An Audible Stroll by J.D. Fratto

EDITOR’S NOTE: J.D. Fratto is the author of recent novella “City Blocks” published by CatOnBall, the book length work imprint of FreedomFiction.com

Please Visit https://www.catonball.com/

* * *

An Audible Stroll by J.D. Fratto

I find it satisfying to walk the crowded city streets while hearing the vocal fragments uttered by passing strollers. Not only hearing them, mind you, but giving them an elaboration for my wandering imagination as to the direction their words might be headed – or not.

Here we go: two guys, fortyish, coming straight at me. As they pass:

“You have to get the measurement right.”

The “measurement”? Of what? There’s no way of knowing, so I speculate.

They might be tailors. It’s not about finance because “measurement “isn’t a money term; that would be “interest”. That would have been easy, but “measurement”? Whoever heard of two tailors walking and talking. They’re always bent over something soft. Carpenters perhaps? Same thing, only the victim is hard. Oh well; I’ll never know for sure. You get the challenge?

I turn the corner and careen around three Twenty Somethings in skirts. Middle one lets loose as she turns to Lefty…

“Why would he do that?”

This one is tough to figure since HE could have done a number of things, although I suspect that, whatever it was, he did it to the one on the ”Left” since the verbalizer was looking pretty pointetly at her while speaking. For sure,

whatever he did wasn’t nice; i.e. if he really did it in the first place. And if the Listener was partly at fault, who knows what her role was in the encounter – and her level of blame compared with his. Tough to judge this one.

Suddenly, two women approach: late thirties – maybe early forties. The taller, heavier one, utters…“I tried it on but it was too small.”

I could’ve told her that. Meaning it couldn’t cover her Chevy. I’ll leave it to your imagination. Finally, I enter the restaurant. Kim comes over, nearly spilling the water, and after an “oops”, says, “the usual? We have that duck you like.” I accept the duck and add a glass of childish red Bordeaux.

Sitting behind me is a couple in their early fifties, making me realize that these days, most people I encounter, or even just see, are younger than me. In this case, only slightly. Well, that’s heavy. Anyway, I listen:

“Phil, we’ve got to face it. She knows. That’s why she’s behaving like this.”

‘I’m not sure. It might be something else. Maybe there’s somebody else on HER side.

“You mean, with her?”

“I can’t swear to it, but maybe – I have a hunch; Kevin’s a possibility.”

“The undertaker?”

‘I can’t imagine, but last Tuesday….Oh, thanks for the bill. I’ve got it. Let’s talk on the way to the car.”

“Just when it was getting interesting, but this one is pretty predictable. I don’t know how it will end, but I can tell you; it’s Kevin. In these cases, you can trust the instincts.”

Evening at Home

The phone rings: “Hello”

“Hi, Mark.”

“I’m not Mark. Wrong number.”

‘Are you sure. I mean you sound like Mark.”

“Really?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, what can I say. See you.”

“Hold on a second. I think I recognize who you are.”

“By my phone voice?”

“Do you live on Jackson Street?

“Close.”

“That’s good enough; same neighborhood.”

“Good enough for what?”

“Good enough that you might be interested in better securing your home against a break-in.”

“What are you, selling something?”

“Not just anything – something you probably need, if you’re smart enough to get its importance and the deal that goes with it.”

I hang up.

NEXT DAY

I’m on my way to meet Juleen Finster, a former student, for coffee.

 It’s only around the corner and there’s no one on the street so I can relax my ears. She just finished a short story she wants to discuss. Why she would want to discuss it now is beyond me. I prefer things that are in process, not completed because once a piece is finished, the writer bears a greater commitment to it and as a result it’s harder for him or her to face criticism. Whereas, if the piece is still in process, the writer is more inclined to listen to his critic in order to reach a better conclusion. Anyway, she could just let me see the darn thing and I’ll get back to her.

She hasn’t arrived yet. Deliberately, I sit by the window between a youngish couple on my left and a single guy on my right. I order a decaf. double espresso. The couple is discussing what’s wrong with the girl’s mother; i.e. she doesn’t like the boyfriend. Without looking back at them, my recollection of him upon entering the café is in sync with Mom. It was the way he was crookedly bent over, jiggering a pencil between his fingers, while talking to her. He’s got a style problem.

