Saturday's Storyteller: "Every time Clarence looked in the mirror, his reflection was smoking a cigarette."

by Belinda Roddie

Every time Clarence looked in the mirror, his reflection was smoking a cigarette. When he looked at his reflection in the lake, he was wearing a fedora and trench coat. So he took it upon himself, personally, to buy a fedora and trench coat from the thrift and start a heavy nicotine habit.

By the time he turned twenty-eight, his reflection's hairline was starting to recede. This was not a trait he wished to copy, so he bought several bottles of Rogaine to the point that he spent approximately two hundred dollars a month on it. This certainly did not help his wallet, so he switched to e-cigarettes.

Ten more years rolled by, and when Clarence put his fedora and trench coat on the couch and went to the mirror, he found himself holding a child. He could not tell if the baby was a boy or a girl. He was not married, nor had he planned to be. He also had only had sex with one woman in his life, and the condom had definitely not broken.

He maneuvered cautiously after that reveal, and when he was sitting at the bar on the corner of Fifth Street, he saw a middle-aged bartender, thick curly blonde hair and full pink lips, walking toward him.

"Clarence Ford."

"Jessie Bingham."

"How's life treating you?"

"Decently."

"What's with the fedora?"

"Fashion change."

"Why are your teeth so yellow?"

"I plan to die at the age of fifty-six."

She poured him a glass of Jameson and it looked yellow in the light. Clarence pushed the brim of his hat back slightly to scratch at his forehead. While his hair remained thick, it was turning gray quickly.

"You remember twenty years ago."

"I do."

Jessie sneered. "Your daughter wants to meet you."

Clarence stiffened.

"She has a child now, too, you know. Named him Terrell. After her stepfather."

"You never told me."

"Wasn't worth the effort."

"You never told me."

He stormed out of the bar and tried to enjoy his e-cig, but he wound up tossing it in the garbage. He asked a nearby beer belly for a real stogie and smoked it so quickly that his eyes turned red. He put the burning stub out in his fedora and left it smoldering on an outside table. Then he handed his trench coat to a homeless man  on the curb with one of those "ironic" signs and walked home, dumping every bottle of Rogaine down the drain once he made it to the bathroom.

In the reflection with his grandson, he was still balding.

At least Clarence had a nicely shaped head.

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.