I wrote this short story as a Writer’s Digest competition. 700 words or less and must begin with the opening line of dialogue, “you don’t have enough points, sir.”

Non titled fiction

Written by James Michael Dawson

“You don’t have enough points, sir.” Will stared blankly at the empty wall just above a spent Budweiser, as the monotone voice of an Alaska Airlines phone representative explained to him his lack of frequent flier miles. Will slogs in a paced circle, desperate to get out of town on this sweltering August afternoon. Immediately attempting to use a rewards credit card applied for online seemed reasonable.

Arizona summer heat is no place for the weak. Will’s weather app reminded him just how miserable into the triple digits the Saguaros and Sonoran Desert rocks were taking it outside. His window mounted air condition unit was sputtering to keep it below 80 degrees inside his $500 a month furnished one-bedroom, in Mesa.

Will ends his ill-fated phone call, and slumps face first onto the glass tabletop, searching to find an ounce of coolness against his unshaven cheek. Dreams of the Great White North air encompass his thoughts just as he pulls open the top loading freezer door to stick his head inside. As bare as the Yukon’s most northern tip, the only thing surviving in this freezer is an empty Ziploc that once housed two trays of manmade ice. Will scrunches up the bag and tosses it to the back freezer corner in self-pity.

Dragging his feet across the floor towards the front window overlooking the community pool, he throws an angry glare toward the window air conditioner in the back of his disheveled apartment; he peels a slit into the blinds with a heavy, yet lazy hand. Will eyes the pool which long lost its refreshment quality. Sunburnt outdated lounge chairs line each side of the pool while an empty table with broken chairs completes the abandoned setting.

The hopelessness of the scorched earth outside is enough to draw madness. The eastern collared lizard must have evolved in this heat by running on its hind legs. “Where are they?” Will mumbles to himself, recalling the 8 a.m. to Noon window the DirecTV provider gave to reconnect his apartment to the community satellite. Will grabs the empty Budweiser can and discards it into the trashcan under the kitchen sink. Realizing he should recycle, he retrieves it, and tosses it into an empty, Safeway delivers, plastic bag; he hangs it by tying the two handles around the corner of the cabinet door hiding the trashcan.

With the 4 p.m. inferno hour approaching, the knock of a service professional finally penetrates Will’s frustrated ear drums. He flings the door open to find the stocky stature of DirecTV’s veteran installation man. He looks of someone who spends his off hours rolling 15 pounds of polyurethane down the lanes of Phoenix’s oldest bowling alley. Opening the door, a heat blast of distorted air smacks Will in the face, like an oven being cracked open to check on the Thanksgiving turkey.

Short of breath from the 60 foot walk and flight of stairs up to the apartment, the man enters the apartment lumbering towards the hall closet. He knows housed inside this closet is the gateway to resetting satellite for each apartment throughout the 35 unit building on the west side of town. Without looking, he reaches his arm inside, over used unopened Amazon Prime boxes, and clicks the unseen switch to the satellite. Tucking the switch back into its concealed location, he’s done under a minute, lumbers back towards the front door, and silently exits.

Too heat withered to investigate, Will powers on the TV, walks over to the fridge retrieving a Budweiser. Cracking it open, he takes a, long, slow nasal inhale from the mouth before pouring the contents down the kitchen drain. He removes a washcloth from its perch atop the faucet and saturates it with cold water, gives it a mild ringing, and plops onto the sofa in front of the TV. Searching, On Demand, he finds a bastion of hope to escape the sweltering world that exists outside his apartment. Placing the wet cloth onto his forehead, he presses play on the remote, Planet Earth “Ice Worlds.” His imagination transplants him from the desert into the Artic. Finally, venturing from his apartment in the way 36 years of agoraphobia prohibits.