The Lonely Crowd will feature a new short story by a different author each month throughout the remainder of 2025. For October, we are delighted to publish a new piece by Megan Neary.

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Michael left his apartment and walked to the spot along the curb where he had parked his car. It was gone.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he muttered as his eyes caught the street sweeping sign he hadn’t seen the night before, the sign that was so glaringly obvious now.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called the chef at his restaurant.

‘Hey, this is Michael. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be a little late. My—.’

The chef cut him off, ‘don’t bother coming in then,’ he said, ‘you know I don’t tolerate this shit in my kitchen.’

‘But my—,’ Michael tried again, but the line went dead.

Michael thought briefly of all the times he had gone in to work early and stayed late, the times he had worked sick, or injured, or both, but then he gave his head a shake, physically pushed the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. He knew that, had always known that, had seen his father kill himself roofing houses in black July heat, had seen him dropped without hesitation the moment his knee – ruined by thirty years on the job – began to slow him down.

Michael plugged the address of the tow lot into his phone and groaned when he saw that it was five miles away. He began to walk, sweat quickly beading on his forehead and dripping down his back with the disconcerting feeling of a creeping bug.

He walked and he wondered what he would do now. He’d have to find another job, and quick, but jobs were scarce in Greenstown.

He walked and he fumed – it felt like shit to be shown he didn’t mean a thing to the restaurant. He had half-convinced himself that the chef was so hard on him because he saw something in him, because he was pushing him toward greatness. But that wasn’t so. He was just a jerk who’d scream for an hour over a broken plate.

By the time he reached the lot, Michael was soaked in sweat and his nose was sunburnt to a bright, clownish red. He walked to the little office and said he was there to get his car.

The fat man behind the plastic divider typed something into his ancient, whining computer, then said, ‘that’ll be three hundred.’

‘Three hundred?’ Michael repeated. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me.’

The fat man just stared at him with a blank, bored expression.

‘Come on,’ Michael said, ‘it’s only been here a few hours.’

The man continued to stare.

‘Look,’ Michael said, ‘I haven’t got three hundred. Can’t we work something out? Please? I could pay you once I get my check next week.’

‘You can leave your car here until you get the money,’ the man said, ‘but we’ll have to charge you a lot fee for every day you leave it.’

‘How much?’

‘A hundred.’

‘For the week?’

‘Every day.’

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

‘If you’re not gonna pay, I suggest you fuck off,’ the man said, standing.

Michael considered punching him in the face, decided that would hurt his chances of getting the car back, turned and rushed out of the office and into the oppressive midday heat.

He trudged back to his apartment, sweat and tears dripping down his face. He brushed the tears away angrily, blushing though there was no one there to see them. The sidewalks and streets were empty aside from a few barefoot children who played hopscotch and drew chalk butterflies and a few old trucks that rattled down the road. The town was at work and Michael felt like a ghost cast out from the land of the living, forced to wander the quiet streets.

At last, he was back at his apartment. He went inside and stood at the sink as he filled and drank three glasses of water. Then he turned on the white plastic fan that stood on the overturned milk crate he’d stolen from the restaurant. It whirred away valiantly but did little to lessen the heat.

Michael undressed and threw himself to the floor before the fan, then lay there and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what he should do. He tried to think of a way to get the money, of something he could sell, of someone who could lend it to him, but the only possibility that presented itself was winning one of those scratch-off tickets he loved to play. He knew it was a bullshit plan, but he didn’t see any other options and he knew every day that passed would put his car farther out of reach.

He pulled himself up and dressed in the same jeans but a fresh t-shirt and walked the half-mile to the gas station. He bought a cold mountain dew and ten scratch-off tickets. He stood to the side of the register and scratched off each ticket with a quarter, pausing only to take great gulps of his mountain dew.

