Episode #1: How Are You?

Episode #1, How Are You

“How Are You?”

Welcome to “How Are You,” which is the first episode of Genres Not Included, an experiment in flash fiction two writers chose to challenge themselves with. Joe Nelson introduced the initial Twitter thread. Each alternating quote is his. The others? Those belong to me, Eva Newcastle. Read the episodes as they unfold every Friday night. We publish them on the website the next day.

Good evening, world!

Tonight, from the depths of the POI Bullpen and the tumbleweed-choked American Midwest, @EvaNewcastle and myself are pleased to bring you the best typewriter improv on the planet! 

Two writers. One short plot. No plan. 

Eva? Take it away! — Joe Nelson, June 21, 2024

“He’s going to ask me for money. Or a smoke. I know this,” I thought. The old man with dreadlocks walked toward me, carrying a sign. He’s making eye contact. I avert my gaze and mutter and expletive under my breath. There’s no escaping this confrontation.

I was ready with the old “I ain’t got no cash” line when the old man stopped.

“Man, he said, “you shouldn’t have left her back on Clancy Street.”

My mouth was open. How the fuck did he know about what I should have done two years ago? Then I saw the word on the sign.

“HOW ARE YOU.” That’s what the friggin’ sign said. “How am I?” I thought. And where did this dude get colored markers? A chipmunk scurried over him last night while he slept. How am I. Do I answer? Where are my earbuds? Is there a Clancy Street in Chicago? 

“I don’t know what you mean,” said, confusion heavy in my brainpan.

“You know what you done,” he stated. “You know how you are.”

How am I, dude? Tired. And ready to get away from you an, moreso, from Fitch & Barcomb. The bag under my arm felt like a albatross around my neck. 

I scrolled my memory banks. Does this guy know me? And if so, how? Maybe he’s not some homeless rainbow warrior after all.

The atmosphere closed in around me. The crisp air was heavy.

He’s a plant.

Too convenient to bump into him outside the offices of the law firm that employed me and from whom I had just lifted five years of internal correspondence. 

They couldn’t have caught me already, could they? 

Did he have a phone? Was he going to alert them? 

How fast could I run? 

Get a hold of yourself and think. My thoughts were scrambled I eyed one of the fire escapes in the alley. Up?

Nowhere to run unless I jump. But then what? Head toward the tunnels? No. The exits were sealed long ago.

“I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

“You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. And neither would I.” The old man was suddenly dead serious.

“Back in New York. You remember my Lilly.”

“Oh, hell. He was no plant from the company. He didn’t care about the payday under my arm. He was here because I let her die.

I thought back to the Chelsea. Too much sshit always went down there. The Empire Diner closed, we followed them back to their room. I watched her overdose. I watched the man — younger then — beg us for help. 

That wasn’t my scene. I had a job to do, even way back when. 

Man. I knew the Jackson Park Express was coming, but I never heard it as I stepped off the curb. 

A million-dollar blackmail in my arms. One city bus with bad brakes. 

An old man walking away, his sign asking “HOW ARE YOU.”

How, indeed. 

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