Schadenfreude

It was the first gift on her way back to a semi-normal life, courtesy of the the dirty-faced, willfull twins who had stretched their mother's patience too thinly.

The poor woman stood desperate in the supermarket isle of disaster as her boys, probably age four, continued to pull boxes of cereal from the shelves, ignoring all civil requests to stop. The store manager even tried to step in. How embarrasing. Finally a loud, angry yet helpless "STOP!" pierced the air, and the action did stop if only for a moment. Shoppers turned to look at the young mother who had just broken, shook their heads, and wheeled their carts away from the mess. The twins looked at each other, laughed, and continued their rein of terror over Kellogs and General Mills.

The mother, with a sad, empty look, calmly grabbed her children by the hand, walked like a zombie toward the exit (despite the resistant pulling and biting), and left the chaos for someone else to clear away.

Sarah was gleeful at the scene and tried hard to hide it, but she was sure the mother saw the slight smile on her face as she passed with her struggling children. Sarah didn't care. Why should she? Her own five-year-old quadruplets were in their first day of school, and Sarah was enjoying her first day of freedom in five years.

Alone she managed to raise four obedient girls, and doing so in her early forties made the task doubly difficult. Twin trouble was nothing. It only seemed fair that Sarah take in scenes like this as payback. Besides, she would need to pick up the girls from kindergarten in a couple hours and would need something to sustain her spirits.

Laconic

Unlike most hippies, Kevin felt no need to expound on progressive ideals; he simply lived them, and this is what attracted Sempie the most.

Instead of working against big business, he tried to work with it, another seemingling anti-hippie quality. For twenty years he had owned EnviroSpeak, an ad agency dedicted to educating the public about the environement and supporting other companies that do the same.

In a time when every corporation was riding the "green" bandwagon and leveraging consumers' environmental guilt, Kevin spent much of his time researching which companies were sincere in their quest to befriend the earth. Those who passed the test made the list of potential clients.

Kevin was also not the stereotypical businessman. So dedicated was he in using corporate power to stop environmentally hazordous activity that even in the early lean years--when going green wasn't fashionable, when he had to beg to do PSAs gratis, when Sempie and the toddler twins depended on Saint Vincent DePaul's and double-coupon Wednesdays--Kevin never faltered from his mission. Of course, Sempie's faith and support were key.

Through his casual, softspoken, yet descriminating approach, he had quietly become the lead advertising agency in Madison, promoting only those companies and products truly committed to the cause. True to his hippie soul, however, Kevin's lifestyle hadn't changed much in the face of such financial success. More money meant, a) more money to donate and, b) more time with family since he could hire more employees.

The best change was Kevin could now join Sempie and the kids for double-coupon Wednesdays and St. Vinny trips.

Ebullient

As her twelve year old blended into the blur of soccer commotion, Sempie lay stomach down on her quilt, reading her latest library find, basking in the summer freshness. She looked up from the book to see Lander trip and fall as an oponent stole the ball. He got to his feet easily, flashed a good natured smile, and hustled back into play. A familiar happiness swirled within Sempie, and she savored the moment.

Most of the other soccer mom's simply dropped their children off at the camp and picked them up three hours later when it was finished. With her twin girls all but out of the house, however, Sempie indulged her need to be near her baby Landon. So on the sidelines she remained, with her supply of reading materials, water, and sun block.

Unable to focus on her book, Sempie set it aside and shifted her position. She tried to follow the game but lost herself in memories of her son.

Onlookers would see Sempie's smile, her long blonde hair, and never suspect that she was ten years older than the 35 years she appeared to be. Those who spent any amount of time with Sempie were only briefly jealous. Although she seemed to lead a charmed life, her kindness and generosity never tired, and her love of life was impressive and contagious.

Sempie lauged as the stray ball knocked from her mind the image of a three-year old Landon trying to tie his shoes. She quickly got to her feet, retrieved the soccer ball, and tossed it to the closest player. Once again, she and Landon caught eyes and smiled. Sempie returned to her quilt and continued to delight in her perfect life.

