Short Stories by Phoenix Hocking

This little story began as a 3-word writing exercise. The rules are these: Out of three random words, I must use at least one word in the first sentence and the other two (or variations thereof) in the first paragraph. After that, anything goes. The three words for this story were given to me by my new friend Steve Foster, and were: Care, Fix, and You.


“I could fix you, if you’d only let me!” Marla covered her mouth with her hands, as if to stop the words from escaping, but it was already too late. They had been said; couldn’t be un-said. She tried to recover. “I care about you; you know that.”

“Well,” Alan said, “how terribly co-dependent of you.”

“You know what I mean,” Marla replied. Lord, hasn’t all those years of 12-step meetings taught me anything?

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean.” Alan stirred his coffee and clanged the spoon against the top of the cup once, twice, thrice. “I know exactly what you mean. What you mean is I don’t have the brains God gave a turnip and I can’t possible make a decision like this on my own. That’s what you mean.”

It was early morning and the bus station was crowded with people; some homeless, some actually waiting for the bus. Marla and Alan were seated at the counter. Alan used a paper napkin to wipe up the drops of coffee from the counter.

Marla closed her eyes, weary. Why couldn’t he see it, dammit!

Alan’s life was a shambles; there was no other word for it. His third wife had just filed for divorce after finding out he had a mistress. The company for which he had worked twelve years had downsized, and he had been one of its first casualties. Last week, his son had been set upon in the subway and mugged, and didn’t want him to visit. And now this. Dear God, now this.

Alan had decided to move. A “geographical cure” in 12-step parlance. But Lord! He was moving, not across town, but clear across the blasted world! It was insane! Crazy! Dangerous, for God’s sake!

“Look, Marla,” Alan said, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I know you care about me. I know you may even be worried about me, but I know what I’m doing. You just have to trust me.”

“Dear God, Alan!” She cried. “But, there? Do you have to go there?”

The State Department had recently issued a Traveler’s Warning about travel to Mexico. The drug lords in the border towns were killing each other right and left, and Americans were sometimes caught in the crossfire. There were even reports of torture and beheadings of innocent American tourists. According to the United States, Mexico was not safe, not by a long shot.

Alan had come by this particular gig totally by chance. His job was gone; his wife was gone; his home was gone; his son refused to speak to him. What did he have to stay for? His 12-step meeting? He could find one of those anywhere in the world. Other than that, he had nothing and no one, so why stay?

He had been poking around on the Caretaker Gazette website when the ad caught his eye. Someone in Alamos needed a housesitter. He dug out a map and found Alamos. Located about 400 miles south of the border, it sounded like the ideal spot to clear his head and sort out his life. Alan answered the ad and was surprised when he received the invitation to come on down.

His friends, however, were aghast when he told them his plan.

“Are you crazy?” his friend Jeff had said. “They’re killing Americans in Mexico!”

Marla was more direct in her outburst. Marla could fix anybody, if they would just let her. This attitude was not one of her more endearing qualities, but anybody who knew her understood that she meant well. She just wasn’t the most tactful creature on the planet.

“Yes, Marla,” Alan continued their conversation. “There. From the people I’ve been in contact with, Alamos is perfectly safe.”

“Well,” Marla sniffed. “If you get killed, don’t come crying to me!”

Just then the announcement came over the loudspeaker. The bus for Alamos, Sonora, Mexico was ready to board.

Alan got up, gave Marla a hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Be well,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Marla hugged him back, hard. “Do that. You know my email address.”

Alan boarded the bus and Marla watched him find his seat and look out the window for her. She waved, then turned and walked away, unwilling to watch the bus pull away. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

Alan watched her leave, then settled back and smiled at his seatmate.

“Hola,” he said, digging around in his memory for some of his high school Spanish. “Como se llama? Mi nombre es Alan.”

 END