn’t seem so bad.

  The following months weren’t much easier on him. He stood strong and did his best to enjoy what he had, and sometimes that was tough. But certain successes came with matching difficulties. Throughout his journey he managed to improve his grades, find a quiet neighborhood for taking therapeutic walks in, and buy a new 19-inch television to replace the 25-inch he had sold a couple of months earlier. He didn’t visit the club anymore, and he didn’t want to meet any new girls since the Mandy catastrophe, but after that painful experience he thought it was for the best anyway. For the most part he was happy. That was when Rachel, a lower-maintenance girl, stepped into his life and showed him that some women didn’t care about wealth.

  $$$

  After sealing his rent check in the fattened envelope, Greg pushed it aside and took a deep breath. Like every person he knew, he didn’t want to say goodbye to his hard-earned cash, but he rationalized it was the fair price for living on one’s own. So he accepted the shelling out of income graciously. After all, he had worked hard for this place in life, this responsibility, and he had no reason to grumble over it. The walls were bare and the couch had seen better days, but at least he had something to call home.

  As he thought about his good fortune, he idly shifted his attention toward his telephone. It had been quite a while since he’d last spoken to his parents, so he decided to call them and thank his dad for hanging in there for all those years. His father said thanks, and then told him he had gotten promoted to custodial manager, which meant receiving a slight pay increase. Greg said he was happy for him. Then he went over to Jeff’s house to hang out with the guys and their dates and Rachel, the best girl he’d ever known, to watch The Bourne Ultimatum on DVD.

  ~~~~~

  Author’s Note

  First of all, if you’re reading this, thank you for downloading my story, and thank you more for reading it to the end. I hope you’ll consider leaving a review wherever you’ve downloaded it from.

  Secondly, even though “Shell Out” is a short work, it is one I’ve gone back to often over the years, trying to decide if this is really how I want it to begin, or if this sequence is really strong enough to move the story forward, or if this ending actually works to resolve the story, and so on. The more I write and the more I study the techniques of storytelling, the more I want to apply what I’ve learned to stories I thought I had already finished. And “Shell Out” is one of my test canvases for improvement.

  However, now that I think I’ve done just about all I can do without oversaturating the story with ideas or undercutting its theme, I’m officially pushing it out to the general public. Doesn’t mean I think it’s ready for the general public; I’m never ready to push anything I’ve written out to the general public. Like most authors, I keep wondering if there is anything, anything at all, that I could’ve done just a little better. Chances are, a few months or years down the road, I’ll learn yet another storytelling method that’ll convince me that I pushed this thing out prematurely. But, like all artistic works, there comes a point when we just have to believe in it and move on to other things. So, here you go. Hope you enjoyed it.

  A Brief History: I first conceptualized the story in 2002 while I was working at a hospital. I was at my desk, listening to an evening radio show, when the hosts challenged callers to talk about the stuff they had tried selling on eBay. One caller, who the DJs must’ve thought was a troll–they hung up on him–said he had tried selling his underwear on eBay. Whether it was true or not, I thought it was pretty funny. And it got me thinking about the lengths people might go to earn an extra buck, including selling crap no one wants on eBay. It was then that I had remembered that I’d wanted to write a joke involving the Psychic Friends Hotline (where the psychic predicts catastrophe on the caller, and it comes true, rather than the expected “you’ll find love tomorrow” nonsense they used to advertise on TV) into something, anything, and I realized that a story about making a buck in ridiculous ways was the perfect source to bring that joke into play. And the timing was great because one of my coworkers had a girlfriend who had actually worked for a psychic call center at one time, so he gave me insight about the telephone psychic business, like how smoky the environment could get in those offices and how they use psychology and listening skills to “predict” futures, among other things. With that and the eBay joke, I thought I had a winning combination for writing about the absurdity in alternative moneymaking.

  As much as I wanted to see where this could go, however, I didn’t finish drafting the story in one sitting. At the time, I was juggling a number of projects, including an attempt to adjust to emotional instability while patiently waiting for my proper financial window to make returning to college and actually finishing my degree possible (in that regard, Greg, the main character, and I had a lot in common). It had actually taken me until 2006, when I buckled down and finished a n
umber of short stories to complete a self-published collection of works, to finish the first version of “Shell Out.” By that point I was so proud of the story that I didn’t think it needed extensive editing, so in November 2006, I published it in the print version of my third collection of works, called Seven-Sided Dice: The Collection of Junk Volume3, and left it alone, thinking it was great, until years later when I discovered that I could have, in fact, made it better. In 2011, I took it through another edit, and in 2015, after reading an excellent book about openings called Hooked by Les Edgerton, I took it through one more major edit, separated it into seven parts, and now I think it’s done for good.

  So, that’s some background on “Shell Out.” I admit I had shallow reasons for starting it in 2002, but with real life economy breaking down in the season since I’d first published it in my print volume, and with my own experiences of financial distress persisting throughout its development, I think it’s become one of my most valuable works (no pun or sense of irony intended).

  Is this the end of “Shell Out” then? Hard to say. Although I have no plans to update it further, I would like to someday include it in a new volume of short stories geared entirely around the theme of “economic survival.” We’ll see how that goes.

  Thanks again for reading. If you liked it, please share it with other readers. Also, keep checking my page for additional works. Thanks. And don’t forget to leave a review.

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