Short Story: CHANGE

The following story is a submission to an NYCmidnight short story challenge c.2023

At Midnight (EST) on Friday you’re assigned to group with a genre, subject and character to include and a limit of 2500 words and 8 days to complete the story.

In an effort to convince myself to write more, I’ve signed up for some of these challenges. One time I even made it to the second round!

Anywho, here’s the second short story I’m posting in this blog.

Thanks! Enjoy! Or don’t!

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________NYC MIDNIGHT SHORT STORY CONTEST 2023

(2500 Word limit)

GENRE: ROMANCE

SUBJECT: CHAIN REACTION

CHARACTER: SHUTTERBUG

CHANGE

 Change can happen in an instant. One second you’re sitting with your back against the wall, head down, holding an old paper coffee cup, begging for coins on the street and the next second you’re buying yourself a seat at the table. The former is where Jack currently found himself.

 Years of bad luck and poor decisions piled on and compressed him into this moment. He felt like a dry stack of moldy pancakes in an abandoned desert diner. He simultaneously longed to be seen yet hoped to be ignored. He wished that the passersby would notice him long enough to drop some spare change into his cup but at the same time he hoped they’d ignore his torn, worn out clothing and dirty hair and skin. He wasn’t sure he could get one without the other but then again he wasn’t sure about much of anything these days.

 Most people walked past him without acknowledging his presence except to ignore him sitting on the ground but he understood. On what grounds did he have to ask for their money? On what grounds except this cracked, concrete sidewalk.

 If and when he felt bold enough to look up, he’d notice people avoiding his eye-contact or cutting wide swaths around him. Again, he understood. Their shame was his too. Even more so.

  Whenever he was unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of his own reflection, he’d also avoid looking into the eyes. If he did, he would see someone he barely recognized looking back. Someone colder then he felt and harder than he was. His were the broken dreams of youth grown old.

 If he had lost all hope, though, Jack wouldn’t have bothered holding up a cup for change. He wouldn’t have bothered himself with the uncomfortable feelings that accompanied being at the mercy of strangers. Even when he felt like the strangest of them all, somewhere in him was still a bit that believed in life’s possibilities. Somewhere in him was everybody else.

 He watched shoes pass by and tried not to think of his empty stomach. The rhythmic tap of high heels ticked like seconds on his doomsday clock. The squeak of new loafers getting broken in on their way to or from a job interview sounded like the squeals of prey in its final moment. Running past him was the soft padding of athletic shoes designed to keep the feet moving. Away from problems and towards solutions. Just keep moving. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

 On the sidewalk, Jack is an island in a stream of people and every once in a while some water splashes up and leaves a couple pennies in his cup. The water keeps moving but he sits still, slowly eroding.

 It’s during one such thorough examination of neighborhood footwear that she steps into his life.

 He sees the dirty Chuck Taylor’s from several sidewalk squares away but doesn’t expect them to stop. He doesn’t expect anyone to stop. Ever. These sneakers, though, walk directly up to him and the wearer of the Chucks places a twenty dollar bill in his cup. His eyes widen and slowly but cautiously he looks up to see who has been so generous, or stupid. He’s not used to seeing paper money anymore and he’s not used to the wearers of the shoes stopping.

“Hi!” She says cheerfully. “I’m Jill.”

 He remains skeptical of her kindness and replies by saying nothing.

 She has an old film camera on a flowery strap around her neck. He recognizes the camera from his high school photography course. A Canon AE1. It’s not very often that people shoot photos on film anymore, he thinks. Usually they’re just taking selfies with their cellphones to show their “friends” online. Not that Jack spends any time online. The only lines he’s on these days end with a paper cup of soup in his hand or, if he’s lucky, a hard mattress under his sore back at the men’s shelter.

 “I’m looking for subjects for some portrait photography,” she continues, unperturbed by his long silence. “I couldn’t help but notice you over here.”

