Three-Minute Shorts: A Collection of Really Short Stories

By John Nieman

An elegant blind man finds self-esteem in a glass of obscure red wine. A cross dresser discovers the perfect non-judgmental friend. A movie star look-alike must constantly live the role. An erotic baker faces her ultimate challenge.

    These are examples of the hundred very short stories in Three-Minute Sho

• Language: English
• Publisher: GoldTouch Press, LLC
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956803471

John Nieman

John Nieman, an accomplished artist and writer, has exhibited his paintings throughout the United States and in Europe. His first book of art and poetry, Art of Lists was published in 2007. He has published two novels, The Wrong Number One and Blue Morpho. In addition, he recently published a childen's book called The Amazing Rabbitini. Mr. Nieman lives in Dobbs Ferry, New York, and is the father of five children.

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Three-Minute Shorts

1.jpg

A Collection of Really Short Stories

John Nieman

Copyright © 2021 by John Nieman.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2021922883

Paperback:    978-1-956803-46-4

eBook:             978-1-956803-47-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Contents

Preface

1.    Are You Curious?

2.    Mika’s Missing

3.    The Feast

4.    Reunion

5.    The Icky Obituary

6.    The Real Winner

7.    Location, Location, Location

8.    McAttraction

9.    Everything Must Go

10.  The Pen

11.  Kick Me

12.  Room 451

13.  Blind Taste Test

14.  The Hard-Ass

15.  One Legit Gimme

16.  Not Her Pictures, Nor Her Business

17.  The Cobbler

18.  The Nonexpress Lane

19.  Someday, A Honeymoon

20.  Christmas Misgivings

21.  Crash

22.  Lights Out

23.  Joyride

24.  A Very Convincing Lady Liberty

25.  The Pedicab Union

26.  Timing Is Everything

27.  Jennifer Aniston Just Called

28.  The Pickup

29.  Curious Gumballs

30.  The Last Blast

31.  The Prospect

32.  Father’s Day

33.  The Odd Couple

34.  Pink Slip Friday

35.  Maybe Late Thirties

36.  Shooting the Squirrel

37.  The Photographer

38.  Chef ’s Last Meal

39.  Chloe Again

40.  Coach

41.  Two Different Worlds

42.  The Snow Sculpture

43.  The Taciturn Barber

44.  Forget about It

45.  Bumper Sticker

46.  Santa Fe Native

47.  Elevator Stall

48.  The Cast of Jackson Hole

49.  A Long Way Down

50.  The Generous Dead Ringer

51.  Not Another Doctor

52.  See As You Have Never Seen

53.  The Previous Owner

54.  Perfectly Pointless

55.  The Hot Mike

56.  The Deadly Python

57.  The Autoerotic Baker

58.  What Do You Think?

59.  Yacht Shopper

60.  Pink Carnations

61.  Will You Marry Me?

62.  Snowball

63.  One Magical Evening

64.  This Rare Porsche

65.  Neither Rain, Nor Snow, Nor Sampson

66.  The Last and First Night

67.  Honkers

68.  The Holy Rug

69.  Dear Lily

70.  UFO

71.  A perfect Noncaring Relationship.

72.  The Sure Thing

73.  The It Factor

74.  Ms. 5B

75.  Placebo Power

76.  Procrastinator

77.  The Long Haul

78.  Yes, There Is an Option

79.  A Real Christmas in the Carolinas

80.  Maze

81.  A Very Long Month

82.  Thanksgiving in London

83.  The Bully

84.  Always a Friend

85.  The Best Dancer in Harlem

86.  The Old Actor

87.  Happy Listings

88.  IOU

89.  An Expensive Mistake

90.  Lionelville

91.  The Hit

92.  Multitasking

93.  Small World, Maybe Too Small

94.  Exposed

95.  The Shoplifter

96.  The Worm Who Wished He Could Fly

97.  La Dolce Vita

98.  Maybe It’s Kismet

99.  Birth Certificate

100.  Silent Seduction

Acknowledgments

For Jack.

Preface

I admit to having a short attention span. I resist books that are over four hundred pages. I avoid movies that are more than three hours long. I could never attend a multiday cricket match.

