Saturday's Storyteller: "Sheila never knew what hit her until it was too late."

by Belinda Roddie

Sheila never knew what hit her until it was too late. Specifically, it was a chunk of cold ham, pulled from the refrigerator by her drunk and giggling friend Gerald, and it landed beautifully against the curve of her jawbone. Surprisingly, the impact left a stinging sensation on her skin.

She glowered. "Very funny, asshole," she grumbled, before returning to her can of cheap beer. It was growing lukewarmer by the second. Midwest summers did that to alcohol. This made the consumption of alcohol less appealing, and therefore Sheila became somewhat of a prude cuisine-wise until the cold autumn whirled back around.

The rest of the gang was outside by now, screwing around on their instruments of choice - a remarkable range of guitars, mandolins, bongos, and even didgeridoos. Hannah in particular growled on a harmonica that she had bought at, of all places, a bookstore. Bookstores had to have novelty items these days to stay afloat. Because who would want to buy a book instead of a mini Godzilla figurine?

Sheila followed a clumsy Gerald into the sticky August air. He was staggering by now, smelling of jack and pepper jack cheese and pork and just the faintest hint of cinnamon (he had spilled a whole container of it as he raided the fridge, where the flinging of meat product at Sheila's head was beyond unprecedented). His baseball cap was careening to one side, revealing the gray hair that had receded so far from his scalp that it was like his neck provided his do these days. He plopped down beside Hannah, who still squealed on the pathetic slatted metal, as Sheila chose a spare spot on a patio chair beside Alan, who played no music at all and couldn't even sing.

"What's with the red spot on your cheek, dude?" he asked, as Gerald tried to steal the harmonica from Hannah.

Sheila shrugged. "Asshole threw dead pig at me."

"Ah." Alan snickered. "Gerald does miss his baseball days."

It was true. Gerald had played in the minors for years before he had a horribly botched Tommy John surgery. Like most of the group, he was reaching his forties, prematurely gray, drunk fifty percent of the time, and living off an early retirement fund from his father. Thinking about it hard enough, Sheila realized that she wasn't exactly far off in the "pathetic life" department.

"Want another beer?" Alan asked. He was the youngest of the group, at thirty-two.

"Nah." Sheila reclined against the hard plastic backing of the chair. "I wouldn't mind a ride home later, though."

"I've got my truck," Alan offered. "You can even ride on the bed if you want."

Sheila was tempted. She scratched at her jaw and winced slightly. She never knew how much injury that cold ham could really inflict.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.