 He finds the second part hard to believe considering how for everyone else it seems quite the opposite. Yet here she is. Noticing. Smiling.

 “You’re so distinct looking.” She says and he wonders if that’s a compliment. “If you let me take your photo, I’d pay you,” she implores.

 He looks at the twenty dollar bill in his cup, then again up at Jill. Following his gaze she adds, “More. I’d pay you more. Keep that twenty. It’s for you either way, but I’ll pay you more if you let me shoot a few photos.”

 Considering she’s already paid him more than he usually makes in an entire weekend, he toys with the idea of saying no to preserve the semblance of what little dignity he has left. Ultimately he grunts and nods his head. His vocal cords are too dusty to do much more than that and he’d be kidding himself if he pretended to have any dignity left.

 “Great!” Her enthusiasm is enough for Jack to want to change his mind but he doesn’t. “You don’t have to do anything.” She instructs him. “Just ignore me as I try a few different angles.”

 She’s hard to ignore as she moves around, laying on the ground or hovering above him, sticking the camera in his face and snapping the shutter shut looking for the best position to highlight what had initially drawn her to him. He takes a page out of the public’s eye and does his best to ignore this stranger on the sidewalk.

 After a few minutes, she decides that she has what she needs, thanks him for trusting her and sticks a hundred dollar bill in his cup.

 Jack can hardly comprehend what has happened and before he can muster a dusty thank you with some eye-contact, Jill and her dirty Converse sneakers disappear into the crowd of busy ankles. He stares at his cup, overflowing with kindness and possibility and wonders what to do next.

 Rejuvenated, he picks himself up from the sidewalk and heads towards a local motel. He’s decided to prolong this new trend of kindness towards him and treat himself to a hot bath and soft bed.

 Back at the small apartment that Jill shares with a roommate, she unlaces and kicks off her shoes then heads towards the makeshift darkroom in the bathroom. As she begins the ritualistic motions of developing the film, her roommate talks to her through the door and reminds her that rent is due soon.

 Jill is surrounded by clothes-pinned prints of flowers, bugs, buildings and people hanging from shoelaces strung across the room. She mumbles, slightly embarrassed. “I may be a little short this month.”

“Again?!” Her roommate is upset but not surprised. “How much this time?”

“About 120 dollars?” Jill poses the answer like a question as if that might soften the blow. “But I’m good for it. I swear! I’m gonna sell some prints soon.” She sounds more self-assured than she is.

“Sure. Okay. Whatever. Just get it to me as quick as you can.” The roommate’s disappointment is palpable in her tone but Jill shrugs it off and returns focus to the task at hand. Unrolling the film negatives she catches the first glance of the man on the sidewalk and gasps. She’s done it. This is it. All of humanity’s dualities, contradictions and possibilities caught on film. She’s captured all of life in one distinct instant.

 Checking into the motel, Jack can tell that the manager is put off by his appearance but they agree to rent him a room anyway. Business has been slow and cash is cash, after all.

 Handing over the key, the manager lists a few amenities that the motel also offers and Jack’s ears perk up at the mention of a shaving kit. It’s been years since he’s shaved and, though it might take several more to get through his tangled beard, he gruffly asks for one anyway. The manager’s brow is slightly furrowed as they hand him two kits. “Just in case.”

 Several hours later, with his skin and beard pruned after the long bath and both shaving kits, Jack relaxes into the mattress. He rubs his newly exposed chin and ponders his good fortune. Not only has he been able to get a room for the night, but he also has enough money left over to eat all week.

 Leftovers. What a concept.

 Things might be turning around for him, he dares to think and allows himself some optimism. He drifts into a dream of Chuck Taylors and smiling photographers. Or was he drifting out of one? His day certainly seems unreal.

 The next morning, fully rested, Jack slowly makes his way back to the motel office to return his key. No reason to rush when there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to be except for here, now. The unhoused and Buddhist monks might have a lot in common.