Suddenly, Juleen comes through the door hurriedly, as if she were late for class. “Whoa,” I say, “what’s the rush?” She answers, as she sits down, “I’m sorry I’m late; a heel came off my right shoe and I rushed into that shop around the corner to have it fixed.”

“No problem. I just got here.” Waitress Kim comes over and Juleen orders a coffee and a glazed doughnut. In circumstances like this, I am always anxious to hear how the other person begins the conversation, wondering if their initial statement points up the priority item that will be under discussion, or if it is merely a formulaic way of starting it; or, simply a way of getting comfortable. So, I wait for her to start.

Shaking her head, Juleen lets out with “Whew” Then stares at me, waiting for me to say something. What am I supposed to say? After all, this meeting was her call. Nevertheless, I counter with a professorial no-brainer: “So, you’ve been writing.”

At this point, the guy on my right gets a cell call. This places Juleen in an awkward position with me because an actual live conversation that involves me is no competition for some alien’s conversation into which I might snoop. I almost ask her not to speak while I’m listening-in on table-right. That would be rude; can’t do it. So, I try to handle both venues simultaneously, which I hate to do.

I remind her that she called this meeting so that she could show me a short story she’s written. “Right” she barks out nervously. “Let me get it,” as she digs into her bag. Out it comes…hardly presentable; not one would hand to a potential publisher but wrinkled, as if dear student just found it under her bed.

Suddenly, after having whispered something into his phone, “Guy Right” gets up; plants money on the table and hurries out the door. Could be bad news – or, did the caller deliver a sense of urgency that he was or wasn’t hoping

 for? I can’t tell because I couldn’t see his face as he walked away and can only surmise it from his movement. Juleen remains unaware.

Back to her: she informs me that I can take the story with me, since it’s a copy. That, being the source for our meeting; now what? At this point, my “Lefty Friends” have seriously lowered their voices, so they’re out of play. It’s now only the two of us: face to face. We discuss her current job at the library and her plans for a possible writing career. I then thank her for giving me the story and tell her that she’ll hear from me regarding it, in a few days. With that, we part ways and I am liberated to the street. Outside, I reach into my vest pocket and withdraw the story: just to give it a glance. Well, lo and behold, it’s a full two and a half pages short. I could read this until my bus arrives. Actually, I can’t because here it comes. I enter; take a seat near the front across from a clearly married couple and begin reading. Needless to say, their familial chatter pre-empts Juleen’s likely tepid prose, as I fold her tale into my jacket pocket.

 At which point, the twosome arise and exit. After speculating about their possible destination, I dig out Juleen’s piece. Well, it might seem strange, what with it being short, that it was hard to get through. It’s a tale of unrequited love. I suspect hers.

What happens is that Leon leaves Gilda after only a single outdoor movie date. However, there was a kiss – of the “goodbye” variety. She is trying to come to grips with it and that’s precisely what persists through the rest of the tale. “We met at work; went to see “Dungeon One” and that was the beginning and the end of it. So, now I am alone and have to deal with it.”

 This is a short story? What can I tell her?

E-mail: “Hi Juleen, it’s brief but it has potential. You didn’t waste words with details except for your portrayal of the lengthy kiss. You stuck right with the situation. I suggest you try to figure out where this unhappy situation takes her; how it gets resolved rather than leave her at loose ends, rolling back and forth in her bed at night.”

“However, your piece did remind me of a couple who was sitting behind me on a bus a few days ago. They had newly met, yet it appears they were breaking up. She accused him of some aggressive physical behavior the night before. He said he knew it was a mistake and was sorry, but he added that the real issue was that she’s not his type: that is, in terms of personal appeal. Then, he weirdly added that she was too good looking and that frustrated him. Figure that out. He said, for some reason, he always did better with ordinary looking girls because their expectations were more realistic than the glamour queens. (perhaps there’s a story there for you to consider writing?). Keep it short.”

“Thank you, for sharing your creative instincts with me. I won’t be reading or editing literary pieces anymore, but I’m pleased that yours is the final one. I like ending on the upside. So, keep up the good work and be sure to send the drafts elsewhere – and remember; keep them short.”

Well, that took care of that and hopefully, of her. Now, it’s time to return to the street to finish a few errands: cleaner’s, butcher’s, bakery.

The next day: Doorbell rings.

“Oh, hello. Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I know you said it was the last time you would read something unpublished, but I was so excited by our meeting yesterday and the potential you indicated in your response that I wrote two more stories and I am asking you to please read them. I promise I won’t send you anymore.”

