Writer’s Digest 93rd Annual Competition Humor First Place Winner: “Imperfect Endings”
Congratulations to Judith Carlough, first-place winner in the Humor category of the 93rd Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. Here’s her winning story, “Imperfect Endings.”
Imperfect Endings
by Judith Carlough
Merry smelled the salt air even though the Boston Excelsior Hotel blocked her view of the harbor. She stepped from the limousine and a valet rushed to open an umbrella against the drizzle, but it jammed, forcing Merry to quick-step toward the hotel’s high canopy, her curls accumulating a sheen of droplets.
“Probably a goddam omen,” she muttered. Her phone rang. The ID showed her business partner and Merry answered, “I hate you.”
PK Diamond laughed. “Don’t blame me ‘cause you lost the bet,”
“I’m never, ever playing Truth or Dare with you misfits again”
“Tonight will be fun,” PK insisted. “Your date only has to last one hour.”
“It’ll be fun when I’m back at the Ritz, ransacking the minibar.”
“Don’t forget pictures,” PK said in her sing-song voice.
Merry disconnected. The game of Truth or Dare had taken place at a rum-fueled
senior management conference in the Bahamas. Merry lost by refusing to share details about her over-the-top college romance, now two decades past. For the dare, Merry had to register on Blissful.com, so the management team could match her with a date. Tonight was the payoff.
The lobby’s Balls and Pucks sports bar hummed with congeniality. Merry found two empty stools, ordered a glass of French wine, and gazed at photos of Boston celebrity athletes. She wondered how many of them were in town for tomorrow’s big autograph show at the Seaport Convention Center.
Merry’s wine arrived. She took a dainty sip and scrolled emails.
“Uh, hi. Are you Mary? Like the Virgin?” a scratchy voice said.
“Actually, I’m Merry like the Wives of Windsor,” she replied.
His expression went blank. He was short, wore a sweat-stained Patriots hat, and reeked of tobacco. His teeth were as orderly as dominoes spilled on a table, nothing like his Blissful.com photo.
“Never mind,” Merry said. “You’re Francis?”
“Call me Francie.” He slung his cheap windbreaker onto the bar. “Gotta hit the can, y’know, make room for the beer.” He laughed nervously and vanished.
Merry took a deep hit of wine and texted PK, Game on, start clock, nightmare scenario.
A second voice came from behind, startling her. “If I knew I was gonna get this lucky, I woulda bought a Powerball ticket.” A tall, muscular man slid onto the empty bar stool. “How’d you find me, babe?
His deep, purring voice wrapped Merry like a full-contact slow dance. “Hello, Gregory,” she said. “Actually, I thought you were in Key West.”
Greg Jericho looked like he could still take the field for the Green Bay Packers as the all-star wide receiver he had been. His grin tilted higher to one side. “You didn’t come to see me?” He clutched his chest. “I’m crushed.” He leaned in for a smooth, easy kiss. “PK set me up to do the show a couple days ago. She didn’t tell you?”
“I flew up from Manhattan today, and PK sometimes omits details,” Merry said, thinking, This is an ambush.
“Join me?”
“I’m meeting someone. See you at the show tomorrow.” Merry smiled, bright and false as a beauty queen. She urgently needed Greg to disappear.
He gently massaged her thigh. “Join me later?”
Merry’s heartbeat accelerated.
“Holy shit! It’s you, Getaway Jericho! No friggin’ way!” Francie had reappeared “Wow, I’m like your biggest fan, bro.”
To Merry’s utter horror, Francie improvised a play-by-play of Greg Jericho’s famous miracle fingertip catch that won the 2003 Gator Bowl for Boston College. Francie promptly made it worse by removing his filthy hat for Greg’s autograph.
Greg politely complied, then said, “Thanks for stopping by, man, but I’m catching up
with a friend.”
“She’s my date,” Francie said enthusiastically. “This is wicked awesome. I gotta get a
picture.” He shoved his phone at Merry. “D’ya mind, sweetheart?”
Seeing Merry’s extreme discomfort, Greg beamed. “I’d love to.” He stood, rising a foot
above Francie.
Merry threw Greg a warning look, then clicked a single picture, hoping it was blurry.
Greg waved Francie onto the barstool. “Been together long?”
“Nah, it’s one of those online, one-night hook-ups. No biggie.” Francie said.
Greg gave him a knowing, macho thumbs-up.
Merry prayed for a stroke.
“Well, enjoy your evening.” Greg stepped behind Francie and mouthed, Later, then went to a table filled with guys Merry didn’t recognize.
