Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I know I should call her. Because of my lack of communication, she must believe I don’t like her, that I didn’t enjoy our time together. At the moment, I don’t, unfortunately, have time to call her and say that I enjoyed meeting her and that I’d like to spend time with her again sometime soon. I know I should be ecstatic about this woman, but I can’t feel overjoyed about anything, presently. Not after the news from the publisher.

  I hope Leigh is who she appears to be. I don’t want to come across any surprises: Oh, by the way, James, I’m actually a dude. I underwent sex reassignment surgery from male to female last year and the name’s really Kenny . . .

  Uh-oh. I need to leave for work in five minutes. I’ll call Leigh on my break.

  * * *

  Vacuuming, I want to bomb this school. The building, not the people inside. Then I wouldn’t have to work here anymore, since at this rate, I won’t quit anytime soon because of a book contract.

  Somehow, I need to continue plugging away with my writing and hope for the best with the literary agents and the other publishers. I’ve heard statements about letting go of anger, releasing it somehow, but how will I do that if I can’t find closure with Beth, the editor who clearly thinks I’m not good enough to be published?

  I know. I’ll phone her at work. The publisher’s phone number is on the rejection letter at the bottom of the page. I’ll take some power back. I’ll tell her she’s blind to pass on The Forsaken World, that she’ll kick herself for not scooping it up, especially when it becomes a bestseller in a couple years. Then I’ll scream and yell at her for a couple minutes, tell her she’s an idiot who doesn’t know what quality fantasy is and that she should give up her job because she’s no good at it.

  I let out a sigh, finishing the vacuuming for this classroom. I would never actually call the publisher and harass the editor, but it feels good to entertain the idea. At least then I would achieve some sort of closure, and I’d have an easier time moving on. I suppose it’s like the end of a relationship; you never want to walk away without making a closing statement, and part of you always wants to know why it didn’t work out, what it was about you that didn’t suit the other person.

  * * *

  For our second date, a week after our first, Leigh and I meet at a gas station—of all places—in a quaint town near Dad’s house; it’s the only landmark she knows around this area. She offers to use her car for transportation. I accept. We carpool to Portsmouth, engaging in small talk throughout the trip. We discuss the weather, the brilliant earth-warming sun, the approaching fall season, the forthcoming foliage. We chat about the seacoast, our current destination, and we both agree it’s one of the most appealing sections of New Hampshire, with the Atlantic Ocean nearby, lighthouses, sandy beaches, and historic sites spread throughout.

  “If I could choose any place in New Hampshire to live, it’d be on the seacoast,” she says.

  When we arrive in Portsmouth at Prescott Park, the sun is in the early stage of setting. We exit the car and begin our journey toward the center of the park. Along the way, we pass artists. Each of the four stands before his or her easel, brushing paint over canvas. Leigh and I hold hands, stop to watch the artists for a moment as they recreate, in paint, their subjects, the flowers planted in lines before them. Quietly, so as not to disturb them, Leigh and I express our amazement to one another regarding the talent of these people. Beyond those artists, young children take part in a game of tag around a small tree, smiling, sprinting as free spirits. Leigh and I smile. I tell her that’s how I want to be. She says, “Me too, James. Me too.” We keep walking. Beyond those kids, a family plays Frisbee over a lush grassy area, laughing. I tell Leigh that’s what I want someday. She says, “Me too, James. Me too.”

  We continue exploring the park, walk by various benches (some border the adjacent roads, which are ornamented with historic homes, while other benches flank the neighboring body of water, the Piscataqua River, Leigh says, a river that empties into the Atlantic Ocean). We follow several walkways, take in the surroundings: trees, bushes, a child-sized whale statue, lampposts, a chain link fence before the water, a white Liberty Pole complete with the American Flag, a warehouse from the early 1700s. We arrive at the Formal Garden resplendent with roses, flowers, flowers, flowers, fountains, brick walkways lined with trees, white picket fencing encasing us, and more benches. Leigh takes out her camera, takes a few shots of a rose. I say, “You two must be related; you’re both beautiful flowers.” Leigh blushes.

