Coconut Water Blue Balls (by Rigel Bricken)

In your most vulnerable times, you seek out, and will hopefully secure, coconut water.

If you’re cursed you will only find it in a carton with a screw top nozzle.

You see, there comes that moment when you go to devour the last gulp, but the carton remains deceivingly heavy when the last drop comes out. And when you shake it to investigate, confused, the last sip’s worth of remnants splashes rebelliously against the insides of the carton, mocking you.

And so you carry on, thwarted, brooding over your desperate circumstances and all the flawed and prohibitive designs around you.

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Motel Closed

Even the car is waddling along after Thanksgiving dinner. I ease it into the motel parking lot, where there are actually quite a few people out.

The lobby door is locked. There’s a hastily typed sign: “Motel closed. We are going home to be with family. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Back in the car, I relay the news to my wife and kids.

“Where will we sleep?” she asks.

“I have no idea.”

On the one hand, you have to admire the guy’s priorities. But looking around at the people shivering, worried, you get to wondering about his choice.

Miami Departure

“Nope, never been to Miami before.”

“What brought you here? Work?”

“My younger brother lives here. He called me a week ago to say he’s dying. Cancer.”

I blinked. The flight attendant walked by, explaining the oxygen masks.

“Yeah, everyone flew out to visit him, say our goodbyes.”

“He’s still -”

“Alive? Yeah. Has maybe three weeks, who knows. This is the last time I’ll see him.”

Blink. “How’d that go?”

“He’s the same prick he’s always been, ha. But we made our peace. My conscious is clear.”

“So you’re never gonna come back to Miami, are you?”

“No sir.”