Short Flash Fiction Tales

The Handshake

“Get your hands off that book!” the old man cried, marching over to Rudy’s chair, slapping the worn volume from his surprised fingers.

Rudy turned to the hunched man in shock. “This is a library, dude! What’s wrong with having a damn book?” Rudy’s heavily inked arms spread wide, biceps bulging.

The old man tugged at the hem of his cardigan, gnarled knuckles curled about the book’s spine.

“Punk kids like you can’t appreciate books like this!” Spittle sprang from the old man’s twitching lips, spattering Rudy’s corn rows.

“Punk kid?” Rudy’s eyes narrowed as he rose to his feet, six inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than the man before him. “You sayin’ that ‘cause I’m black?”

“Of course not! I’m saying it because you’re a damn punk!” The old man waved a liver-spotted hand. “Tattoos? Torn up jeans? You should be ashamed coming here like that. Where are your manners?”

“First, I wasn’t aware tattoos weren’t allowed. Second, these jeans look a damn sight better than those checkerboard-patterned things you got on. Third, you swiped the book I was readin’ right out of my hands, man! If that’s not bad manners, I don’t know what is!”

The old man’s eyes softened. “You read it?”

“Hell, yeah! This book changed my life! Inspired me to go to school. English lit major. If I ever got a chance to meet the author, I’d shake his hand.”

The old man looked dolefully at the book in his grip, then handed it back to Rudy. To Rudy’s surprise, the man’s knobby fingers collected his hand, giving it a firm shake. Without another word, he turned and left.

Puzzled, Rudy flipped open the cover, glancing at the author’s photo inside. His head jerked up, eyes focusing on the man hobbling away. He smiled.