The Wrong Silent Type

by Todd Mercer

It takes a crowbar to pry more than a mouthful of words out of my sister’s new friend, Gene. I asked about it and he said, “I only talk when it’s important.” The apparent implication: the rest of us party-goers are sharing mindless chatter. An annoyed drunk guy grabbed a machete from his truck and slashed two of Gene’s tires to evoke a solid paragraph of feedback. Rather than cuss or fight the slasher, Gene set his drink on the porch railing, crossed the street and walked off through a corn field. My sister looked for him, but it’s dark now and still no sign, so he probably isn’t a future member of this demonstrative family.

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Todd Mercer is a regular guy who was nominated for Fiction and Poetry Pushcarts last year, but still answers his own e-mails anyway.