The Waiting Room

By Joe Del Castillo

    

     “I’ll never get another chance,” said Brittany.

     “I’m sure we won’t have to wait long,” countered Jane.

     Except for the wooden benches where the women sat and a cracked mirror on the opposite side, the bus depot was a low-lit box of gray walls. A glass door looked out onto a dark road. 

     “That creep wanted me out.” Brittany stretched her legs and got up. “And he’ll keep me out.”

     Jane remained seated. “Now, now, Brittany, Joe knows what he’s doing. I’m sure it was in the best interest of the story to eliminate us.”

     Shaking her head, Brittany crossed over toward the mirror. She ran her hands across her snug black leather pants and opened the top two buttons of her red blouse. “He should let me write the book. I’d call it Brittany, Queen of the Dance Clubs.”    

     "You're upset because you got the hots for the cowboy.” In a white blouse and pleated skirt, Jane clasped her hands on her lap, resembling a high school student sitting alone at a party.

“Of course, I never get a boyfriend.”     

     “That’s because Joe makes you homely, and it winds up getting both of us kicked out. He doesn’t know much about character development. Think of the setting we're in. The hottest club in Manhattan. Glamorous people dancing and laughing. And then the cowboy spots you next to me and, instead of directing his wild lust at me, he goes after Penelope, the pretentious preppie.”

     “No, Brittany. He didn’t lust after her; he respected her. He understands that Penelope is confused. He wants to help her find herself.”

     “Find herself? Joe doesn't seem to know much about himself. I know because he keeps putting us in stories and then pulling us out.” Brittany waved her arms in frustration. “Puts us in, pulls us out. Puts us in, pulls us out.”

     “He left Penelope in.”

     “He always leaves Penelope in. Even when he writes another story and changes her name. It’s the same self-centered bitch. She’s always trying to land some big shot. I belong in that role.”

     “And what was a cowboy doing in a Manhattan disco?” Jane murmured. “It makes no sense.”

     “Oh, but he was something else. I don’t need logic for him.”

     “I interpret Penelope as a cross between the two of us. She’s not as kind and naive as me and not as–”

     Brittany’s eyes closed halfway. “Not as what? Not as cold?”

     Jane stared at the concrete floor. “Anyway, the cowboy wanted Penelope, not you. Or me. That’s where the story is going. Or was. Who knows?”

     “You don’t get it. Penelope was about to dump him; therefore, he would have come to me.”

     “I don’t know. You’re too pushy. You’ve got to be more tolerant of people.”

     Brittany turned back to the mirror. “If he’d give me half a chance to develop, he’d discover that I have depth and complexity.”

     “Isn’t that redundant?” Jane placed her hands on her face and sighed. “No one ever hits on me.”

     Brittany shook her head. “I’ll never get into another story. I’m doomed.”

     From the outside, the heavy rumble of a motor startled them. The two hurried to the door and gazed through the dirty glass. A bus had arrived. Its doors slid open. A man in his early thirties, wearing an open canvas jacket and a Stetson-style hat, stepped down.

    Brittany whispered, Oh, baby, it’s the cowboy.

     As he entered, he tipped his hat. “Hello, ladies.” Behind him, an elf, barefoot, about one foot tall, and wearing a stained white T-shirt that reached his ankles, followed in. The man sat on the bench and lifted the elf onto it. The girls went over.

     “We were never introduced. I’m Brittany.”

     “I’m Clint.”

     “I’m just a pathetic elf.” He scratched his long ears. “I never get a name.”

     “Clint, remember me? I’m Jane. We were at the bar in Saturday Night Polka. Brittany and I were dropped from it.” 

     “Come to think of it, yes. You were the one with her mouth hanging open.” He looked at Brittany. “I don’t remember you.”    

     “I was there.” Oh, Lord, if you only knew. You and I were meant to be. A few pages more, and we would have hooked up. I’m sure of it.     

