Ryan’s Adventures

This was my entry for the NPR Three Minute Fiction contest. It didn’t win, but I’m proud of the story anyway, as it was great to do some creative writing again. Take a read and check the link for the amazing writing that did make it into first place and the runners up.

“The Usual”

The nurse left work at five o’clock.

At 5:02, her slender hands ache, and she slowly flexes them open and closed. A day filled with the frayed nerves of an epidemic, of a sister hand-wringing torn Bible passages, of a slumped husband staring at the nothingness between his scuffed loafers, of phlegm-spattered gowns and eyes too dry for more tears. She escapes, the bustle of the Mexico City hospital dissolving into urban ballads: cars on nearby streets, tamale venders, sirens, someone playing out-of-tune jazz.

The pavement, moist from afternoon showers, glistens in the waning sunlight, her caramel complexion refracted across black spots of flattened gum. Mosquitoes rise from piles of rubbish, lumbering at first, then picking up speed, strafing her ears. She quickens her pace, swatting at them, her stiff-soled shoes clacking on cobblestones, her dark hair trailing behind. One block, two, past the echoing catcalls of construction workers—“¡mamacita!”—then a man selling roasted sweet potatoes with a shrill whistle, then a weathered vendor seated on a tattered blanket heaped with shelled pecans. Past the peeling blues, faded pinks, and psychedelic oranges of Colonia Roma’s houses she walks, evening breezes rustling window curtains illuminated by the nightly news.

***

In one window two blocks away, at 5:15, another woman, her onion paper skin dusted with too much blush; knobby fingers adjusting a scarf; a last glance towards the mirror and a smack from wrinkled lips. She leaves her house, leaning heavily on her cane. One step, two. The passersby ignore her, the mother with the grubby child asks her for no pesos. The woman fingers the medallion in her pocket. One block, two, she goes forward, letting scampering street children break around her.

***

At the corner, a small boy, a hand towel draped over his head, a bathtub stopper dangling around his neck, a doll in his hand, missing an eye-lid and half her hair. It’s 5:17, but he doesn’t know. Just that the nurse is coming.

***

The nurse crosses the plaza, pigeons scattering to roost in the library’s leaning tower, a former church now shellacked with anti-imperialist murals, where has-been bohemians espouse the Aztec Marx to homeless just looking for beds.

She waits on the light, catching the sewer’s aroma. A sign warns of impending water shortages. She steps out, nearly turning her heel. It’s 5:25.

***

Three people converge on the taqueria “El Faraón,” its walls painted orange, lighting low, so everything glows.  Already inside, a businessman, tie askew, reading the paper; a pair of spiky-haired chicos, smiling over intertwined fingers; an alcoholic chasing foam around her glass.

The menu: tacos pastor con todo, flame-kissed pork, pineapple, onion, cilantro, drenched with salsa and fresh lime, wrapped in corn tortillas. To drink: micheladas—salt-rimmed glass, lime, and beer.

It’s 5:31: the nurse, the old woman, and the child enter. First the nurse, who sits alone. The child next, hesitant, watching, then approaching, pressing the stopper to the doll’s chest. “Is she sick?” asks the nurse. The boy nods. “Here,” she says, handing him a tamarind candy, as always. The boy dashes off, the “medicine” held tight in his sweaty hand.

The old woman approaches, pulling out her medallion: a commendation for nursing, 1946. She smiles. “This is beautiful,” the nurse says, as if it were her first time, her thumb rubbing the tarnished medallion. The old woman leans in, kisses her, then saunters away, leaving bright magenta lip-marks on the nurse’s cheek.

A waiter approaches: “The usual?” he asks, writing down five tacos and a michelada.

“Yes,” she says. “The usual.” It’s 5:43.