Flash Fiction
THE JOGGING ENTHUSIAST DEAN GRONDO
O
ne sunny Saturday morning, Dennis Turner exited his home on Magnolia Drive dressed in sweats, a Royals shirt, and tennis shoes. He strode down the four broad steps into the yard. It was a fine morning, nearly perfect temperature, with a nurturing sun tucked in a far corner of the light blue sky. He meandered off the pebbled walkway and onto the perfectlytrimmed fescue carpet. He verified that the ancient maple at the front of the yard had not spotted the immaculate lawn with sticks. Glancing back at the house, he admired the attractive colonial. He smiled, thinking what a fine property he owned. Dennis studied the quiet street and the neighboring homes. He was not a man who went out in public much. At least not like this, clad in running garb. Suddenly embarrassed over the bald spot creeping through his once thick dark hair, and his clothes and the hidden belly paunch, he fought the urge to go back into the house. He had once been thin and fit and he wasn't at all now. God, how he hated getting old. Dragging feet like a child, he forced himself to the sidewalk. There were people about and Dennis quickly scanned the neighborhood. He spotted Mr. Hamm's skinny frame balanced on a ladder across the way and Juliet Chambers in her lascivious outfit, bright pink today, scampering with her two daughters down the block. There was a mower going, the whir and whine peppering the air with inordinate mechanical sound. John Harper cutting that monstrous blue-green lawn; he would be at it all morning. Cheery voices rang out from the maroon house across the street and Dennis saw the Yaakov boys tearing after one another through the yard. The youngest boy had a toy the others wanted and they all had a shoving match around the concrete stoop. Then the three children sank down onto the steps and fingered the prize equally. The middle boy stuck up a hand and his yellow shirt sleeve fluttered. A chorus of tiny voices shot into the air, “Hi, Mr. Turner!� Thoroughly embarrassed, nearly mortified at being seen out there that way, Dennis tossed up a limp arm and studied the ground around him as if he were searching for sticks. When he looked up again, the boys were no longer interested in him. Dennis wondered why he hadn't taken the trouble to buy regular jogging clothes. There were plenty of places to purchase suitable exercise apparel, but his intention to do so had fallen into that pigeonhole of ideas that seemed only to fester with procrastination. And now he was standing out there in front of all his neighbors looking like a fool. An itch pricked at his hairline and he frowned.
He swiped a nervous hand at the perspiration that stained his forehead. It wasn't hot yet, he had not even left the yard, and he was sweating already. He wondered immediately if maybe he hadn't caught a bug somewhere and if he could be coming down with a cold. Huffing in a breath, he waited for a sneeze that wouldn't come. His face was warm though and there was that sweating. Wouldn't it be ironic if the first day he began his jogging routine he had a cold and the exercise landed him in bed? He would be sore and miserable and achy for an entire week if he did have a cold starting. The sensible thing would be to wait until this cold passed. His eyes roved around the bright green lawns and the pristine homes; a sigh came. It was a fine day for jogging. But Dennis was a grown man with responsibilities like work and bills and he couldn't afford to give in to his desire for exercise, not if it was going to land him in bed like that. Indecision gnawed at him and he wondered if he should go back inside. Or tough it out and risk catching pneumonia or God knows what? The choice was obvious and he reluctantly wandered back toward the house. There was absolutely no sense in risking his health. Or his reputation. Dennis would go out that very afternoon and pick up an appropriate outfit made especially for jogging. He wanted one of those wrist pulse monitors too, like all the serious joggers wore. Then, when he was healthy and feeling spry again, he would hurdle the gap from indolence to good health wearing respectable sports clothes. What had he been thinking about going out dressed like that, and on a day when he was suffering from a cold? He glanced at the lower windows of the house, at his kitchen window. That beige valence was drooping again. Maybe he would see about fixing the stubborn metal rod once and for all, since he had the whole day ahead and nothing much to do. There was a good idea. He hesitated at the steps. Here he was dressed outdoors and he was going back in. Now he would have to change clothes again with nothing to show for all that trouble. Spying a small twig next to the porch steps, he smiled. He bent and snatched it up. At least he had accomplished something that morning. Twisting the tiny stick in his hand, he went back inside the house.
Dean Grondo is an OTR truck driver. His work has appeared in Aurora Wolf, The Arcanist, and other publications. Dean's obsession for reading non fiction provides him with ideas for sci-fi stories.
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