Deidre Hollingsworth Jr. swirled the lukewarm martini before downing it. She threw her head back, gulped, swallowed, and exhaled. She was pissed off fierce and the gin was only fueling her anger. Her soon-to-be fiancée, Mr. Andre Shoemaker, who just so happened to be the renowned shoe designer of the 21st century was thirty minutes late.
The waiter cautiously approached her, “May I get Ms. Junior another one?”
She barked, “That stupid son of a bitch!” She opened her purse and dumped the contents on the table, by dramatic accident, the final thing to fall was a wedding ring. It clinked and glistened under the gaudy chandelier lights of Chez Ving Crème, the restaurant known as the best place to propose to someone in Chicago.
The waiter slowly backed away, as Deidre stood on her chair and declared, “If any of you are familiar with the works of Mr. Andre Shoemaker.” There was a collective murmur followed by near silence.
Let it be known, Deidre was a militant feminist, but at the same time, she was privileged white and inebriated. She continued, “He steals all his ideas from retarded children’s drawings!”
Everyone gasped in unison, reducing the oxygen to a near fatal level, though it is unclear if the response was from the actual accusation or because she said retarded.
One woman looked down at her shoes, felt shame, and hid her feet under the table for as long as she could.
With one utterance, Deidre destroyed her once-lover’s career. The sad truth as to why he was late: while Andre stepped out of his Uber, he witnessed a mugging in process, without once thinking of his own safety, he yelled out, “Hey!”
The rattled robber turned and instinctively shot at Andre. The bullet hit the window of the car, shattering glass all over the place like cheap fireworks, a shard flew into his eye and burrowed an inch away from his brain, not enough to kill him, but enough to paralyze him.
Witnesses were unsure of what to do, arguing to leave him be, lay him down, make him run in place, so they agreed to leave him be and call 911. Naturally, everyone assumed that the other had made the call. By the time anyone had the idea to follow up, another shooting took place a block away.
No one ever saw Mr. Andre Shoemaker again. Some believe that he instantaneously decomposed after realizing his career was over.