  We leave the park, walk up the road to a causeway with trees and lampposts and gazebos housing picnic tables and green and white benches on the point overlooking the Piscataqua.

  “How’s this spot?” Leigh asks, coming to a stop.

  I step to the benches, eye the statue—a whale’s tail with a human face—mounted on a boulder between the seats. The salty brine fills my nostrils. A breeze brushes over my face. Across the way, a mini Golden Gate Bridge—only this one is green—stretches over the water. I think it’s called the Memorial Bridge.

  “This is beautiful,” I say, sitting on a bench, eyeing the river.

  Leigh sits next to me, hands on her lap, her silky hair blowing in a gentle wind. “I’m glad you like it,” she says. “It’s a very soothing area, a great place to clear your mind.”

  Sailboats, motorboats, big tankers, and a tour ship float by. Two tugboats are docked in the distance. Water on date one. Water on date number two. I see a definite underlying theme here. Leigh enjoys water. Lakes and oceans and rivers. Maybe she’s an ex-mermaid.

  “How’d you know about this place?” I ask.

  “My friend and I came here last year, before she got married and was swept away.” She hangs her head. For the first time, I see her down.

  “You don’t see her anymore?”

  She sighs, looking out at the water. “Once in a great while we’ll get together. We go out for coffee or whatever. It’s different now that she’s married. It’s like everything we had went away once she put that ring on her finger. Her husband’s her number one these days.”

  I almost choke on saliva. “You sound like me. I can totally relate to that. College is Sam’s number one nowadays. I haven’t heard from him since he left for school.”

  She slides closer to me on the bench and rests her head on my shoulder. “What would you say your number one is?” she asks, looking up at me with kind eyes.

  “Writing, I guess. It’s what I’ve put the most time into. What’s yours?”

  “God. I mean, take a look around. Look out there.” She points to the water. “How could you not want the one who created that to be your number one?”

  “That’s a good point.” I watch a blue heron walk along the shore. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “Look up at the sun,” she points to the diminishing sphere, “and know God created that, too. He’s someone who deserves to be up on a pedestal.”

  A compliment comes to mind, and as corny as I feel for thinking it, I take the thought one step further and actually say it: “All I need to do is look down at your face, and know God created that, too,” I say. “That makes him someone who deserves to be up on a pedestal.”

  She blushes and smiles with her pearly whites. “Do you really mean that, or do you say that to all the girls?”

  I smile, revealing teeth. “I meant every word,” I say, self-conscience, naked in a way. “The sun’s nothing next to you,” I continue, wrapping an arm around her, bringing her closer. A brief wind sweeps over us, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, an aroma pleasant as fresh flowers. Cliché, yes. But it’s true. She really does smell like flowers. I’m guessing she’s probably a regular customer at Bath & Body Works. Maybe next week she’ll smell like fruit.

  She holds my hand. “I’m glad we have each other,” she says.

  Her statement echoes in my mind. “Me, too,” I respond. I feel at peace, somehow or another temporarily healed from her touch, her presence. The power of a goddess, if
there was such a thing. Inside, I chuckle. This gorgeous woman, this angel—she likes me? I don’t deserve this girl, but I’ll take her. I glance down at her tranquil face. I feel like the luckiest man on the face of the earth, a healthy Lou Gehrig.

  In silence, we watch the sun slip beneath the pink horizon, listening to the sighs of waves, and to the calls of distant seagulls.

  * * *

  Today, I’m working on optimism, on accepting the circumstances. I was rejected by one publisher. Just one. As painful as it has been, it could be much worse. I might not have met Leigh. I could have been rejected by each of the people to whom I submitted my work. I wasn’t cast off by the lot. I’m grateful for that. I’m also thankful for last night at the bay, and before at Weirs, the serene lake, both occasions with the most accepting woman I’ve ever known.