Perhaps it’s a result of spending too many years in the world of advertising, where less is always more. More likely, it’s a function of the fast-paced world that we all inhabit.

I started this journey with a challenge to write a six-hundred-word story for a competition. It was so much fun. I wrote another, then another, then another. In short order, I became addicted to this genre and was soon amazed at how much could be communicated with so few words. My initial stories were sweet, but in the interest of representing a mosaic of human nature, I also explored the seedier side of life. Consequently, some are funny. Some are disturbing. Some have female protagonists. Others feature men or teenagers.

I have ordered them in a way that mixes the light with the dark. As a result, if you are shaken by one story, within about three minutes, you will probably be tickled by the next one.

Enough drumroll.

Enjoy.

1.

Are You Curious?

Claire was tired of waiting. For ten full minutes, she had coveted that seemingly occupied table in the Gotham Café. It was prime cocktail real estate in New York City, where one could be cozily ensconced in the warmth of this overcrowded bar, enjoy envious, hushed whispers from less-fortunate patrons, and have an unobstructed view of the human zoo that paraded down Lexington Avenue.

Admittedly, she was not alone in her preoccupation with this window table. Over the past seven minutes, three interested parties paused by it, looked around for the evidently missing customer, shrugged, and gave up on this ideal seating privilege. One was a power couple that resigned themselves to join the two-deep crowd around the bar. One was a Japanese twosome whose demeanor screamed tourists/visitors. They sheepishly wilted away into the corner of the busy scene, waiting for a nonexistent server. The third was a fiftyish literary type with a book in hand, who lingered for a full thirty seconds, before leaving the bar—an obvious misfit in a happy hour place.

The obstacle to the typical Manhattan squatter’s rights? An open newspaper, which filled the expanse of the small precious cocktail table. The unfolded tabloid sent every signal that the occupant was away for just a few minutes, presumably in the restroom. And just to make the setting all the more forbidden, there was a glass of amber liquor on ice, carefully placed on one of the stools.

A young Latino busboy, towel in hand, approached this most desirable locale and was ready to wipe it clean but paused at the open newspaper. The full glass of dark booze, strategically tucked on the adjoining seat, was the discouraging clincher. He curiously looked back toward the hallway and reasoned that the customer would shortly return.

By contrast, Claire had the advantage of observing the full ten-minute absence. With some intuition, she somehow believed that whoever had set up this tableau would not soon rejoin it. She was attracted to the mystery. Besides, she did want that damn tantalizing table.

She approached it as if she owned it. She picked up the glass of brown and smiled as if she recognized its code. Without raising an eyebrow, she placed it on one the few spare inches of the space directly across from her chardonnay. After settling in comfortably, Claire peered at the peculiarly placed newspaper.

It was opened to the personal classified ads, and there was one particular appeal with a small fountain-penned ink dot placed next to it.

Are you curious? Are you adventurous enough to read this? Are you tired of waiting for Mr. Right? Are you alone? If so, look out the window at exactly 6:45. I am shy but interesting and cannot stand the singles scene. I will be wearing a backpack and will look into the window at this table for ten seconds. If you are there, perhaps this is Kismet or at the very least, a memorable overture.

Claire looked. She saw the mystery man with the backpack. Rather than wait for her MBA date, Mitchell, who was invariably ten minutes late for these Friday cocktails, she winked at Mr. Personals Ad through the window. She grabbed her wine, his scotch, and walked out the door, briefly explaining to the maître d’ that they were going to have a smoke and come back.

They never did.

Eventually, the young Latino busboy cleared the table.

In time, it was filled with an overflow of patrons.

Inevitably, their ensuing evening was exactly as expected.

Happily, Claire’s was not.

2.

Mika’s Missing

The lifeless poodle rested without peace a few feet from the double yellow line on Judson Avenue. It was surprising to see a family pet crushed and slaughtered in this upscale neighborhood. It was even more jarring and disconcerting to know that it happened under the wheel of my Jeep at 2:00 a.m.

