flash fiction by lois chapin
The Invitation
I closed the moonroof and locked my car. We’d driven around Seal Beach forever looking for a place to park. Seventh time around the block, we found one right across the street from the apartment building. The sea breeze was cool on my face as I stared at the dining room table on the short, sloping driveway and the smoking Weber barbeque in the street. A broken pink barrette lay on the cracked sidewalk. Our young host in the MAGA hat stood in front of an open garage door draped with ceiling-to-floor, flapping flags: one Christian with a red cross, an American flag, and a Blue Lives Matter, Trump in 2024. I fought the urge to jump back into my car.
“You found a good one!” the young man said.
We waved hello.
He’d done extensive tile work in our bathroom and installed the walnut cabinets in our kitchen. He had a hammer. He was quiet and attentive to his work. The tall, straggly kid turned out to be a talented artisan. We referred him to friends.
A month later, he and his girlfriend invited us over for dinner as a “thank you” for all the work we’d given him.
He sat in the shadow of the umbrella over the exhibitionistic glass table, poking splintery skewers through the guts of curved shrimp. The cork and empty wine glass said he’d been at this for a while.
“Nadine’s upstairs,” he said to me. “Go on up.”
My husband winked, and I clomped up the peeling steps in my heels while the guys sat in the shade discussing the charring and smoking of carcasses.
The young lady with empty holes of regret on her face was mixing instant mashed potatoes in the kitchen. She pointed to a bag of broccoli. “Don’t know how to cook it, could you?”
When they had inquired about food preferences, my husband told them I was a vegetarian. To ease their bafflement, he told them I was fine with broccoli and extra corn on the cob.
Wash cut find a pan
add water search for a lid small talk
flame clean cutting board vaccination land mine
wait drain carry downstairs
exhale
We all sat and clanked a toast. The dog walkers gaped. The non-white neighbors averted their eyes. One couple with a stroller crossed to the other side of the street.
Appreciation is a gift. Service is a gift. Going out of one’s comfort zone to acknowledge another is a gift. Planning and preparing are each a gift. Creating a meal is a gift. Wanting to please us was a gift. My head wanted to receive their gifts. My heart choked on every bite.
They poured an expensive bottle of wine with the tri-tip and shrimp. The feast was a week’s worth of grocery budget. It was served up beneath symbols of persecution, treachery, bigotry, misogyny, hate, and white supremacy.
Would I have been silent if it was a Don’t Tread on Me flag? A Confederate flag? A swastika? There must be a line over which I wouldn’t’ve remain silent chewing my salad.
I see myself as a compassionate person. I don’t close my eyes to the suffering in the world. But I open wounds when I speak up. I tear the scabs off healing relationships. I rip apart the things I wish to join. I slash civility with my intentions for justice. I slit the throats of those I give CPR. I never bring together fairness and understanding. I take a superior stance. I can be a self-righteous bitch.
I searched for anything we might have in common.
The next day, I sent a thank you note. At least gratitude is a value we share.
Lois Chapin is a member of the LA Poets and Writers Collective in southern California. She addresses social justice issues and paradoxes of the human condition. Her book, Paddle to Paddle, was released in 2019. Her author page is amazon.com/author/loischapin. She’s been published in literary journals including Side-eye on the Apocolypse, Onthebus, and Secret Attic. Her Facebook page is @loischapinwriter. In her down time, she races outrigger canoes on the ocean.