It occurred to me the other day that the earliest hint of Coach of the Year to make it out into the world was a little snippet that had a home online for 24 hours…. five years ago.
The excerpt below was published on a short-lived site called Mandalit, which featured flash fiction for brief, 24-hour windows. Kind of a neat concept, but not a way to keep the piece available to would-be readers for any length of time. It was encouraging to get that first little piece out into the world. Who knew it would take four years for the next piece to see the light of day?
While Coach of the Year has gone through a couple major rewrites, and countless rounds of tinkering, editing, cuts and additions since this piece was briefly out in the world, the 500 words or so remain more or less unchanged in the manuscript’s current iteration. I figured I’d share it with here while I wait for another piece of the Coach of the Year pie to find a home. Enjoy!
Hell’s bells
by Sheldon Birnie
(as appeared on Mandalit.com, July 2015)
Ray and Chappy hadn’t made it half the six blocks down 8th Street to the peeler bar before the reds and blues were flashing behind them. Chappy checked the mirror once, checked it twice. No doubt, the siren howled for him.
He pulled over to the side of the road, and went through the motions as the constable wrote him up. Sure, he fought it. Refused a breathalyzer and everything. They sent him into holding for the night while Ray hustled up the cash for bail.
As he had no priors, they handed Chappy an immediate 90 day roadside prohibition and a court date. But all he could think of, sitting in the cold cell as his buzz wore off and the next day’s work approached, was how Sharon would react to the news. Not very well, he figured.
Chappy figured right. Sharon was not pleased with the news. Not in the least.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Marc,” she screamed over the crackling phone line. “Are you insane? You’re thirty-fucking-five years old. What kind of example are you setting for your daughter?”
“She’s only four,” Chappy’d said. “She won’t be driving for years.”
The logic was lost on Sharon. But she let Chappy know, in no uncertain terms, that she certainly wasn’t going to drive Alexia down to Ditch Creek every second Friday and pick her back up again to drive her back home on Sunday afternoons.
Without his wheels, Chappy was fucked.
“That’s for goddamn sure,” she’d said. “You better figure your shit out, Marc. Seriously.”
Then she’d hung up.
Chappy’d stood there for a moment, staring at the buzzing phone in his hand. Then he smashed the cheap Chinese plastic piece of shit to bits against the corner of the wall.
“Hell’s bells,” he seethed. He stomped across the kitchen to grab a cold one from the fridge. Then he sat down, cracking the can. He savoured that satisfying pop and hiss as the ringing in his ears slowly faded away.