prompt: dart, title: choices, choices in "the next big thing" flash fiction

“I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” he said. “Do what?” I asked, squirting ketchup onto my mozzarella sticks. “Put ketchup on mozzarella sticks. That’s a new one on me.” “Well, I’m part-Italian and…” “Stop right there.” “What?” “You’re not telling me that’s what real Italians do.” I laughed. “No, it’s not an old-world thing, it’s just…” WWWHHHRM, a speeding sedan zoomed past the diner, barreling east down Sunset, ninety, a hundred. In the moment it took for all of our eyes to dart toward the street-facing windows, WHEOW-WHEOW-WHEOW, the blue and red twirlers of one, two, three cop cars chugging hard.

This was LA, after all, so everyone knew what to do next. All hands went down, securing cups and cutlery so they wouldn’t rumble away when the WUBBA-WUBBA-WUBBA-WUBBA of the news helicopters arrived close behind, high above. And then just as quickly as it all came, it was all gone. In living rooms all across the Southland, they would have a good quarter-hour of entertainment, watching this person make the mistake of their life, placing bets on how it would conclude. Lakers, Dodgers, Rams, they are all mere distraction, the true Los Angeles pastime is watching high-speed chases end in tee-bone crashes, spike-strip blowouts, gas tank exhaustions. Fifteen minutes in the homes, an eternity for a driver about to either be dead or imprisoned, for everyone else, a split-second then right back to normal. All the thrill of an earthquake with none of the after-shocks for anyone but the doomed joy-rider. We lifted our hands off our tables and went back to our business.

“It’s just something I do,” I told Frank, “the thing with the ketchup. Real honest-to-God sauce, homemade marinara, of course that’s best for mozzarella sticks. But, like, we’re not getting that here in a chain diner.” He picked up the tiny plastic cup of an impossibly thin excuse for tomato sauce between two giant hairy fingers and sloshed it around like some mouthwash in its included graduated cap. “But the fake stuff is so bad, I found it’s better to just do without, just improvise instead.” I picked up the Heinz vinegar-fructose slurry in its squeeze bottle. “It’s always close to hand and you get used to it. It’s better than settling for less. Sometimes instead of accepting bad or nothing, you have to just take a hard turn left, completely off the reservation, go do something stupid. Sometimes, it beats all of the obvious alternatives.”

“And sometimes you just crash,” Frank continued the thought. “Oh yeah,” I dipped another stick into the ketchup, “most of the time! But when all options are bad, might as well try the new one.”

“I’m glad it’s not an Italian thing,” Frank admitted, “my human last name is supposedly Italian, after all, I thought I was gonna have to eat like a damn animal like you to keep up the charade.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I try my best to suffer idiotic compromises, me and only me.”