Don't hand me that line.

The following story was submitted to the Write On! January 2011 contest to write a 200-400 word story about excuses writers come up with to put off doing their work. While it was a fun distraction, and earned second place, it nevertheless became a wonderful excuse for putting off more urgent writing demands.

I speed-walked around the corner with my briefcase in one hand, my coffee and donut balanced in the other, and plowed into the back of a large man blocking the sidewalk. Ahead of him, a line of people stretched to the front door of First Trust, where I was a loan officer.

"Wasn't watching where I was going," I apologized as I brushed glaze smudges from his coat.

“No excuse,” he grumbled without turning around. “You can’t miss me.”

"I didn’t miss you,” I quipped, trying to change the mood.

He turned with a glare, which quickly softened.

“Hey! You're the procrastination guy . . . with the book!" he exclaimed, drawing others around us.

"What book?" I asked.

“There’s No Time Like Next Time,” he said.

“It's online," a woman said.

“Another Time?” I asked.

“No," they said. "Today!”

“The title," I explained. "It's Another Time, not Next Time. Anyway, it's not a book. It's a fake essay I wrote in college. Someone's kid must have found it and made that Youtube video. It's a joke."

The group of moms with their kids, anxious businesspeople, and students just stared at me. "It's no joke," someone said threateningly.

"My son needs something for school," the woman said hugging an embarrassed child. "I'll pay you."

The others nodded. "Yes, we'll gladly pay."

"Let me get to my desk," I said.

For the rest of the morning, I worked my way through the line, handing out excuses I'd used in my years as an editor, publicist, and freelance writer. Some were unassailable: debilitating heartbreak, hospitalized children, visits from dangerous relatives, temporary blindness, even a homework-eating dog. The more outlandish they were, the more people paid: clearing earthquake rubble, a lottery win, an exploding washing machine, being attacked by crows, starring in a reality show.

When I reached the large man at the end of the line, he sat down, made sure the others had left, and stopped me from writing.

"Mine isn't for a writing assignment," he whispered, hanging his head.

I looked up and saw that he was actually eyeing my donut.

"You want to put off your diet?"

He nodded.

"How about telling yourself you spent a stressful morning in a loan office?"

He looked up, smiled, and reached for his wallet.

"No charge," I said, as I slid the donut towards him.