 The manager isn’t at the front desk so Jack taps the bell on the counter. The door of a guest room opens and out comes the manager carrying cleaning supplies, wearing rubber gloves and a disheveled look.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” they grumble. “The only member of our cleaning staff no-called, no-showed this morning so I’m doing double duty.” Dropping their gloves on the desk they ask, “Checking in?”

“Um,” Jack puts the key on the desk. “Checking out.”

 The manager looks at him, confused until they put the pieces together. “Oh. My. Goodness! I didn’t recognize you. You sure clean up nicely!”

 Jack thanks the manager and, feeling emboldened by his fresh look, takes aim at a fresh start. He offers his services to the manager as a member of the cleaning staff.

 The manager scrutinizes him for a few moments before saying, “If you can clean rooms half as well as you cleaned up your appearance, you’re hired. Assuming you can start right away. I hate cleaning.”

 Jack answers by standing tall then picking up and putting on the rubber gloves.

 Jill is at the gallery opening for her latest work. She’s become quite the hot commodity in the art world since her photographs of Jack went viral a few years ago. Of course, she had never learned the name of her subject so she had titled the series of photographs, “HomeLess Is More”.

 The photographs of him and his deep, soulful eyes had such a magnetic draw that she’d sold every print she made at the local farmer’s market. One of the happy customers happened to be enmeshed in the top tiers of the city’s art circles and insisted Jill join them for lunch. This led to that and before long, Jill had submitted her photographs for review and gone on to be published internationally.

 When she had gone back a few months later to the sidewalk where she had met Jack, she was wearing the same dirty Chucks but he was nowhere to be found. Occasionally, she still detoured past the spot in the hopes of sharing some of her success with him but to no avail.

 As she was sipping her bubbly tonight and graciously accepting the compliments that the gallery attendees bestowed on her for the new work, she couldn’t help but think about the man who’s misfortune had garnered her fortune. If only she could thank him somehow.

 Lost in this thought, she was staring at the floor in the direction of the door when a man walked in. She first noticed his shoes and their contrast to his clothing. Chuck Taylors and a form fitting suit. Posture as strong as his chin, her eyes met his and she nearly dropped her glass.

 Time quit working, or at least went on break, as he made a beeline straight for her, never breaking eye contact. As he reached her, he held out his hand and said matter of factly, “Jill. Congratulations on your success. My name is Jack and I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

 Feeling a jolt of electricity as she shook his hand, she repeated his name softly. “Jack.” Then said louder,  “So nice to see you again. I hardly recognize you.”

“The years have been kind to me,” he admitted humbly. “All starting with the kindness you showed me those years ago on the sidewalk. I’d love to properly thank you. Perhaps I could start by taking you out for dinner?”

 Whether it was the champagne catching up to her or the absurdity of this surreal moment, but she blushed as she agreed wholeheartedly. They made plans for after the event and he meandered off to enjoy her work. The rest of the night, no matter who she was talking to or where he was in the gallery, their eyes kept finding each other.

 Later, bonding over dinner, they shared the stories of their lives since they had first met. She with her nearly overnight success which began with his photograph on the street that day. He working his way up the motel hierarchy until the manager, ready for retirement and enamored with his good ideas and work ethic, passed on ownership of the motel to Jack.

 They laughed together at their good fortune and the serendipity of their meeting. Even this second time around, he had coincidentally been walking past on his way to eat when he recognized her photo in the gallery window and had to thank her in person. Needed to.

 If she had never risked being overly kind to him, he told her, he wouldn’t have found his voice again. If he hadn’t allowed her to photograph his pain, she countered, she’d have never developed her vision.

 Growing close across the table and through space and time, they left the restaurant arm in arm. As they wandered down the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind except to stay in this moment forever, they passed a man on the sidewalk. He sat, slumped with an old, paper cup in his hand. A couple of copper coins littering the bottom of the cup. The man watched through jaded eyes as two pairs of Chuck Taylors walked up and stuffed some paper money into his cup. Surprised and confused but grateful, he looked up to thank the couple by giving them some eye-contact and a grunt.