In my defense, the catastrophe was unavoidable in the midst of a blizzard, which had just recently blanketed a sheet of black ice. Rather than brake into an uncontrollable skid, I hoped the pooch would wise up and scurry for cover. Instead, she stared me in the face as my front bumper went thump.

I suppose the right and honorable thing would have been to trudge back in the snow and attend to the pet. After all, she was only a few hundred feet from my driveway. However, I instinctively knew the outcome and cringed at the thought of waking the Baldwin family in the middle of the night with their dead Mika shrouded in a blanket.

Instead, I decided that my morning walk would be the best time to discover the tragedy, along with an assembly of similarly shocked neighbors. If timed correctly, we could all grieve in unison and vent outrage at this hit-and-run calamity.

As I turned the corner and approached the scene of the accident, I was amazed to find nothing. No commotion. No weeping Baldwin children. No mangled Mika.

I paused in front of the Baldwin’s Dutch Colonial, just long enough to see Lynette Baldwin slowly open the front door and walk toward me with a pile of computer paper. As she neared, I could see that this strong single mother had been crying.

Is everything OK? I innocently asked.

Lynette shook her head and announced, Mika’s missing. She showed me the printout. It contained a picture of the pet poodle and the Baldwin contact information.

Missing? I hoped my reply didn’t sound too incredulous or incriminating.

Very missing, she answered after a deep breath. I had this sixth sense during the night that something was wrong with her. Call it mother’s intuition. So I got up and looked. At 2:10, I found her run over, crushed, dead in the street—right where you’re standing.

I took a quick step back, and a flood of conflicting information bombarded my brain. Did she know who had struck the dog? Had she seen the impact? Where was Mika now?

As if reading my thoughts, she answered, I wrapped her in a blanket and put her in the trunk, so she can be cremated by the vet.

The charade confused me. Why the flyers? I had to ask.

Emma and Riley are only four and six. They’re way too young to see their best friend mangled in the middle of the road. It’s just more humane to suggest she ran away. Perhaps after a month of not finding her, we can get a new poodle pup and call her Mika Jr. Then she composed herself and looked me in the eye. Some things are just better left unexplained, don’t you think?

Quite honestly, I couldn’t tell whether the directness of this question was another intuition, but I chose to respond honestly and nodded in agreement. I gave my neighbor a hug and said, How can I help?

I was wondering if you could drive me around town and help me put up some of these flyers?

Of course, I responded and trudged through the black ice up to my driveway. We should take my Jeep. It’s safer on these roads.

3.

The Feast

Does this dress make me look fat?

Not really, Tyrell honestly responded to his 260-pound wife. No, it’s all those extra pounds around your waistline that make you look fat, he thought. But he wisely decided to keep that little thought to himself.

I just want to look nice for our dinner tonight, Charmaine said.

And you do, the husband lied.

Every Wednesday, the couple joined their friends for a weekly night on the town. Why Wednesdays? Well, that’s when the restaurants featured the all-you-can-eat specials. Tonight would be Red Lobster’s turn for the calorie-laden roulette.

I am so damn hungry, Charmaine said as she wedged her way into the passenger seat of their Buick.

You should fasten your seat belt, the husband suggested.

I’m more comfortable without it. She smiled.

The funny thing is, Tyrell had always been attracted to oversized women. In his teenage years, he would go on the Internet late at night to view the soft-porn biggies.

The more the cushion, the better the pushin’, he used to say. But 230 pounds was his mental limit. And once Charmaine had passed that boundary, he started to become quietly critical.

At 250, she once commented that she could possibly have a thyroid condition.

Despite all my hard work, I can’t seem to shed these extra ten pounds, she complained.

A steady daily diet of Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s will do that, Tyrell thought. But again, he kept the critique to himself. He dutifully took her to the doctor’s, but no thyroid problem seemed to show up. The physician did suggest more exercise and a diet, but Charmaine ignored that advice.

When they entered the Red Lobster that night, their friends were already seated at a large round table—one that could easily accommodate many extra plates. Charmaine waddled through the aisle in front of Tyrell, and they joined their dinner partners. Without wasting any time, she took the menu and started perusing the nightly specials.

Are appetizers included? she asked the waiter.

