fiction – SaaS Onboarding Storyteller

Bella’s Very Last Attempt

Regardless of how many mariachi bands Hancho might hire, Bella knew her time with him was nearing its end. In the days that followed, he returned to his grumpy self. The dinners were no longer heavy spreads of flautas, fried plantains, and sangria.

Hancho grilled chicken or steak without seasoning and served it with cold salsa. He cracked bottles of beer and burped between bites. Despite his ever-bulging biceps, the man had lost all attraction for her.

Bella felt like a kept woman. She gave him one last test by hopping on Etsy and buying this gorgeous silk slip dress in burgundy. She wore it at dinner, hoping Hancho’s eyes would finally turn toward her as tears slid down her cheeks.

Listening to Hancho’s endless exercise routines made her sick. What about gazing at her once in a while? Asking about her day?

Bella tried three solid nights to connect with him. She cleared her throat, yet he spoke over her. She let him fondle her nipples while she talked about a new piece of gym equipment, but she might as well have been cloaked in armor.

On her final testing night, Bella broke down in tears. Hancho kissed her on the cheek, skipped to the bedroom, and shut the door. He might as well have buried her in that silk dress, spit on the tomb, and cursed her name for the rest of his life.

Bella had no choice but to form a new plan. One that will be revealed in the next post.

There’s an alluring piece of wardrobe made purely of silk. Should you use that link, I will be offered a few coins strictly for my amusement.

Hancho Steps It Up?

Just when you think you’re about to move in one direction, life has a funny way of asking, “Are you sure?”

Bella was almost certain she was going to leave Hancho. Her bags were packed. The costume was tucked neatly at the bottom. She even bought this gorgeous canteen, thinking she’d be living in the woods for months.

Lo and behold, Hancho came home one evening with a dozen balloons, a Mexican meal from Bella’s favorite restaurant, and a mariachi band. One of Bella’s favorite servers showed up to help. Hancho lit candles, dressed like he was going to a job interview, and waited for Bella to return.

At 7:30 p.m., Bella walked through the door and froze, wondering if she had entered the wrong apartment.

“Come in, come in,” Hancho shouted over the mariachi band.

“What’s this for?” Bella blushed.

“You’ve done so much for me, baby. You took a job so I could spend time at the gym. It’s time I pay you back. Sit down. I have wonderful news.”

Those three-plus hours he spent at the gym every day had caught the owners’ attention. They decided Hancho could be more than a patron. They hired him as a full-time trainer.

“So does that mean you’ll be spending more time at the gym?”

“Not necessarily.” Hancho took a sip of sangria. “I’ll be training with clients. You and I will get home from work around the same time.”

They toasted to Hancho’s new job. They ate, laughed, and giggled as if they were just meeting for the first time. The sangria kept flowing. Four pitchers later, everyone, including the mariachi band, was drunk.

Their server crashed on the couch. The band stumbled out of the apartment and nearly fell down the stairs.

As Bella’s vision spun in circles, she lay in bed listening to Hancho next to her and the server on the couch, both snoring like an entire forest being leveled. Before drifting off to sleep, Bella mumbled, “What the fuck am I doing?”

By the way, if that leather-wrapped canteen I mentioned earlier caught your eye, there’s a link above. If you pick one up, it throws a little change my way. Just promise me you’ll fill it with water, not sangria.

Protection

Bella dreamed she had morphed into a butterfly. She flitted among the daisies, sipping their nectar. With her butterfly friends, she drifted up to a branch high in the trees. They shared their day’s collection of nectar, getting slightly intoxicated, until…

Bam!

Hancho slammed the bedroom door. Bella jolted awake, half-expecting him to fling her across the room.

“Damn cats,” Hancho muttered.

“What cats?” Bella’s eyes stung. She needed at least three more hours of sleep.

“Outside. You didn’t hear the commotion?”

Bella shook her head.

Hancho groaned as he undressed. His once-appealing muscular body now reminded her of a medieval knight, except instead of armor, he wore freckled flesh.

“You got work tomorrow,” Hancho hissed. “In the bed now.”

Bella crawled under the covers, but she lay awake. As Hancho’s snores filled the room, she thought about that wool sweater, how it disguised her, but didn’t necessarily keep her safe.

She carried a can of mace, but it didn’t feel like enough. Guns were bulky, and illegal in New York.

Knives though. Or better yet, one simple pocket knife. Perfect. Bella grabbed her phone, searched the internet, and stumbled across this gorgeous one. She didn’t think twice. She made the purchase.