“We see you, brother,” Jack told the man. “And don’t give up. Change can happen in an instant.”

(2500 Word limit)

GENRE: ROMANCE

SUBJECT: CHAIN REACTION

CHARACTER: SHUTTERBUG

CHANGE

Change can happen in an instant. One second you’re sitting with your back against the wall, head down, holding an old paper coffee cup, begging for coins on the street and the next second you’re buying yourself a seat at the table. The former is where Jack currently found himself.

 Years of bad luck and poor decisions piled on and compressed him into this moment. He felt like a dry stack of moldy pancakes in an abandoned desert diner. He simultaneously longed to be seen yet hoped to be ignored. He wished that the passersby would notice him long enough to drop some spare change into his cup but at the same time he hoped they’d ignore his torn, worn out clothing and dirty hair and skin. He wasn’t sure he could get one without the other but then again he wasn’t sure about much of anything these days.

 Most people walked past him without acknowledging his presence except to ignore him sitting on the ground but he understood. On what grounds did he have to ask for their money? On what grounds except this cracked, concrete sidewalk.

 If and when he felt bold enough to look up, he’d notice people avoiding his eye-contact or cutting wide swaths around him. Again, he understood. Their shame was his too. Even more so.

  Whenever he was unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of his own reflection, he’d also avoid looking into the eyes. If he did, he would see someone he barely recognized looking back. Someone colder then he felt and harder than he was. His were the broken dreams of youth grown old.

 If he had lost all hope, though, Jack wouldn’t have bothered holding up a cup for change. He wouldn’t have bothered himself with the uncomfortable feelings that accompanied being at the mercy of strangers. Even when he felt like the strangest of them all, somewhere in him was still a bit that believed in life’s possibilities. Somewhere in him was everybody else.

 He watched shoes pass by and tried not to think of his empty stomach. The rhythmic tap of high heels ticked like seconds on his doomsday clock. The squeak of new loafers getting broken in on their way to or from a job interview sounded like the squeals of prey in its final moment. Running past him was the soft padding of athletic shoes designed to keep the feet moving. Away from problems and towards solutions. Just keep moving. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

 On the sidewalk, Jack is an island in a stream of people and every once in a while some water splashes up and leaves a couple pennies in his cup. The water keeps moving but he sits still, slowly eroding.

 It’s during one such thorough examination of neighborhood footwear that she steps into his life.

 He sees the dirty Chuck Taylor’s from several sidewalk squares away but doesn’t expect them to stop. He doesn’t expect anyone to stop. Ever. These sneakers, though, walk directly up to him and the wearer of the Chucks places a twenty dollar bill in his cup. His eyes widen and slowly but cautiously he looks up to see who has been so generous, or stupid. He’s not used to seeing paper money anymore and he’s not used to the wearers of the shoes stopping.

“Hi!” She says cheerfully. “I’m Jill.”

 He remains skeptical of her kindness and replies by saying nothing.

 She has an old film camera on a flowery strap around her neck. He recognizes the camera from his high school photography course. A Canon AE1. It’s not very often that people shoot photos on film anymore, he thinks. Usually they’re just taking selfies with their cellphones to show their “friends” online. Not that Jack spends any time online. The only lines he’s on these days end with a paper cup of soup in his hand or, if he’s lucky, a hard mattress under his sore back at the men’s shelter.

 “I’m looking for subjects for some portrait photography,” she continues, unperturbed by his long silence. “I couldn’t help but notice you over here.”

 He finds the second part hard to believe considering how for everyone else it seems quite the opposite. Yet here she is. Noticing. Smiling.

 “You’re so distinct looking.” She says and he wonders if that’s a compliment. “If you let me take your photo, I’d pay you,” she implores.