On the first ticket, he didn’t win a thing. On the second, he won five dollars. He smiled and felt his heart begin to pound – it had to be a good omen, he’d win big, one of these tickets would give him enough to get his car back, maybe even more. Maybe he’d win the jackpot – ten thousand dollars. Just the thought of what that money could do for him had him grinning like an idiot as he scratched away at his third ticket – he’d get his car back no problem, he’d have a little time to look for a job instead of desperately latching onto the first minimum wage bullshit that came his way, he’d go to the dentist and get that back tooth that was always bothering him fixed – he didn’t win a thing on that third ticket – or the fourth, fifth or sixth but on the seventh – his lucky number seven – he won fifty dollars. Eight, nine, and ten netted him an additional fifteen. He was riding high. He was on a streak. His luck had finally turned. He bought more tickets, scratched away, won a little, lost more, bought another stack. The used up tickets covered the countertop by the time he realized he was down to his last few dollars. He bought one more ticket, scratched it slowly, his mouth tasting of iron, his body shaking. He didn’t win a thing.

He threw the worthless card onto the stack of worthless cards and stormed out of the store, a bell clanging behind him as he slammed the door.

He felt hot tears gather in his eyes and blinked them away. He came to a maple tree and he sucker-punched it. The tree was undaunted. His hand was bloodied, bruised, and swelling fast. He screamed ‘fuck’ as loud as he could, felt a little better, walked the rest of the way to his apartment with his injured hand cradled in his right. He was glad for the pain, glad to know it was the normal sort, the sort that would go away with enough ice and rest and days of not being a fucking idiot. The pain of blowing his winnings wouldn’t fade so fast. It coulda helped him a lot, coulda made things better, but he’d gone and blown it and now he barely had enough left over to keep himself fed.

Michael got home and shoved his hand under the sink, the water turned as cold as it would go, and watched as his hand slowly turned a startling shade of red. He thought it might be broken. He prayed it wasn’t, prayed it wouldn’t get too swollen – if it did, he’d never find a job. He knew he should go to the hospital, get it checked out, but he wasn’t about to volunteer for thousands of dollars in debt. He turned off the water and pulled the bottle of cheap whiskey from the cupboard, sat on the ground and drank from it until the pain dulled. He fell into a dreamless sleep.

He woke to a pounding headache, a cottony mouth and a blue and black hand. Warm afternoon sunlight spilled through the dirty window. The sky outside was blue and clear. Michael stumbled to his feet, felt a sudden lurching of his stomach, and ran to the bathroom where he threw up. When he was done, he brushed his teeth three times, put some coffee on, drank two glasses of water, poured a little whiskey into his red mug, added the coffee, drank it all down like medicine.

When he could stand without his vision going black, Michael took a quick, cool shower, awkwardly shampooing and washing with only his right hand, hating himself more than ever for busting his left.

He dressed in khakis and a blue button-down shirt, shoved a pen in his pocket – sure it would make him look good to come prepared like that – and went looking for a job.

He walked through town all day, stopping in every shop, restaurant, and office that seemed like a remote possibility for employment. In most, he was told they weren’t hiring. In a few, he was handed applications to fill out, but he got the feeling they were going to be shoved in a dark, dusty drawer, never to be seen again.

As the sun began to set, Michael bought a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter and went home. He ate two sandwiches, polished off the rest of his whiskey, and went to bed.

He spent all week applying for jobs, following up, circling back, all but begging on his hands and knees for work.

Finally, utterly desperate, Michael walked to his old restaurant and asked to speak to the chef. The waitress smiled sadly at him as she got him a coke and told him she’d missed him. Michael drank the coke while she went into the kitchen. She came back a minute later and said, ‘he’ll be right out.’

An hour and three cokes later, the chef came out of the kitchen and to the bar.

‘Chef,’ Michael said, ‘I’m sorry to just show up like this and I know I messed up but, please, give me another chance. I swear, it won’t happen again.’

The chef gave a little nod. ‘Alright.’

Michael felt relief wash over him.

The chef held out his hand. Michael went to shake it in both of his.

‘What the hell did you do to your hand?’ the chef asked.

‘I slipped.’

‘You can’t work in my kitchen with a hand like that. Come back when the swelling’s gone.’

Two weeks later, his hand still sore but no longer black and blue, Michael went back to work. His car was gone. He’d never get the money together to get it back. So he walked the three miles to and from work every day, so nervous about being late that he woke in the night in a cold sweat, sure he’d missed his alarm. After a long shift, his hand throbbed to the beat of his heart.

 

Megan Neary is a writer and teaching living in Fort Collins, Colorado. Her work has appeared in various literary magazines and journals including; After Dinner Conversation, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and The Weekly Humorist.