  Infatuation for Leigh, everything about her, her smell, her smile, the way she sees me for me and doesn’t judge, has bestowed upon my mind a new outlook. Hope. I’m hopeful life will improve. I could be jumping the gun, but I see Leigh and me going places, moving mountains with our relationship. Merely thinking about her fills my body with warmth. A sanguine sign? Yes. I never walk away from her emotionally drained or sapped in any way. She gives instead of taking. She edifies in lieu of putting down. From what I’ve seen thus far, she’s wife material. I can’t believe I’m envisioning this, but I can see her—and I’m aware this is totally chauvinistic and conventional, but oh well, it’s my vision—in the kitchen with a cute apron over her busty frame, smiling as she cooks a large meal. I can see her taking care of me when I’m sick, bringing me saltines and soup, brushing a hand over my forehead, kissing me on the cheek. I can picture her touching me passionately. She caresses my back in a circular motion. She runs her hands through my messy hair. I imagine her holding a child, singing the kid a lullaby as he or she drifts into a peaceful sleep.

  I must leave for work in twenty minutes. I still hate the job; loathe it, actually. But tonight I’m going to focus on the positive.

  Leigh.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I tried to concentrate on the positive, I really did, but the event ten minutes ago has left me furious and shocked. I’m standing in the school’s library, alone, fuming. I want to go out in the lobby and kick that guy’s conceited butt. Not just for myself but for anyone who’s ever been looked down on. More specifically any person who does janitorial work and has been degraded in front of others while performing the menial tasks assigned.

  Some baldheaded guy with an upturned nose was throwing around a kickball with children in the lobby outside this library door. Seemed innocent enough in the beginning. Mopping the floor on the other end from where they were playing, I heard the guy and the children chuckle and joke with one another, their feet squeaking across the floor, the sound sneakers make on highly finished tile.

  From out of nowhere, I heard hissing, the sound of movement. I lifted my eyes from the mop. The kickball greeted my face, creating a loud smack. I staggered, as anyone would. Almost fell over, in fact. A silent second passed, then I heard six bone-chilling words: “Don’t worry, it’s just the janitor.”

  I shook off the sting from the ball hitting my face and stood there, shock-numb, tilting my head at the adult. Did my ears really hear that? Did he just demean me in front of those four kids? I stared into his cold face, those flat, ungiving eyes. He must have seen my nostrils inflate and face redden because he gave the line that most people use to try to excuse themselves from so-called jokes: “I’m just kidding.”

  Flabbergasted, I could only respond with one word: “Okay.” I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t kidding. In his perception, I was just a janitor. He didn’t take into consideration that I have a life outside of this school. He gave no thought to my feelings. I walked away, into this room, cursing under my breath.

  Blood boiling, pacing around this book-filled room, restraining myself from going out the door and beating the living crap out of that haughty man, I think of the children. How did his words impact them? Prior to his statement, I would wager they wouldn’t have looked at me any differently than they look at the rest of the people in the world, but I bet every time they see me from now on, they’re going to remember: it’s just the janitor.

  As those children grow up, they’ll encounter many other people who perform janitorial duties. Each of those workers will look the same to those kids, lesser, below them, practically inhuman. The kids won’t know why they see janitors that way, but the prejudice will exist. And not just with janitors. Each time they see someone who gathers trash, it’ll be: just the trash man. Whenever they see a man or woman working at McDonald’s or Wendy’s, it’ll be: just the burger-flipper. Whenever they spot someone who collects money at a supermarket or a person who bags groceries, it’ll be: just the cashier and just the bagger.

  One day, they’ll wake up as adults, with children of their own. They’ll be walking with their kids in a school, and their children will accidentally run into a person carrying out janitorial chores. Then, as parrots, they will recite to their children a phrase they heard years prior, unaware of its origin: “Don’t worry, it’s just the janitor.”

  Children aren’t born prejudiced. They don’t hate. They don’t degrade. They learn these things from society. This is one of the greatest tragedies in the world: the circle of prejudice.

  Saddened, I come to a stop and sit at one of the tables next to a long stretch of bookcases. That bald guy outside this room, he doesn’t know what he’s done, doesn’t comprehend the impact of his words. This is another one of the great tragedies in the world: ignorance.