Malinger

This time Lynnette actually searched through the yellow pages for a divorce lawyer, but she didn't know what to look for. Her fantasies of divorce had begun shortly after her marriage. She knew Tom was not perfect--not her soul mate, but she had been so tired of holding out for Mr. Right. Tom was sweet, had treated Lynnette like a queen, but the typical priorities of an adult--working a steady job, paying bills, wanting to start a family--eluded him. Lynnette had hoped that marriage would bring out a more responsible Tom, but her hopes did not pan out.

Begrudgingly, Lynnette left the phonebook to check on him. This morning's malady was a mysterious backache.

"How are you doing, honey?"

"I gotta stay home again. It's just not going away even after the Alleve."

"You know they're going to fire you. You've been officially at Dunby's for two weeks, and you've missed more days than worked."

"Whaddaya want me to do? I can't help it."

He was probably right about that, Lynnette thought, frustrated. She felt the fight rise inside her, but it was not worth getting into it just before she had to go to work. Lynnette signed, muttered a "just get some rest," and left the bedroom with no further eye contact.

Tom had the strange ability to think himself into an illness. Although his back had been fine, he could now feel a dull ache. Besides, staying home in bed, nursing an imaginary migrain, pretend flu, or impending backache was much more tolerable than working in some dirty, demeaning factory. Fired? Who cared? Tom did not plan to return to that place anyway.

Tom had no other calling in life than to simply exist. He thought inspiration might strike once he was married, but it didn't. Lazy? Yes. Dumb? No. He had always known that he was not the man Lynnette needed or wanted and was always a bit surprised to find her in bed every morning, that she hadn't finally left him. He wished he could be more for her. Why couldn't he have inherited millions from some long lost wealthy aunt? His days of trying to get out of work would be over, and Lynnette could retire early. She could finally understand the appeal of his lifestyle.

Hungry, Tom eased himself out of bed. Lynnette had stopped making breakfast for him on his "sick" days years ago. As he shuffled into the kitchen, Tom noticed the prominent divorce lawyer ads. Although he was not surprised, it touched off a sadness deep inside. She would never go through with it, but maybe he should, to set her free.

Tatterdemalion

"Keep walking, Jen. Just loook staight ahead. Make no eye contact," Kurt advised.

"That's rude. She's a person just like everyone else on the city sidewalks."

"Come on. She's dressed in rags and talking to herself. That's not just like everyone else."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I didn't realize I was with such an elitist, judgemental jerk." Jenny released Kurt's hand and trained her gaze on the homeless woman. At first she thought she was old, probably unable to support herself after retirement or after the death of her longtime spouse. But as she neared, Jen could see the youthfulness that had been covered by layers of filth. The woman had to be in her mid thirties.

Jenny left Kurt's side and veered toward the woman.

"Christ, Jen. What the hell are you doing?" Jenny didn't respond and spotted a park bench about five feet away from the woman. Kurt's remarks more than illustrated a first date gone wrong, but also touched a guilt of her own. Had Kurt said nothing, she probably would have kept walking and ignored this woman. Jenny didn't plan on confronting her, but she was close enough that the woman may confront Jenny, and perhaps, Jenny could confront her guilt.

Kurt wanted to asked Jenny if she was trying to make a new friend but realized that her physical distance from him would require a loud enough yell as to make a scene, so he swallowed his sarcasm and hovered by the newspaper stand.

It was easy for Jenny to stare at the homeless woman without being detected. The woman was so engrossed in conversation with herself, although Jenny could not decipher; it sounded like a foreign language. A gaunt woman, she didn't have as many wrinkles as Jenny had originally thought. Instead, her thin face was streaked with dirt, and her long, slightly frizzy hair seemed to be encased by a film of dust. She wore a few thin, dingy layers, too large for her small frame. As she gestured with her right hand while making a point, her clothes drooped to reveal a grayish-brown shoulder.

In his attempt to ignore Jenny, Kurt snuck a look at her, saw she was still by the homeless woman, rolled his eyes, and returned to his paper. He was on page five but had no idea what he had supposedly read.

