I got to thinking about where I was on my writing journey in 2016. Here’s a little piece of flash fiction from that time.
Box of Teeth
My knees protest as I kneel behind a row of seats and reach under with my broom. I sweep a pile of trash into my dustpan and shake it to see what I’ve found. Two quarters, a wadded-up tissue, a wrapper from a cough drop and an oversized, lime-green earring shaped like a skull. I pick the coins out of the dust and drop them into my pocket. The rest go into the trash.
Always the same, every night. The show ends, the crowds leave for home or bars or restaurants, I’m left to clean up. Mostly I pick up barely-read programs that litter the floor, the names of the cast and crew forgotten in the wonder of the spectacle. My name used to appear in the programs. Never a star, just a starving young actress, but they said I had a future. Until the hit-and-run driver knocked me down and I smacked my head on the curb. I was lucky to be alive. Too bad I can’t remember things any more. Not lines, not stage directions, and sometimes not even the meaning of words. No more acting for me. The theater hired me to do the only job that didn’t require remembering words, just so I’d have something to do, and make a little money on the side. The government doesn’t give people who only worked a year much help. And so I stayed, forty years later, still cleaning, still poor.
Funny the things they leave behind. Once I found a paper tube that turned out to be drawings of a house. Another time it was a squishy plastic object they said was a breast implant. Why would someone bring that to the theater? Why does anyone bring anything?
I move on to the next row, only barely conscious of the shouting in the lobby and the whistles in the street. My broom knocks something out of reach, a metal box that slides along the floor under the row in front. No matter. It will still be there when I get to it.
Halfway down the row, I find a book. Foundations of Epidemiology. I flip through the pages, looking at the pictures. Something about diseases. But what does “foundations” mean?
“Hey, Sarah.” It’s my boss, Ellen, dragging a vacuum cleaner. “Have you heard? They thought the killer was here tonight. You know, the one who takes his victims’ teeth.”
“Is that what all that ruckus in the lobby was?”
“Yeah, they didn’t want anyone to leave until they checked their IDs. People were mad, I tell you.”
“I’m going to be mad if I don’t get done soon.” I turned back to the rows I had yet to clean.
“Look carefully, will you? The policeman said they are offering a reward for anyone who finds something, a picture, a clue.”
“If they want filthy tissues or unread programs, they’re welcome to them.” I stomp to the end of another row, and kneel to sweep under the seats. What did she mean by that?
This time I manage to retrieve the metal box. Pale yellow metal, with pictures of roses and violets on the top. “Maybe I won’t turn this in. The pawnshop might pay well for this.” It rattles as I struggle to pry open the lid
It was half full of small objects, irregular shapes, some yellow, some brown, others a gleaming white. Some had pointed ends, others rather flat. They looked familiar. “What do they call these funny shaped beads? Probably not worth anything. Into the trash for you, little beads. Too bad I didn’t find any photos, if that’s what they mean by a clue. Not worth worrying about. And what’s a reward? Most likely just more trouble.”