As she drifted back to sleep, she reminded herself that the knife was just in case. Hopefully, she’d never need to use it, other than to open packages, cut twigs (if she ever went camping, which she knew she eventually would), or slice a hunk of bread from a loaf.

There’s an affiliate link above. Should you purchase it, earnings will come my way. More importantly, may you use that knife in the most ethical way possible.

Be Gone, You Awful Entities?

There are some days when I just want to disappear. Close off the world to every entry to me. I’d retreat to an area with little to no cell reception. Toss all my belongings into a bag just like this.

There would be only two people who would lay eyes on me: the corner store clerk and the librarian. They would see me as the quiet, bearded man. Yes, in this fantasy, I happily threw away all my razors.

“He just shrugs, grunts, and occasionally grins,” they’d say about me.

I’d read so much that the librarian would be forced to update their collection. Eventually, all the wisdom would mount that I’d feel a need to share it with others.

But since I’m not there, I’ve got Bella to share her stories. It often feels like the universe has handed me a living, breathing, yet slightly needy book. One that’s warm and a damn good cuddler. One that needs food. Shelter. Protection from Hancho.

The DIY entity removal process didn’t work in Bella’s favor. She still awoke in the middle of the night with panic. Trembled hours before Hancho returned home. Fell asleep in a work meeting — can’t blame her for that one.

New York City is outnumbered by shaman types. Lots of them are frauds. Bella researched fifty of them and found one that most resonated with her. It was a grown Jewish man who called himself Shadowfeather. He listened to Bella, tuned into her energy, and then suffered a violent three-minute coughing fit.

Upon regaining composure, Shadowfeather said, “You have zero entities, darling. Whatever work must have cleared you. However, the issue is this Hancho person. Run. He wishes to enmesh himself with you. Weaken you. Hide his manipulative tactics by calling it love.”

Shadowfeather proceeded to list domestic violence shelters, but Bella assured him she didn’t need it. She’d get out fast. He almost didn’t let her leave, then remembered his role: shaman, not Bella’s poppa.

In the next episode, we’ll see how long it took Bella to follow Shadowfeather’s advice.

Above is an affiliate link. Click on it, purchase the lovely bag, and I will earn a few purchasing tokens, otherwise known as money.

Doug’s Funhouse?

Doug’s Funhouse sounds like the title for an orgy porn. Guarantee you, it’s not.

He’s away on a reunion with old friends…literally. Doug might be the youngest one in attendance.

While he’s away, Doug wants to assure his plants stay alive. Why he asked me to tend to his plants is beyond me. One plant, resembling a young money tree, took a turn for the worse. Its leaves were bright, dark green when Doug first left. Three days later, they’ve browned.

There was a time when I thought I had a green thumb. Tended to a few gardens where cucumbers exploded to the hundreds. But isn’t that what cucumbers do?

Getting back to this funhouse concept, I was tempted initially to tidy his entire home. Everything similar would go into their own separate boxes. As I counted the number of categories of things Doug owned, I would buy Walmart out with all their plastic boxes. I’d still run short and then have to take a trip to Staples. No…thank…you

Organizing another person’s crap is no fun, anyhow. So, I sat on Doug’s massage chair, blasted Lonesome Doves, and pretended to be an eighty-two-year-old kleptomaniac. The vibration of the chair was so fierce, I couldn’t hear a thing..or maybe that was just me moaning?

Moaning from the vibration…not from being a sick pervert.

There’s only so much vibrating a man can do in one day. Just as I was about to head home, I saw it. The words “Soil Tester” was poking out of a pile of mail long before Doug head out on this reunion.

I pulled it out from under the mail. Turned it on and inserted the metal spike into each plant. All sorts of signals went off. I was alerted what needed water, what needed to be placed in sunlight and what would be left as is.

This soil moisture gauge is something else. Almost magical? I’m certain that money tree will turn around in a matter of days.

Honestly, this little device might be the only reason Doug still has a jungle to come home to.

For a second, I almost stuck the gauge up my ass, to see if I needed moisture, sun or if I was all good. Good thing reason stepped in.

There are two affiliate links in this post. Do with it as you will.

Friendship Application

You might be asking, “Who is this Doug character? Is this some kind of gimmick?”

My answer: Neighbor first. True friend second.

I can’t help but ponder friendship during this lonely time.

It started in March 2023, when I got a call from my mother: my father had taken a fall that could leave him a quadriplegic. I flew out to be with my family, and would you guess who called me regularly?

Not a soul.

This was before Doug. Before I was blessed with a stubborn, relentless, yet caring neighbor-turned-friend.