     Clint stroked his mustache. “Consider yourself lucky. Before that story, I was in Chicken Soup for Chickens. In it, I’m an avian proctologist being chased by hordes of women. And then, the wildest chick of all corners me in a closet. She starts ripping my clothes off, and I start ripping her clothes off. And what happens? Joe gets writer’s block.”

     “Wild chick?” Brittany scratched her head. “Wait. That was me. Clint, we could write our own book.”

     “Brittany, no, this is why we get dropped from all these stories. You try to take control of the narrative.”      

     “Anyway,” Clint went on, “Joe gave up on that one. Next, I turned up in Saturday Night Polka until now. I deserve better. I have feelings, you know.”

     Jane bent down. “What about you, Mr. Elf?”

     With his hands on his head, the little pixie rocked back and forth. “Oh, I’m just a poor soul lost in a crazy world. Joe rolls me out for comic relief in Christmas tales. Then it’s another ten months before I get picked up. And nobody thinks I’m real. But here I am. It’s a cruel world.”

     The door opened, and the bus driver came in. Unrolling a long, white scroll, he asked, “Which one of you is Brittany?”

     Brittany stood straight, placed her hand across her chest, and tilted her head back. “I am she.”

     “And you must be Clint.”

     With one hand, the cowboy pulled his hat down as if trying to hide, and with the other, he gave a reluctant thumbs-up.

     “Congratulations. You both are now the hero and heroine in new stories.”

     Brittany clapped her hands together. “The heroine? Yes! Is it bright lights in the big city? Movie stars? I bet I even have a last name. I know this is permanent. What’s the title?” 

     “Mr. Clint, you are now a baseball player in The Catcher in the Outfield. As the star of the team, you have to fend off crazed female fans until you find your one true love.”     

     “Same story,” mumbled Clint. “Different setting.”    

     Brittany’s hand shot up. “Who cares? I’m the heroine. How long before Clint is mine?”

     The driver searched the scroll. “Yes, you are the heroine, but in a different story. Joe is writing two at the same time.”

     “Really?” Jane sat next to the elf and leaned back against the wall. “He can’t finish one.”

     “Two books,” Brittany’s eyes glowed. “There’s probably a third down the road. It’s a series. I’ll be the lead in three novels!”

     “Er…no,” said the bus driver. “You have your own story. You are now Prudence Applebutter,

an 1880s Iowa milkmaid who’s allergic to cows. It’s called Bridget Jones' Dairy.”   

     “Me, a farm girl?” Brittany started to sneeze and cough.    

     “What about us?” asked Jane, pointing to the elf.

     The driver checked his document. “Nope, nothing. Okay, folks, it’s time to go.”

     Clint rubbed his eyes and stood. “I could have used a vacation.” He rose and proceeded out the door and onto the bus. 

     “Damn it.” Jane made a fist, glaring at Brittany/Prudence. “He picks you over me. I’m the refined one, the delicate one, the one that mothers want their sons to marry.”

     “Yeah,” Brittany shouted at the driver. “Why isn’t Jane the sick farm chick? And what about that Penelope? Is she in the baseball story?”     

     “Hey,” snarled the driver. “I work for Joe. I just pick up and deliver.”    

     Brittany/Prudence grabbed the driver’s jacket, pulled him toward her and tightened her hands around his throat.“What part does she have?”

     Struggling to breathe, the man blurted, “She’s the reporter in the locker room.”    

     “I knew it.” Prudence released him and headed for the bus. The driver followed.

     Sitting beside the elf, Jane said, “What are we supposed to do? No one wants us.”

     “Since we’re not happy with our roles,” — the elf leaned forward, “—I have a great idea for a book. It’ll forever change people’s perceptions about elves.”

          With his bony hand, he squeezed Jane’s knee. “You know, you could have the lead—” he winked three times—"if you get my drift.”   

 

 

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Joe Del Castillo hails from Astoria, Queens and now lives in Long Island, New York. He is a member of the Long Island Writers Guild. His short stories have been published in Spank the Carp, New Pop Lit, Loch Raven Review, Empyrean, Macrame Literary Journal and Luminaura. 

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