At that point, while we were still standing outside on the top step, two old guys walked by and I heard the shorter one say: ”Boy-Girl; what does it matter?” It made me think about all the gender talk surrounding a new-born. Certainly, there are a few differences in how you raise them but these days they aren’t so great, what with all the fairness that concerns us with respect to gender rearing.

Then, Juleen looked at me, quizzically, because of my attention-shift away from her to the passers-by. With a nod of apology, I got back on track – HER track and agreed to read her two short stories, which, upon completion, I would e-mail her my critique. She then handed me two copies; each one of which was on a single sheet of paper. I informed her that my response would probably arrive on her computer later that day. With that, she happily departed and I slammed the door behind me as I re-entered my civilized cave of deep thought

“Story” number one: “Freddy’s Tale”.

It was a full two pages long, about a former sailor, who, upon leaving the service, took up a quickly offered waiter’s job at a mid-town, mid-level restaurant. After a few weeks of service, he became attracted to a young woman guest who had sat at one of his service tables for dinner on two consecutive evenings. Foolishly, on evening three, at her request he joined her at the table and as their chat progressed – and I mean “progressed”, the owner walked over and informed him that he was being fired for converting himself into a non-paying guest and should pack-up his stuff in the kitchen and depart. With that, Freddy looked at his companion and she agreed to join him on exit behavior. When they got outside the restaurant, Freddy looked at her, with whatever meaning he could muster, and asked “what’s next?” She responded, glibbly: “since I was able to choke down my never-paid meal before leaving the place, there is no “next”. Thanks kiddo”. She then pulled out a dollar from her purse and handed it to him and said with a smirk, as she walked off: ”here’s your tip.”

And that was that.

Story number two: “Up There”

At last, after all these years, Rienna is on her way to Europe. She boards the slightly dated, oversized Boeing 747; slouches into her second-class window seat; closes her eyes and thinks to herself: “Switzerland! What will it be like?” She looks into her handbag to make sure she didn’t leave her Swiss guide book with her checked luggage. Nope; she has it. An elderly gentleman in his early 60s plops down in the seat next to her, causing slight discomfort, owing to his overly 250 pound frame. By profession, Rienna is a youthful gym trainer and accordingly, considers being overweight akin to living in mortal sin. However, she will now simply have to adjust to spending seven-plus hours packed-in next to a glutonous sinner.

Like other planes heading to Europe, Rienna’s crosses the ocean while she squirms around in a visually uncomfortable mode as a hint to her seat partner’s overbearing bulge into her turf. He doesn’t get it; so, she politely asks him to shift away just a bit. After a slight wiggle, He looks deeply at her and responds: “I hate you little Skinnys.” After that mini-squirmish, not a word passed between them for the remainder of the trip. The plane finally arrives at Zurich and lands smoothly right on schedule. (It is Switzerland, after all.) They exit the plane and enter the vast terminal greeting hall. Surprisingly, Heavy-Man runs up to her from behind and as he lightly touches her left arm, she turns toward him as he

says, with a friendly light touch! “lunch”? Of course, she is surprised but, at the same time, impressed that he now demonstrates a certain affability. So, she agrees to join him for lunch. At the table, he, (his name is Luke) eats a banana, washed down with a sugar-free ice-tea while Rienna, having by now fasted from physical nourishment for seven-plus hours, engulfs several oysters along with a ham sandwich and two beers, topped off with and ice-cream coated brownie. Luke, diplomatically looks deeply at her and whispers, “Welcome to the club.”

Did Juleen really write this? Not bad, I thought, while still puzzled by her brevity. But then, it suddenly struck me. OK, it is short to a fault but there is something about it that’s appealing. What could it be? Oh, my Heaven; who. would have thought? She puts into her writing the very thing my brain meanders about, morning, noon and night as I stroll about town, spying into others’ sentence fragments. However, unlike deficient me, Juleen doesn’t leave them hanging. She finishes them off. I waste time, speculating over their likely outcomes, while she gives them finality that adds purpose. Where’s the phone?

“Hello, Juleen? Can we met tomorrow for lunch – on me – I’d like to discuss your Plane Trip story. No, I’m not going to say whether or not I like it. Noon at the same place. Don’t over-eat.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright J.D. Fratto 2025