Short Story: The Nice Guy Finds Love
Short Story: The Nice Guy Finds Love
Nice Guys finish last because we let our partners finish first.
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If you are reading this, congratulations. You have taken a real step toward improving your life. Let’s be honest: Since the events of World War 4, when the Clintons and Musks joined forces to oust Barron Trump and Ice Spice from governing power, we have been in a collective tailspin. If I’m being honest, the world has been in a tailspin since 2028.
I might be moving too quickly, so let's start from the top. My name is Samir Johnson, and at the tender age of 25, I have seen a lot and lived through even more. I guess you can call me a survivor, But I think that would be a gross mischaracterization of who and what I am. The internet has been down for about 6 months now, so I have decided to start journaling to keep myself busy. If you’re reading this, I either flipped this into a self-help scam or somehow lost my trusted notebook. A lot has happened so quickly, and sometimes I wonder if I’m dreaming. After the second government collapse of 2028, what we all knew as the United States of America turned into a cluster of warring territories.
Fed up with the current system, Black, white, gay, straight, and every other constructed identity you can imagine, decided it was time to fight to plant their flag. What that led to was a period of bloodshed not seen since the 2024 Presidential election, those were wild times. After spending much of the political season assuring voters he was young enough to lead, President Biden died two days before voters cast their ballots. Despite this turn of events, he was re-elected. I think a lot of people felt bad and voted to be nice. I still remember the shock I felt hearing the news after all of the votes had been counted. Biden had won every state except for Alabama and Mississippi. Did I spell that right? And then the impossible happened: after a week of trying to decide if Kamala would be sworn in or another election needed to be called, the Great Biden was able to be revived from the dead through a cocktail of Ozempic, Tylenol extra strength, and viagra. I tell no lie!
His “Triumphant” comeback pissed off the Trump supporters and confused the evangelicals, but there was nothing that could be done. He had enough votes and a functioning enough pulse to remain in office. To prove to us that his second term would be different, he promised to incorporate a “New age of empathy.” he started this new age by sending a strongly worded letter to Israel’s Prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu. In it, he demanded the Israeli government put an end to its destruction of Palestine. The letter also included about 5 Billion dollars worth of military equipment to be used for mass murder “nation-building.”
Droughts have driven up the price of water. As a result, lazy people can only shower once a week through government handouts, while the rest of us have to pay exorbitant subscription fees for access to water. The rising temperatures have made it too hot to stay indoors, so most people can’t afford housing.it’s been surreal watching people try to blame the climate change myth on their unwillingness to work. Some people believe that a country whose governing structure was inspired by the Hunger Games is callous. But that’s just not true. If you're willing to work hard, provide 65,000 to 80,000 hours of free intern labor, and live by a real patriot's values, you can succeed. But to be successful, you must know what it looks like; that’s where I come in. As one of the last remaining nice guys, I want to be a beacon of hope and educate the stupid masses A.K.A. You <3.
In this very short dispatch, I will walk you through the day in the life of a very practical, attractive, nice guy. What does being nice have to do with anything? Well, it’s the most important thing because no one likes an asshole. If you’re going to survive in a world that is constantly dealing with shortages in water, housing, and food, you must learn how to make friends and curry favor. In this week's correspondence, I will discuss healthy ways to blow off steam while being creative.
Have you ever “people watched?” No. Seriously, have you ever sat down somewhere, put whatever was rumbling in your chest to the side, and then paused to observe the movements of the people around you? You should; it’s one of my favorite pastimes. In fact, I have turned it into a ritual, almost a religious experience. The perfect time to do it is on a sunny day. Ideally, the sky will be full of expressive clouds and adventurous birds. Try to focus on the good things; we’re not worried about the shouting in the background or sirens blaring from “peacekeepers.” Find a place where you can sink into the aged wood of a bench, pay your toll, and enjoy the wonders of life in this concrete city!
In New York, our magic elements are fresh-ish air, pigeons, chaos, and the all too familiar smell of struggle coming from the homeless encampment at Central Park. I find it offensive that these slobs would rather sleep in a park than volunteer their labor to Google or another one of our generous job creators. The smell of defeat and their sad eyes can blow anyone's good mood. It’s important to remember that you’re nothing like them, and they deserve their current circumstances. If you find yourself feeling guilty, focus on something else; for example, did you know that this enclave of piss, shit, tree, and vibes was a community?
Seneca Village to be exact, during the first half of the 19th century, this beautiful monument to late-stage capitalism and aesthetic greenery was home to hundreds, maybe even thousands of Black people—some of them even owned property. Then, one day, someone decided that Seneca had to become a park, and those pesky negros would have to find somewhere else to live. When you have money, anything is possible; I often wonder what happened to the people who lived there. Were they taken care of? Did they find new homes? It’s in my nature to think about other people; that’s what nice guys do, and you should take note of that.
Anyway, when I’m most curious about the world, I like to enter the park from the 110th Street entrance and walk until my feet tell me to stop. I have become so familiar with this particular route that no matter what, I always end up at or near a bench facing the bright lights of the city, somewhere around 72nd Street or maybe it’s 79th. It’s been five years since I was able to travel anywhere south of 65th Street; that part of the city has been off-limits since the Tesla Wars. Their CEO Hillary Musk the 3rd, a human birthed from the DNA of Elon Musk, Chelsea Clinton, white Hennessey, and a Neuro Link, waged an all-out war on the state after the legislature tried to force a tax on Job creators.