 He looks at the twenty dollar bill in his cup, then again up at Jill. Following his gaze she adds, “More. I’d pay you more. Keep that twenty. It’s for you either way, but I’ll pay you more if you let me shoot a few photos.”

 Considering she’s already paid him more than he usually makes in an entire weekend, he toys with the idea of saying no to preserve the semblance of what little dignity he has left. Ultimately he grunts and nods his head. His vocal cords are too dusty to do much more than that and he’d be kidding himself if he pretended to have any dignity left.

 “Great!” Her enthusiasm is enough for Jack to want to change his mind but he doesn’t. “You don’t have to do anything.” She instructs him. “Just ignore me as I try a few different angles.”

 She’s hard to ignore as she moves around, laying on the ground or hovering above him, sticking the camera in his face and snapping the shutter shut looking for the best position to highlight what had initially drawn her to him. He takes a page out of the public’s eye and does his best to ignore this stranger on the sidewalk.

 After a few minutes, she decides that she has what she needs, thanks him for trusting her and sticks a hundred dollar bill in his cup.

 Jack can hardly comprehend what has happened and before he can muster a dusty thank you with some eye-contact, Jill and her dirty Converse sneakers disappear into the crowd of busy ankles. He stares at his cup, overflowing with kindness and possibility and wonders what to do next.

 Rejuvenated, he picks himself up from the sidewalk and heads towards a local motel. He’s decided to prolong this new trend of kindness towards him and treat himself to a hot bath and soft bed.

 Back at the small apartment that Jill shares with a roommate, she unlaces and kicks off her shoes then heads towards the makeshift darkroom in the bathroom. As she begins the ritualistic motions of developing the film, her roommate talks to her through the door and reminds her that rent is due soon.

 Jill is surrounded by clothes-pinned prints of flowers, bugs, buildings and people hanging from shoelaces strung across the room. She mumbles, slightly embarrassed. “I may be a little short this month.”

“Again?!” Her roommate is upset but not surprised. “How much this time?”

“About 120 dollars?” Jill poses the answer like a question as if that might soften the blow. “But I’m good for it. I swear! I’m gonna sell some prints soon.” She sounds more self-assured than she is.

“Sure. Okay. Whatever. Just get it to me as quick as you can.” The roommate’s disappointment is palpable in her tone but Jill shrugs it off and returns focus to the task at hand. Unrolling the film negatives she catches the first glance of the man on the sidewalk and gasps. She’s done it. This is it. All of humanity’s dualities, contradictions and possibilities caught on film. She’s captured all of life in one distinct instant.

 Checking into the motel, Jack can tell that the manager is put off by his appearance but they agree to rent him a room anyway. Business has been slow and cash is cash, after all.

 Handing over the key, the manager lists a few amenities that the motel also offers and Jack’s ears perk up at the mention of a shaving kit. It’s been years since he’s shaved and, though it might take several more to get through his tangled beard, he gruffly asks for one anyway. The manager’s brow is slightly furrowed as they hand him two kits. “Just in case.”

 Several hours later, with his skin and beard pruned after the long bath and both shaving kits, Jack relaxes into the mattress. He rubs his newly exposed chin and ponders his good fortune. Not only has he been able to get a room for the night, but he also has enough money left over to eat all week.

 Leftovers. What a concept.

 Things might be turning around for him, he dares to think and allows himself some optimism. He drifts into a dream of Chuck Taylors and smiling photographers. Or was he drifting out of one? His day certainly seems unreal.

 The next morning, fully rested, Jack slowly makes his way back to the motel office to return his key. No reason to rush when there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to be except for here, now. The unhoused and Buddhist monks might have a lot in common.

 The manager isn’t at the front desk so Jack taps the bell on the counter. The door of a guest room opens and out comes the manager carrying cleaning supplies, wearing rubber gloves and a disheveled look.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” they grumble. “The only member of our cleaning staff no-called, no-showed this morning so I’m doing double duty.” Dropping their gloves on the desk they ask, “Checking in?”