The woman's quick turn toward Jenny startled her. Jenny did not look away, but it was clear that the woman was not looking at Jenny. Her eyes faced Jenny but were focussed on some nonexistent entity. She continued her rant, which was still unstranslatable. Jenny continued to stare. She couldn't help it. The woman's eyes drew her in. Everything else about the woman was dull, gray, brown. Easy to blend and ignore. Even her odd monlogue became particles of whitenoise. But her green eyes denied anything about homelessness, almost made Jenny feel as if the woman was completely sane to argue with herself in public. Almost.

By the time Jenny decided that the homeless woman would not approach her, she got up from the bench, rejoined the still bustling sidewalk traffic, and headed toward her apartment. She never once thought about Kurt. Instead her thoughts fixated on the woman and her green eyes. She hoped to see her again.

Mephitic

To be safe, Jack had only four hours to clean the puke out of the bathrooms, remove the stains of unknown substances that peppered carpets around the house, and plain sterilize every room his party guests inhabited the night before. Not only must the place visually satisfy his parents, they must also not smell anything suspicious, and this is where Jack's greatest concern lie.

Jack hadn't really noticed when he awoke, facedown on the floor next to his bed. But when he reentered the house after his first garbage run, the stench overpowered--a mephitic coctail of beer, smoke, vomit, sweat, and old pizza. He collapsed into a kitchen chair and took a few minutes to feel sorry for himself.

Why couldn't his parents stay in Las Vegas another day? Maybe they would actually gamble, but probably not. How pointless. They would return exactly when they said they would: 3pm. They would be excited and gushing about the trip while scanning the place for signs of his disobedience.

Jack snapped out of his self-comiserating haze. He had to focus on the mountainous tasks that lay ahead. There might be something rotten at the Smithe house, but Jack hoped he could hide that from his folks.

Reconteur

Little Joe snuck glances at his gradfather while picking at his macaroni and cheese. He was "Little" Joe during his stay with his grandparents for ease of distguishing him from his namesake. Little Joe loved this connection to his grandfather and hoped to be as good a storyteller as him some day.

He had been secretly watching him during lunch for this very reason. That and the fact that Grandpa couldn't cook. Little Joe's plate of lumpy, pale orange paste could not hold his attention as much as the wrinkles around Big Joe's eyes.

During the bedtime rituals as set forth by his grandparents, Little Joe would take his shower, as surpervised by Grandma Jean, slip on his jammies, and fall asleep to one of Big Joe's stories. It was the only time Big and Little Joe connected, as if Big Joe could only communicate through story-telling, and he didn't want to run out of stories to tell. Even though Big Joe didn't say much outside of the bedtime stories, the stories were more than enough to impress Little Joe.

The previous night's story had been especially engaging, and actually scary at times. Big Joe talked about the Yukon gold rush and its arduous and dangerous journey. He even talked about how the harsh condtions affected sledgogs, especially one named Buck. As always, Big Joe talked like he was there.

Little Joe had never paid much attention to the time frame of the stories. At most, some comment like, "when I was a boy" or "many summers ago" was included. Last night, however, Big Joe had specially mentioned the year, 1897, so Little Joe furtively examined his grandfather for evidence of his age. Could Big Joe be that old? If not, how did he know the story so well? He hoped his parents would stay on their Las Vegas vacation long enough to find out.

Cupidity

She had that feeling she was doing wrong, or was it just nerves? Clarissa Smithe perferred to think the latter. After all, people gambled at casinos all the time, and they were in Las Vegas. "They" included her husband who was currently sleeping safely in their budget hotel room.

Ben's perpetual paranoia at times overshadowed his loving manner. The trip to Vegas exemplified this, even though Clarissa had originally agreed that they would not gamble--just go to see the gaudy sights of the strip. A fun, quick get away that the two of them desperately needed. But when Clarissa mentioned during their flight the idea of gambling just a small amount, Tom responed with a road block of disagreement.

If Clarissa were honest with herself, she would admit that gambling had been her plan all along. She had smuggled her own one hundred dollars for that very purpose. It wasn't as if they were poor, but financial restraint constantly peppered Ben's comments. Her parents had been the same, but they really had been poor. She shouldn't have to worry so much now, but Ben did.

Clarissa had privately worked herself into a defiant justification, and so there she stood with the dice in her hands, ready to roll. If she lost, she would say nothing. If she won...she would say nothing.