  I lower my head onto the table. When will this world ever learn?

  * * *

  I can see Leigh only once a week because of our conflicting schedules. Today, Saturday, we’re going on our third date. This morning, I received an e-mail from Leigh. It said:

  Dearest James:

  I can’t wait until you come over today. I want you to meet my parents; though, Mom might not be around when you arrive. Then I was thinking we could head to Mount Fleur and do some hiking.

  I miss you!

  Leigh

  Naturally, I’m scared breathless. The seven most fear-instilling words in the dating dictionary—I want you to meet my parents—have been uttered. I’ll try to be flattered by Leigh’s request, but that won’t remove my fear of saying something stupid or offensive in her parents’ presence, and it will not, in any way, shape or form, absolve me from the fear that they won’t approve of their daughter’s new boyfriend.

  I’m aware that her parents are fairly strict. Leigh has told me about her upbringing. They wouldn’t let her date until she turned eighteen, and even then, she wasn’t allowed any alone time with the guy of her choice. Now that she’s twenty-three, they’ve become a little more lenient, but I’ll make sure to be on my best behavior when I meet her parents. No swearing. Solid eye contact. Her parents will have to like a friendly, well-mannered man that their daughter brings home, right? I imagine they’ll be relieved to see me standing at the front door instead of a pierced and/or tattooed biker dude named Skull.

  Whatever I do, though, I can’t mention my line of work in their presence, and I won’t bring up my writing. From what Leigh has mentioned, her dad is an architect, so I guess her family is wealthy. The last piece of information I want to spill on Mr. Swanson would be that his daughter is dating a person who performs janitorial work as means of income, enjoys writing on the side, and wishes to be a published author one day.

  I’m also aware that Leigh’s parents are devout Christians, even more so than Leigh. The thought strengthens my trepidation. So far, Leigh has represented Christianity in a very good way. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t think she’s better than anyone else. No self-righteousness there. I recognize that she isn’t an average Christian. She is different from any other Christian I’ve met. I hope her mother and father are just like her. If that’s so, I know I’ll get along famously with the
m.

  Leigh gave me directions to her parents’ house in another e-mail about an hour ago. I grab up the printed sheet, go out to my car, run a hand through my hair, and get into the vehicle. I sit there for a minute, taking exaggerated breaths to calm my nerves. I finally decide it’s time to get rolling. On the ride to Leigh’s house, I practice greeting her father and mother.

  “Hello. Very nice to meet you.”

  Or . . .

  “It’s a real pleasure to have finally met you, sir and ma’am.”

  Or, my favorite . . .

  “I’m so glad to have finally met the both of you. Leigh has told me so many great things about you.”

  Yes. I’ll use the latter. Respectful, with a perfect amount of butt-kissing. They’ll eat it right up. I hope.

  I arrive at Leigh’s house and park the car in their spacious birch-lined driveway. Through the windshield, I stare in reverence, jaw dropped, at the building before me. The white brick house lies in its surrounding blanket of emerald grass like a Sphinx, its four-columned two-story porches thrust out like paws, securing it to the earth. This is the home of an architect.

  Suddenly, I’m extremely intimidated. I knew her parents had money, but this place borders on mansion status. Absolutely opulent. I’m even more impressed with Leigh now than I was before. One would never know she comes from this kind of wealth. Her clothing is nothing extraordinary. She doesn’t wear any glamorous jewelry. She hasn’t once discussed money in my presence.

  I step out of the car, trying my hardest to stand tall, to fake out anyone who may be observing. The walk to the front of the house is a long fifty yards, give or take, up a pebble walkway with various flowers bursting on either side, past columns, to a large wooden door. Mahogany, I think? I swipe a hand through my hair, adjust the collar of my no-name polo shirt, and reach for the doorknocker. Before I can swing the knocker down onto the door, it opens, and Leigh appears from out of the shadows, arms wide open, smiling. “Hey you,” she says playfully.