“Um,” Jack puts the key on the desk. “Checking out.”

 The manager looks at him, confused until they put the pieces together. “Oh. My. Goodness! I didn’t recognize you. You sure clean up nicely!”

 Jack thanks the manager and, feeling emboldened by his fresh look, takes aim at a fresh start. He offers his services to the manager as a member of the cleaning staff.

 The manager scrutinizes him for a few moments before saying, “If you can clean rooms half as well as you cleaned up your appearance, you’re hired. Assuming you can start right away. I hate cleaning.”

 Jack answers by standing tall then picking up and putting on the rubber gloves.

 Jill is at the gallery opening for her latest work. She’s become quite the hot commodity in the art world since her photographs of Jack went viral a few years ago. Of course, she had never learned the name of her subject so she had titled the series of photographs, “HomeLess Is More”.

 The photographs of him and his deep, soulful eyes had such a magnetic draw that she’d sold every print she made at the local farmer’s market. One of the happy customers happened to be enmeshed in the top tiers of the city’s art circles and insisted Jill join them for lunch. This led to that and before long, Jill had submitted her photographs for review and gone on to be published internationally.

 When she had gone back a few months later to the sidewalk where she had met Jack, she was wearing the same dirty Chucks but he was nowhere to be found. Occasionally, she still detoured past the spot in the hopes of sharing some of her success with him but to no avail.

 As she was sipping her bubbly tonight and graciously accepting the compliments that the gallery attendees bestowed on her for the new work, she couldn’t help but think about the man who’s misfortune had garnered her fortune. If only she could thank him somehow.

 Lost in this thought, she was staring at the floor in the direction of the door when a man walked in. She first noticed his shoes and their contrast to his clothing. Chuck Taylors and a form fitting suit. Posture as strong as his chin, her eyes met his and she nearly dropped her glass.

 Time quit working, or at least went on break, as he made a beeline straight for her, never breaking eye contact. As he reached her, he held out his hand and said matter of factly, “Jill. Congratulations on your success. My name is Jack and I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

 Feeling a jolt of electricity as she shook his hand, she repeated his name softly. “Jack.” Then said louder,  “So nice to see you again. I hardly recognize you.”

“The years have been kind to me,” he admitted humbly. “All starting with the kindness you showed me those years ago on the sidewalk. I’d love to properly thank you. Perhaps I could start by taking you out for dinner?”

 Whether it was the champagne catching up to her or the absurdity of this surreal moment, but she blushed as she agreed wholeheartedly. They made plans for after the event and he meandered off to enjoy her work. The rest of the night, no matter who she was talking to or where he was in the gallery, their eyes kept finding each other.

 Later, bonding over dinner, they shared the stories of their lives since they had first met. She with her nearly overnight success which began with his photograph on the street that day. He working his way up the motel hierarchy until the manager, ready for retirement and enamored with his good ideas and work ethic, passed on ownership of the motel to Jack.

 They laughed together at their good fortune and the serendipity of their meeting. Even this second time around, he had coincidentally been walking past on his way to eat when he recognized her photo in the gallery window and had to thank her in person. Needed to.

 If she had never risked being overly kind to him, he told her, he wouldn’t have found his voice again. If he hadn’t allowed her to photograph his pain, she countered, she’d have never developed her vision.

 Growing close across the table and through space and time, they left the restaurant arm in arm. As they wandered down the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind except to stay in this moment forever, they passed a man on the sidewalk. He sat, slumped with an old, paper cup in his hand. A couple of copper coins littering the bottom of the cup. The man watched through jaded eyes as two pairs of Chuck Taylors walked up and stuffed some paper money into his cup. Surprised and confused but grateful, he looked up to thank the couple by giving them some eye-contact and a grunt.

“We see you, brother,” Jack told the man. “And don’t give up. Change can happen in an instant.”