The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
On Learning How to Drive
I drove my parent’s
2000 Dodge Durango we had had forever. It was silver and had a dark, faded leather interior and as far as safety, the wobbling front seat was questionable, plus I still hadn’t quite grasped all the basics needed to get my license. My dad taught me how to drive most of the time since my mother had a bad habit when I drove to grab my arm or scream. Either way I lost. One of those days we were sitting at a stoplight and I made a turn. “Congratulations!” he said. I was thrilled, but not for too much longer. “Takes talent to make an illegal U-Turn.” Oh joy. Sarcasm. “Are you going to pass this guy?” Dad hinted, a little passive aggressive in tone. “Uh, I wasn’t planning on it.” I said. Wrong answer. As fathers and their daughters do, yelling occurred. New form of road rage. Dad ate a Snickers and I would stomp up to my room when we both came home. “Looks like you both had quality father daughter time.” Mom said, smirking.
#Unreal #DriversEd #Frustrations #TeenYears #License #FatherDaughterTime
Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Clown Chronicles
by Leah Mueller
QuailBellMagazine.com
It was an afternoon of dejection, following a long period of abject poverty that led to my decision to become a clown. I was so broke that I had given up having a checking account months beforehand. It had been three months since I'd paid my rent, and I had received a couple of eviction notices. While sitting at the Heartland Cafe, nursing a small plate of tofu, I noticed the following ad in the Chicago Reader:
Easy job! Man or woman with cheery disposition and friendly personality needed to dress as clown and hand out leaflets on Michigan Avenue, advertising the grand opening of the fun new adult education place, the Education Zone! Wear own costume. MUST be prompt, professional, and cheerful. I pondered my possible new clown career. I felt fairly certain that I could fake a cheerful persona, but realized intuitively that my wardrobe lacked standard clown accessories. I had a rather silly looking pair of striped Guatemalan pants and a pair of red Converse high-tops, but that summed up the absurdity of my wardrobe. Perhaps it would be okay if I wore a shirt that didn't match my pants, maybe something in a plaid pattern. I wandered in a daze to the pay phone, and removed a quarter from the bottom of my purse, the sum total of my funds. The interview was mercifully brief. A man with a loud, nasally New York accent informed me that he was the owner of the Education Zone, which was set to have its grand opening in Chicago in less than a month. He sounded both harried and arrogant, a combination that never failed to irritate me. “Do you think you have what it takes to be a clown for the Education Zone?” he barked, without a trace of irony. “Sure” I said meekly. I really needed the job. “Fine” he said. “Be here tomorrow, at exactly 10:00 AM. I'll see you then.” He gave me the address, and hung up. Well, things were looking up. I had some beans and rice in the cupboard, a carrot, half an onion, and a job as a clown. Hopefully, the pay would be weekly. It wasn't exactly the job I had visualized for myself when I was a hotshot high school student with a weekly column in the town newspaper and my eye on a journalism career. But it would help to keep me from being homeless and starving, and that was an important start. |