I used to believe that when tragedy strikes, the people in your life step up. I was wrong.

Dealing with my father’s near-full-body paralysis and my family’s emotional chaos, I didn’t have time to analyze who texted.

But I did notice who ghosted. Who disappeared. Who blocked me.

Let me be clear:

I’ve never been a perfect friend.

I love fiercely, but because of my Scorpionic nature, some confused that love with something sexual.

Have I crossed lines? Yes.

Said things I regret? Yes.

Lost my temper in moments of overwhelm? Absolutely.

And I’m sorry. Truly.

But none of my friends before Doug ever showed up with love, with boundaries, with real presence.

No one said, “Here’s how we fix this.”

No one said, “I care enough to confront this.”

Then came Doug.

I met him just before my father passed. And Doug and my father couldn’t be more different.

My father’s favorite position was sitting. Doug can barely tolerate sitting unless it’s in that vibrating spaceship of a massage chair.

My dad wheezed after half a city block. Doug yells at thunderstorms because they interfere with his daily twenty-mile hikes.

Maybe it’s generational. Most of my former friends are under 50 — some in their 30s. But men like Doug (82) or my dad (78)? They’re loyal.

They show up.

When my father died, it was Doug who called every day.

Doug who cooked me meals.

Doug who invited me over to watch a painfully boring Western, just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

Shoutout to one other friend — she spent time, energy, and money to attend my dad’s funeral. Regular contact dropped off after that, and there’s no hard feelings. She’s navigating a full life.

And that’s what made me realize, it’s not about political beliefs. It’s about showing up when it matters.

As for me, I could give two shits if you voted for a racist or a goddamn hobbit boot.

That said, I’ve walked away from people too. Not for who they voted for, but because they couldn’t meet me in my emotional truth. Judgment without curiosity? I don’t do that anymore.

If I love you, I love you.

Everyone else?

You disappeared. You dipped. You stopped showing up.

That’s the truth.

And what has all of this taught me?

How to be a better friend.

How to show up, even when it’s awkward.

How to have hard conversations instead of ghosting people you once said you loved.

God knows how long Doug has left.

But for now, he teaches me what true friendship looks like in the most consistent form I’ve ever known.

So yes — I’m accepting new friendship applications.

Virtual, in-person, wherever the hell I am.

Let’s be real with each other. If I offend you, say something.

I’ll be more hurt if you vanish than if you speak your truth.

And yes, despite how raw this post was…

There’s still an affiliate link in here.

Because story is layered.

So is grief.

And apparently… so is capitalism.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.

The Oysters Attack? Doubt it!

Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.

“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.

I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.

I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.

“In here,” he mumbled.

Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.

That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.

He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.

“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.

He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.

“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.

I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.

“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.

Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.

If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part Two

Just like in the dreams when the dreamer struggles to open his eyes, such was the case with Anton. It wasn’t fear that prevented him from seeing what was on the other side of his lids, rather a thick layer of gunk coating his left eye.

While scraping the gunk off, he glanced over at a candle lit table using his perfectly working right eye. There sat Ursula seated in a tan sequin dress. Naughty thoughts filled his mind. If his head wasn’t pounding, he would have leaped off the sofa and tore the woman’s dress off.

His clean left eye revealed more at the candle lit table. Opposite Ursula was the fit man in the towel. He, however, had removed the towel at some point and slipped into business attire. The two held champagne glasses in the air and appeared frozen in suspense.

“Hello,” Anton groaned.

They did not budge.

“Ursula,” he said with greater diction.

Stillness.

“Yuri,” Anton shouted, gazing at the shut door of his brother’s bedroom.

Ursula and the fit man lowered their glasses. They winked at one another. Suddenly, the fit man bolted out of his chair and raced over to Anton.

“So glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Beside a throbbing head and a bit confused, fine. Where’s my brother?”

The fit man exploded with laughter. “You hear that, Ursula?”

“He’s a funny one,” she said, chuckling.

“Your brother, you say?” The fit man asked in jest.

Anton nodded.

“I don’t know.” The fit man looked around the room. “Ursula, have you seen this man’s brother anywhere?”

“Very good question. It seems, Anton, your brother has been a bit hard to find lately.”

“What do you mean?” Anton swung his legs off the sofa, nearly kicking the fit man to the floor. “Where has he been?”

“The only way to find out,” the fit man said, repositioning himself on the sofa, “is to go on a treasure hunt.”

“A treasure hunt!” Ursula guffawed. “Where do you think we’d find him? Under a rock?”

“If not there then inside the cupboard.”

