Tate the Late

Flash fiction: 5-minute read

A moody, black-and-white vibe of a table in a coffee shop. The background is blurred. Two mugs sit on the table.

Margo overheard the young woman give her name—Jasmine—to the Starbucks barista.

But with a "Y" and no "E" and a "Jazz" at the beginning.

So, Jazzmyn.

The handyman's daughter, it had to be. Because how many people had that name with that spelling in this town?

Margo gripped her coffee mug. She didn't want to think about the handyman—Tate was his name—or his stupid business, "Tate the Great." Nick always called him "Tate the Late" since Tate was never once on time.

His first day on the job, Tate showed up five hours late and had the audacity to act annoyed after discovering he couldn't park in the driveway since the plumbers were occupying the space. He barked about his busy schedule and how he had all this stuff to carry in, so parking on the street wasn't an option. He drove off in a huff, tires squealing.

Nick almost told Tate the Late to take a hike. But Nick and Margo had been in the house only a couple of weeks and needed all sorts of things fixed. Plus, Tate returned and fumbled through an apology. And Nick—always forgiving Nick—had given him a second chance.

Fuck Tate the Late, Margo thought, as she watched Jazzmyn take a seat at a nearby table.

Margo scooted her chair over to the girl. "Hi," Margo said as Jazzmyn looked up.

"Um, hi?"

"I'm sorry to intrude," Margo said, "but I'm a psychic medium, and a spirit is trying to connect with you."

Margo wasn't a psychic medium, not even close, just a customer service rep for a background check company. But Margo had binged Life After Death with Tyler Henry on Netflix into the wee hours of the morning, which was why she was at Starbucks in the first place, chugging coffee with three espresso shots before heading to work.

"I'm getting something," Margo said. "I see the number two. Something about . . . doubles."

"Oh my God," Jazzmyn said. "I'm a twin."

Margo already knew this. Jazzmyn and Jinger. Blech.

During one of Tate the Late's many visits to the house, she got his whole life story, including the oopsie babies he fathered at twenty-one, the shotgun wedding, and the inevitable divorce. How he started his business a decade ago. How his mother had recently died of pancreatic cancer, a "battle-axe of a woman."

"Grandma Battle-axe," Tate had explained. "That's what we called her. Sometimes to her face."

Grandma Battle-axe would be a fine spirit for Margo to "connect" with now.

"Paper," Margo said to Jazzmyn. "I need a pen and paper."

"Oh." Jazzmyn rooted through her purse and produced a Walmart receipt and a pen that said, "Otto's Animal Hospital."

Animals. Right.

Tate the Late had talked about the weird little zoo he kept in his house. He couldn't shut up about it. He even occasionally texted Margo random photos of his dumb pets.

Margo flipped over the receipt and scribbled. "I see a pig," she said. "Not in a barn, but a living room."

"Oh. My. God. We used to have a pot-bellied pig."

Used to. Interesting.

Margo scribbled some more. "I'm seeing another animal. Not weasels. Weasel-like. Ferrets, maybe."

"We had ferrets, too!" Jazzmyn ran her hand through her choppy hair. She was pretty in that way all twenty-somethings were, even if they weren't. Her attire was casual—tank top, jeans, sneakers, all black.

"And what's this?" Margo asked, still scribbling. "An axe? Some sort of nickname, perhaps?" Wait. Too obvious. "Tools," she added quickly. "I see lots of tools."

"My God," Jazzmyn whispered, her eyes filling up.

"A somewhat recent passing, yes?" And Margo inwardly cringed. How she hated that word, passing. Why did everyone insist on softening the blow? Dead was dead. Euphemisms didn't lessen the pain. They didn't stop the binge-watching of Tyler Fucking Henry at three a.m.

Jazzmyn grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her eyes. "Shit. Sorry."

"No need to apologize."

Margo hadn't meant to upset the girl, not to this extent anyway, just mess with her a little, maybe get some money from her, a fifty spot, maybe a hundred. The girl couldn't help being Tate the Late's kid, but no doubt she'd tell her father about being scammed by a weird lady in Starbucks, and that would annoy Tate the Late. Good.

Margo figured Grandma Battle-axe was a safe bet, someone the girl would recognize but not cause such distress. Tate the Late had indicated there was no love lost between the old woman and her granddaughters. But death has a funny way of softening the edges of bad memories.

"What else?" Jazzmyn asked. "Is he mad I didn't take over the business?"

He?

And what business?

"I'm not sure," Margo said. "What do you think it means?"

"He used to say I was always so good with my hands, with fixing things. That I should go into business with him. But I didn't listen."

This nugget sounded familiar to Margo. Tate the Late had droned on one afternoon about Jazzmyn's choices, how she applied to beauty school. "Cosmetology school," Margo had corrected him. "I think that's the preferred term." And Tate the Late had said, "Whatever."

"Your father died," Margo said quietly, as the realization dawned, and the girl's sobs confirmed it.

Margo began to cry, too.

Not over Tate the Late but for her beloved Nick, gone three months now, alive one moment and dead the next because a driver blew a red light.

"Why not five stars?" Tate the Late had said in his final text to Margo. He'd been bugging her to write a Google review, and she finally gave in, giving him a generous four stars.

"The balls on that guy," Nick had said when Margo showed him the text. They were stopped at a red light. The moment it turned green, Nick, still annoyed and not his usual cautious self, gunned it.

All this time, Margo had been desperate to know where Nick was, to have someone sidle up to her in a Starbucks with a message from the beyond.

Now, here she was, hopped up on espresso, late for work, sobbing along with Tate the Late's kid, having given the girl the sign Margo had so desperately wanted for herself.

~ END ~

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The story behind the story . . .

Yes, I had a handyman who was perpetually late and who questioned why I gave him four stars instead of five on a review website. Names have been changed, of course, and everything else is fiction. :)

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