Yes, ma’am, as long as it’s listed on the ‘all-you-can eat’ side of the menu. And it includes a selection of desserts too, the server added, sensing that perhaps she was in the mood for an extensive feast.

After their friends had ordered scampi and sole, Charmaine ticked off an assortment of deep-fried hors d’oeuvres and several entrees.

What are you in the mood for, honey? she asked Tyrell.

He held up his finger for a second and examined every page of the laminated menu. The man in the apron waited patiently. His friends held all conversation until he ordered. Tyrell finally decided it was time to speak up.

I’ll have the weight-watcher special, he said.

Really, Charmaine responded with some genuine shock.

I’m trying to lose ten or fifteen pounds, her husband admitted.

Probably a good thing. It’s about time, Charmaine privately thought. After all, her husband had begun to feel constrained in his size 52 suits and now tipped the scales at over 320 pounds. This was a good ten pounds beyond what she always fantasized a sexy man should weigh.

You sure you don’t want to start tomorrow? The sympathetic wife asked.

No, tonight’s as good a night as any, he answered. When the first courses came, Tyrell picked and munched away on his iceberg lettuce with lemon juice but completely coveted the popcorn shrimp and fried potato skin appetizers that had just been delivered to his wife, who incidentally did look happy in her green silk dress.

4.

Reunion

He had been the student council president at St. Thomas Aquinas High School twenty-five years ago but had completely lost touch with all his fellow students.

It wasn’t as if his admirers hadn’t made the effort to connect with him. Dozens had. But William the Dodger Montgomery had always felt superior to the townies that had elected him. Shortly after graduating high school, he attended Vanderbilt University on scholarship, secured a Wall Street job in New York City, and did his best to forget his Florissant, Missouri, déclassé roots.

In the ensuing decades since his high school commencement address (Explore every avenue, even the dark alleys), he had amassed millions. In the past three years, he had privately lost it all—thanks to overly ambitious Bernie Madoff investments, a justly deserved divorce, and the downturn in the East Hampton real estate market.

No one in Florissant, Missouri, needed to know about any of that. After all, he was still the fair-haired boy in his hometown and the local press. For all anyone knew, he was forever flush. And at this event—the twenty-fifth reunion of the graduation class—it would perhaps be a pleasing confirmation of his perpetual, privileged status.

He landed at Lambert Field three hours before the event and had reserved the biggest full-sized car from Budget rent-a-car and a suite at the Red Roof Inn. William the Conqueror looked forward to reintroducing himself to Patricia Foley, his widely envied prom date, and Cookie Garey, his pinned steady girlfriend of sophomore and junior years. It would also be nice to meet his football teammates and mix it up with the unknowns who secretly emulated him.

After a rejuvenating shower and a splash of Bulgari aftershave, he changed into his navy Armani suit and headed to the reunion at the airport Marriott. At the welcoming table, he found a clip-on ID tag that announced his identity. For a brief second, William wondered whether such a broadcast was at all necessary. But he decided that, given the passage of years, this sort of proclamation couldn’t hurt.

Inside the vast ballroom with a seven-piece band on risers, the room resounding with a very retro version of Jeremiah was a Bull Frog, William walked around the room with a Budweiser in hand, looking for familiar faces. There were none. Yes, some vaguely recognizable bloated bone structures—albeit fifty pounds heavier, with graying strands of comb-over hair, and pastel jumpsuits.

From a safe distance, he could overhear that they all seemed to know each other. Their kids had all attended St. Thomas Aquinas High, and many were now friends of this tightly connected alumni family. Several of the participants danced together. Most laughed. They shared common experiences—in some cases, dating back many months.

In absolute anonymity, William finished his rare Bud and unclipped his name tag. He surreptitiously exited the ballroom and drove his rented Taurus to the Red Roof Inn, where he opened his minifridge and poured himself more familiar Absolut vodka into a plastic glass from the adjoining bathroom.

Thank God, I don’t have to live like this, he told himself. Then he wept. He poured himself another vodka into the plastic glass, hoping that his overly extended credit card for this extra drink would somehow clear on his morning checkout.

5.

The Icky Obituary

Bridget Wainwrights had already begun