21 Feb Short Story and Film – Kiko

TGIFiona



Fridays are always lousy, good-for-nothing days that just remind Francis Mooney that he is single and friendless. Well, if you count all of his social media friends, you might find one or two; but who wants to be friends with Pete, the creepy Starbucks barista that writes a heart on your coffee right before befriending you on Facebook that very same day? No. Just – No.



Fridays were simply the worse; just another reminder of the painful life of humans who lack a mate, a partner – a friend with benefits? Hell, anything will do for Francis at this point. Almost anything. Sorry, Pete.



It wasn’t long before a real plan showed up. These were the type of plans that Francis could really rely on, because every weekend his mother – who happened to be an event planner – made sure to use Francis as her very own helper.



To many, this was just a beautiful mother-son relationship, but for Francis this was just another checkmark in his mother’s child services case file of child exploitation. Francis received a beautiful donation of a Kidney back a couple years ago when he was ill. The donor preferred to remain anonymous, except coincidently his mother was hospitalized at the same time and is missing, well, a “fucking kidney.” It is impossible for Francis to really negate any help to his mother, who in the most angelic manner inquires for help on a recurrent basis.



“How bad could it be to piss out of a tube?” – Francis thought as he pondered the possibility of returning the kidney.



This reciprocal effect from that donation was really taking a toll. He decided he had had enough, but not before helping his mom one last time – after all, he wasn’t missing out on any plans. Except to maybe secretly binge watch “Trading Spaces” and imagine himself living with 8 cats and maybe two cockatoos that talk shit about each other. Perhaps one day he would be rescued by a handsome firefighter if he were to get stuck on his couch after growing into it from obesity overdose of years ingesting hot pockets and cherry soda, without ever leaving his house. Oh, the dream!



But for now, reality had to be dealt with and Francis had a bar mitzvah to attend with his mother. It wasn’t long before his mother stopped needing a strong had to carry things around and quickly turned to him for another task.



“Francis, get a hold of the caricature artist and tell her she can’t be drawing people with those prolonged noses. You know how the Jewish get very sensitive about that!” – said Francis’ mother.



“What the fuck, mom? Seriously.” – replied Francis, as he quickly realized his mom was about to bash his vulgar teeth into his throat, in public. So he scattered.



He came back to his mother only to find one last task. But not before sliding in his resignation from all things pertaining son-exploitation.



“Listen, ma. I think I will ta–” – said Francis before being interrupted by his hyperactive mother.



“Francis! I forgot to have you hand these balloons to the incoming guest! Quick! Go to the entrance and hand them their “welcome balloon” as they enter... DON’T FORGET TO SAY “SHALAMI,” FRANCIS!” – Screamed his mother, as Francis reluctantly walked away with 20 shiny gold-colored balloons.



Francis clearly knew she meant “Shalom,” but who in his right mind would try to correct a stubborn old Italian woman from East Harlem. So off he went to handout balloons filled with glitter.



In the midst of it all, he knew he just had to move out of that city. His daydreaming autopilot balloon handout mode was once again abruptly interrupted when a girl asked him if he was the party clown.



A little perplexed and naive, he replied with an obvious and redundant “No, I am not.” Just when he thought he was now moving onto the next guest to greet, the girl let out another comment:



“Your shoes say otherwise.” – the girl said calmly as she walked away.



Francis gasped and let out an uncontrolled “Bitch” that was whispered in the loudest non-whispered of tones. The girl didn’t hear it, but the next guest clearly did, as her face clearly denoted in awe.



“Sorry Madam, I just remember we had another party at the beach that needs a delivery from another employee.” – Francis said to excuse the obvious.



Francis mother arrived and quickly asked him to bring in the remaining balloons; they were going to be used as table decor for the cake.



The evening was so predictable and similar to all the others; filled with the mirage of an oasis of freedom in the not-so-far distance, only to be blocked by another request from the mother. Request after request, Francis just couldn’t hold it any longer and let out a big “I QUIT!” as her mother ordered him around. She froze and asked for a clarification. Francis quickly explained himself and left, only to realize he needed to wait for her to finish setting up her last piece so that he could leave with her.



“I need to get myself a car…” – said Francis as he sat in the entry stairs.



The door opened but Francis couldn’t care less; guest would have to just go around him to use the stairs. He was just too depressed to comply.



“Ahem! We need you to move, kiddo. I’ve got a wheelchair to lower” – said a raspy voice of an old man.



Francis turned around only to realize it was one of those old guys that goes around strolling his old lady around in his wheelchair and handicap-modified 1998 Chrysler minivan – so he complied. He got up and lent a hand.



The old man gave him thirty dollars for his effort and left in a handicapped-modified Cadillac Escalade.



“Damn. Shalom to you too, old man.” – thought Francis as he waved good-bye.



He tucked away the bills in his front pocket with a little pride for the deed he had done, when he heard:



“Geez, how long have you been standing here?” – said the girl.



She added, “I would be standing here too if they paid me in bills.”



“Rich clown, I am Fiona.” – said the girl with a smile as she extended her arm for a handshake.



“Fiona… I am Rich clown!” – said Francis, finally breaking into his first legitimate smile.



“But you can call me Francis.” – he added.



“Nah, I like Rich Clown better. Sounds like a rapper’s name.” – She chuckled.



Fiona and Francis went on to be great friends, as they happened to share many of the same tribulations in life. For Francis, it was the beginning of the best days of his life, as Fiona would introduce him to many great people who finally made Fridays a little bit better.



Just a tad better.