This became a very short story during that unforgettable year of 2003 or maybe it was '04--hey, don't quote me on this--as part of my portfolio for a creative writing class.
On TV, the preacher droned on about the Seven Deadly Sins. This was not a topic of interest to the holder of the remote, who was only flirting with the other channels during an infernal commercial break in Sunday's football game. The steady rhythm of his thumb thumping on the channel-up button continued at the sight of the stern killjoy in black. The preacher's saggy jawline ground a condemnation of Sloth and he wanted no part of it.
But the batteries inside the remote had expired between clicks. Still lying belly-up on the couch, he fully extended his arm, pressing the button incessantly now, but to no avail.
The preacher cleared his gravelly throat and turned a page in the Bible and the young man thought, This is like driving through the ghetto and running out of gas!
In a fit of frustration, he spiked the remote against the carpet, but this act reminded him of a football celebration, which resulted in further trauma. The TV, he estimated, was fifteen feet away—a trek not fit for a pants-less youth unequipped with a canteen and a camel. He rubbed the blond stubble on his chin, coarse enough to grate cheese. At last, a faintly buzzing light-bulb flashed atop his disheveled hair, for he had recalled the cordless phone resting on his gut. He dialed his own phone number, hung up, and waited impatiently for his younger brother—who was playing Nintendo in the basement—to answer.
Once I did, I was ordered to hustle upstairs to change the channel back to the football game.
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