Francie texted the photo non-stop while rambling about meeting the Greg Jericho. Finally, he asked, “How d’you know Getaway?”
“We dated in college,” Merry said.
“Whoa, I’m dating Getaway Jericho’s main squeeze from BC?” Francie fist-pumped
twice. “Man, the guys at work are gonna freak out.”
“Tell me about your work. You mentioned investments, on Blissful.com?” Merry was desperate for a new topic.
Francie went still as a kid caught stealing candy. “Uh, I don’t exactly work in investments yet. I’m takin’ online classes, y’know, to get credited.”
“Oh? So, what’s your work now?” Merry sensed she wouldn’t like the answer.
Francie found the windbreaker and pointed to a logo, Bucky’s Auto Repair. “I’m chief mechanic.”
“Always good to be chief.” Merry’s sarcasm leaked through.
“Nothin’ wrong with being a mechanic,” he said, belligerent. “It’s an honest job.”
More honest than your Blissful.com profile, Merry wanted to say. Instead, she got up.
“Excuse me, got to hit the can, y’know, to make room for the Bordeaux.”
“Bored who?” Francie said. “Is that a dig?”
In a stall, Merry read PK’s latest text: Tik tik tik, 45 mins to go. Merry didn’t reply.
Greg had texted twice. When’s the engagement? came first, followed by a video
of Francie gesticulating like a madman as Merry gulped wine.
She replied, Delete, if you value your manparts, then sat for a moment considering how to salvage this train wreck of an evening. Only one answer came: she called the limo driver and asked for a pickup in five minutes.
Back at the bar, Merry forced another smile. “Sadly, I have to cut our evening short. Business emergency. It was a pleasure.”
Francie looked panicked. “You leaving?” he asked through a mouthful of complimentary bar snax that had left a toxic orange smudge on his chin.
Merry nodded, gratified by his disappointment.
Francie swallowed hard. “Did ya pay for your wine? Y’know, ‘cause Blissful.com says chicks pay for themselves.”
Across the room, Merry saw Greg smirking at her. She slapped a twenty on the bar. “I can’t think of when I’ve had a more memorable…” Merry consulted her watch, “…nineteen minutes.”
Francie swiveled to face her. “Bitch. I bet Getaway dumped you at BC, but you’re still hot for him, and I’m here to make him jealous.”
“What?” Merry stammered. “You’re here because I lost a bet, pal, and I’m not hot for Greg Jericho, I’m his agent. Merry Moretti.”
Most folks had heard of the East Boston native who had built the world’s largest sports marketing agency. Global Team Moretti set staggering contract records for their stable of MVPs, hall-of-famers, and Olympians.
Francie gasped. “You’re Merry Moretti? I’m havin’ a date with friggin’ Midas Merry?”
“Had a date.” Merry bolted.
“Hey, how about gettin’ me face time with Gronk?” Francie yelled.
Outside, Merry waited for the limo and texted PK: Mission aborted. U win again. Dirty trick using Getaway. When she heard footsteps closing in, she envisioned Francie-turned-lunatic and twisted sharply, holding her purse like a shield.
Greg’s lopsided grin was wider than a slice of cantaloupe. “He’s quite a catch, babe.”
Merry held up a hand. “No more tonight. You can resume humiliating me tomorrow.”
Greg put his arms around her. “Let me walk you to your backseat.” His deep kiss and the sea air brought back memories of Cape Cod nights on Greg’s sailboat. Merry felt everything south of the border heat up until her smarter self remembered the downside of loving Greg Jericho. The nickname “Getaway” wasn’t limited to his talent for breaking free as a wide receiver, it applied equally to the ladies in his life. In Merry’s case, he’d slipped from her dorm room to other women’s—eluding detection.
Merry broke away. “Tomorrow.”
Greg smiled and sauntered back to the entrance, his gait marred by a hitch on the left side, a lifetime souvenir of the NFL.
The potent chemistry of the kiss faded as the limo pulled up twenty feet ahead. Stepping off the curb, Merry’s foot landed on something squishy.
A revolting odor defiled the misty air.
Dog shit.
Merry stepped gingerly away and hopped to remove the shoe, which she held with two fingers.
A belly laugh split the night and she saw Greg doubled over.
The driver deposited the offending shoe into a plastic bag, then slammed it into the trunk.
Merry flipped Greg the bird, which only made him double over again, and settled into the velvety backseat, just as a text pinged from PK: Best time ever?
Merry responded: Imperfect ending. Deets later.
The limo drove off.