Tesla was able to stop the tax and take over the city, and after 20 years of chaos, our economy is thriving again. If you want to succeed, you must work hard. For example, I have been interning at an Amazon factory since I was old enough to speak, my goal is to accumulate enough hours to qualify for a paying job. Once I’m able to make money, I can leave my sliver of grass on Bruckner Blvd in the Bronx and purchase a tent by the water near 50th Street!
Many people complain about our world's current state, but I think they’re just making excuses. If you work hard and complete your mandated hours of labor, the opportunities will flow. I can see my opportunities in the horizon, with only 2000 hours of mandated “volunteer labor” left I’m at the precipice of making money. Real Money. That 6 dollars an hour is going to be a game-changer! While things have been hard, sitting on this bench gives me time to reflect on my approaching victories.
If you have doubts, don’t fret; so do I. There are times when my water ration has dried up faster than usual, and unless I’m willing to go into the abyss and fight the mutated rats on 173rd St for their mud water, I must survive on my spit. When that happens, I wonder aloud why Amazon won't pay me. In those moments of desperation, I take a deep breath and think back on what my mother used to tell me.
“You’re not worth shit if you don’t have money,” and if that doesn’t help, I can count on the soft touch from a spring breeze to remind me that I am here for a reason. While on this bench at Central Park, I feel like I can breathe again, which may be why I come here so often. What I love most is that I can look at what is around me with the passive interest of someone curious but detached; I’m here often enough to understand what is happening, as well as the characters around me, but not so pressed that I feel the need to do something about it. Some people are born to make a difference, the rest of us are lucky to exist, and then some roam the world for everyone else’s entertainment. Take, for example, Joe.
Joe is one of the fellows living at the Central Park encampment. Homie has got to be around 6’3, in a field full of averaged-heightened hobos. I honestly didn’t know that white people came that tall anymore! He keeps his tent next to an older tree stump, about ten paces away from a pond. That pond, which at some point was probably beautiful, is now a dirty tinge of silver from all of the abandoned cyber trucks left there. Most people are afraid of getting electrocuted or catching hepatitis, but Joe doesn’t mind, so now he’s the 6’3 hobo with an ugly tent and a private pool. His skin, once the brown of a worn leather-bound bible, is now ragged with sun spots and silver speckles, probably from the Cyber Truck juice.
I slowly move my gaze away from Joe. He’ll be there for a while, so I can always return. It’s at this moment that we connect! Me and the girl, not Joe; Joe is irrelevant now! But the girl, despite our electric moment, she’s already moved on, her attention now wholly locked in on fixing her bicycle. It's a bright green single-speed with baskets on the handlebars and back wheel. To have a vehicle of that quality, she must work for Uber Eats or GrubHub, but why is she living here if she has a job like that? Paid workers had access to 65th Street, did she steal the bike, was she a thief?
A million thoughts ran through my head as I gawked at the woman brought here to be my wife. My jaw became tired from holding my mouth open. I tried to form words, but all that came out were old chicken nuggets I saved for a special occasion. She wasn’t very tall, maybe 5 feet in total, without sneakers on she could even be shorter. Her hair was brown and flowy; it came a little past her shoulders, and it had some waviness. It reminded me of a TV character my grandfather used to ramble about.
I think her name was Kelly… KELLY KAPOWSKI! But back to my wife, she had a set of round brown eyes with flirty lashes and a serious look about her. Along with her looks, she had style too, wearing a baggy shirt with a bright yellow helmet and some biking shorts that looked very happy to be there. The “ass” was assing! Her bike must have been flat because she flipped it over and fumbled with the tire. I immediately began thinking of ways to approach her.
Women’s Rights were all the rage these days, and as a nice guy, I understood that it was important to let females feel like they were in charge. Sure, the goal is to conquer and fuck, but you can’t do that if she doesn’t feel safe, I was confident I could win her heart because if there was one thing I was good at, it was the ability to exude absolutely zero sexual energy.
While she struggled with changing her bike's inner tube, I continued thinking through my game plan. I would approach her head-on and ask if she needed help, and once she rejected me, I would accept that and introduce myself. Females love it when you respect their agency. Once introductions are done, I’ll impress her by talking about something high-level. For example, did you know you can still get access to online porn if you use the old Firefox web browser? I got my hands on some pirated links a few months ago. Once she was blown away by my ingenuity and intellect, I would start asking about her life, “Females love it when you’re curious,” and I would focus on 2-3 key things to mention so that she could tell that I was listening.
From there, it would be cake. We would go on a few dates, and before you know it, we would be official. She would want to move in with me right away, but I’m a man, and I need space, so we would commute to each other’s tents until I finally offer to marry her. Married women are allowed to vote and go to the doctor, so of course, she would say yes, and after a few months of romantic evenings full of cream pies, mouth romance, and backshot mania, she would be pregnant with our child. I couldn’t wait for our future! I used those final thoughts to solidify my resolve and start the conversation. But just as I was about to approach her, she got on her bike and rode away. I guess some people can’t see the blessings headed their way. No matter, she was probably a whore.
Oh snap, you made it to the end; thank you! What was your favorite part? Did anything stand out to you? Let me know in the comments; I’m curious.
Looking for more writing from Black, Global Indigenous, and People of Color on Substack? Earlier this week Earlier this week, the Locked In community published its first issue of Unlocked | BIPOC Reads . This issue was written, curated, and edited by my brilliant friends, and fellow writers in the
crew, Zefan, and Shivani Kumar.
Stanley I can’t believe you weren’t writing fiction before and I’m so glad you’ve started!! You have a gift. Please continue also I hope you submit this somewhere it’s so funny and good!
“President Biden died two days before voters cast their ballots. Despite this turn of events, he was re-elected.” Usually when I say LOL I’m lying. Not this time.