“Come on, you two.” Anton pleaded. “I haven’t seen my brother in a year. I’m very worried about him.

The fit man shifted in his seat.

Ursula cleared her throat and then stood, making her way to the sofa.

Both Ursula and the fit man rubbed Anton’s back.

“Perhaps I knocked you over too hard,” Ursula said.

“Do you require medical assistance?” The fit man asked.

“Medical assistance? No. Why would I need medical assistance?” Anton felt them moving closer. He squeezed his knees together so his legs wouldn’t rub against theirs.

“You did bleed,” Ursula aid.

“You bled heavily, Anton. If mom were here, she’d take you to the emergency room, no questions asked.”

“You’re right if my mom was here, she would have checked me into a hospital a long time ago.”

“Oh God,” Ursula removed her hand from Anton’s back and placed it over her mouth.

“Anton, Mom did check you into a hospital a long time ago. A mental hospital. St. Ives.”

“St. Ives.” Anton frowned. “That’s a prison not a hospital.”

“Right. Hold on one second.” The fit man stood and then motioned for Ursula to join him in a far corner of the room. There he whispered, “I’m getting a weird feeling about this one.”

“Yea. Same here,” Ursula said, flashing a quick grin at Anton.

“You think this one is dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t say dangerous,” she studied Anton who was hunched over on his knees staring at Yuri’s bedroom door. “More clingy.”

“Like he’d never leave?”

“Yea,” Ursula gagged. “Yuck!”

“Yuck indeed. Tell you what,” the fit man said. “How about I take him around the block to find his ‘brother’ and then later, you and I can have a ton of fun?”

“Please hurry up, then,” she moved in for a kiss. It was too quick. She wanted more. As he moved to attend to Anton, Ursula grabbed the fit man’s shoulders and whispered in his ears,”I love you, Yuri.”

Amanda #3

In the twenty-three years of living, Amanda could only count six full days where her parents went without arguing. In those six consecutive (yes, consecutive) days, her father suffered laryngitis. Dahlia, her mother, did everything possible to restore her husband’s brooding coarse voice. How she loved fighting! Had Dahlia been born male, she either would have pursued boxing or studied criminal law (not that a female couldn’t become a boxer or a criminal lawyer. Just a little bit of insight into the strange mind of Dahlia Jenkins). Instead, she became a florist. Most of Dahlia’s arguments with her husband revolved around money that had gone or was planning to go into her business. Richard argued, “Enough is enough, Dahlia! How much fucking money you want to put into this damned business? Each year your business profits. Each fucking year I have to delay putting a new deck in the backyard.”

Richard, a simple construction foreman, had a point. The Jenkins deck emitted a croaking sound anytime someone stood three feet from it. In that state, one expected to fall right through while standing directly upon it. This deck was where Richard would take his daily cigarette, one hour after dinner. It would settle his mood. Give him enough juice to argue the rest of the night with Dahlia about one thing or another. Then once the kids were snoring away, Dahlia and Richard would go at it, pouring love juice upon one another. It was as if their arguing was nothing more than a mask for their sweet tenderness underneath. Richard would have to take his smokes leaning against his car. Sometimes he’d take a stroll to the neighborhood park where jocks wrestled one another, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. “Faggots,” Richard would moan but for one reason or another, even after the deck was repaired, would return to these wrestling boxer-brief wearing jocks.

The day Jim disappeared with a bag of dirty clothes, Richard and Dahlia returned home saying nothing to one another. Amanda feared the glass shards had killed them. Instead it mesmerized them. The two sat on the floor like toddlers, picking up the glass, then released it back onto the carpet. “Wild how gravity works, Richard.”

“Tell me about it, Dahlia.”

“What da…ya both stoned or what?”

The two proceeded as if their plump daughter wasn’t there. Amanda thundered up the stairs cursing her “stupid, idiotic parents. Who da hell do dey tink dey are?” Once inside her unkempt bedroom, she ripped off the oversized shirt covering her tan frame. Standing before the mirror, Amanda dreamed of a skinnier body, one that would overwhelm Zack Blueman.

“Oh Zack Blueman,” Amanda hissed while caressing her smooth hips. “Take me away from dis wee-ahd place.”

As if God him or herself was hiding in Amanda’s closet, a motorcycle pulled up in the driveway. The tremors from the vehicle shook the whole house, knocking a framed print of Michael Jackson off the wall in Amanda’s room. Approaching the fallen picture, Amanda could see through the window, some muscular being removing a black helmet, lightning bolts on the side. Once the cyclist’s face was revealed, Amanda let out a high-pitched shriek.