Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I leave the table and open Entangled as I’m walking. In scrawling handwriting, her inscription is difficult to read: For James, Looking forward to one day seeing your name in print!

  I hunt down Cindy, thank her profusely for being the matchmaker.

  She says, “I’m glad I could be of service.”

  * * *

  On my ride home, I call Leigh at work and tell her about the exciting meeting with Meranda—the business card, the inscription, Meranda’s request to finish the conversation through e-mail.

  Then I call Mitch.

  “That’s my boy!” he says. “You’re on your way to the big leagues.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Contact her as soon as you get home. You want to catch her while your name is still fresh in her mind.”

  “Good plan.”

  “Take her to lunch or dinner. Make her remember you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  At home, I change out of the suit and tie and into my shabby work clothing. Back to reality—the subhuman world. I sit at my laptop and write Meranda. I know she met a lot of people today, so I remind her of who I am, what she wrote in my copy of Entangled, the name of my novel, and that she told me she wanted to continue the conversation by e-mail.

  A day passes. I don’t get a response.

  Another day goes by. Not a word.

  Three, four, five days ensue. Nada.

  I write her another e-mail, reiterating what I wrote before.

  * * *

  A Friday night. I’m sweeping the gym. Dad enters, asks if I have a minute. I tell him I do. I lean the broom handle against a wall.

  “I wanted to let you know that the house is being shown tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying to sell the house.”

  “I didn’t even know you put it on the market.”

  “It was only yesterday.”

  “How quickly are you looking to sell it?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “Not sure. Could take a few days, a week, a couple months.”

  “Talk about having to be on high alert.”

  “It’s the way it goes. . . . Oh, and can you do me a favor and be somewhere else while they show it? The realtor doesn’t really want anyone around.”

  “Ummm . . . okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  You’re not welcome.

  * * *

  Halfway through the work shift, on my break, I phone Leigh and tell her the news. I ask her if I can stay at her apartment tonight because I can’t be at the house for the showing tomorrow. She says she would be happy to have me over.

  “I get off work at midnight.”

  “What time can you be here?”

  “After one.”

  “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”

  “Thanks, Babe. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  * * *

  I leave the school two minutes before midnight. Driving, I think of sabotaging the showing tomorrow: I could make an appearance at the house at ten o’clock, tell the people who are looking not to be alarmed by the doors slamming by themselves and the echoing voices and the apparitions . . .

  I could go on: Oh, and beware of the bugs. Termites, I believe they’re called. You’ll see them from time to time. They also come with the place . . .

  Then I could go even further: Just so you know, the neighbors aren’t the type of people you’ll want to invite over for dinner. Mr. Gardner, the guy across the street, do not be alarmed by him. He really was in Vietnam and when he shrieks and shoots off his gun at random, whether at four in the morning or eleven at night, that’s him recreating the war. No biggie. Mrs. Canker. Don’t fret over her either. She has what the professionals call Tourette syndrome, so when you’re walking to the end of the road to retrieve your mail, just ignore her when she’s sitting on her deck swearing like a sailor. That really is normal behavior for her.

  Overall, it’s not a terrible place to live. You’ll get used to it.

  * * *

  I open the door to Leigh’s apartment. I’m greeted by darkness.

  “Is that you, James?”

  “It’s me, Babe. Don’t worry.” I shut the door behind me, scoot through the living room, eyes working to adjust, hands groping through the curtain of darkness. Leigh’s bedside lamp flickers on. She pulls her hand away from the lamp and sits up in her bed.

  “I missed you,” she says, rubbing her eyes.

  “Missed you too.” I stand by her bed.

  She yawns. “Do you want anything to eat? Anything to drink? You haven’t had dinner, have you?” She starts to get up.

  “You don’t have to. I can get it myself.”

  “No, it’s okay.” She gets out of bed and walks past me. She’s wearing a blue tank top and boy shorts. “I can make you a sandwich,” she says. “Is ham and cheese okay?”

  With that outfit, she could make me a maggot and cheese sandwich and I’d be all right. “Ham and cheese. That’d be awesome.” I join her in the kitchen. “Thank you.”

  She stands at the counter, while I lean against the sink beside her. As she makes the sandwich, we talk.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Kinda angry, honestly.”

  “I’d be angry, too.”

  “It’s like Dad isn’t even including me in his decision,” I say. “Do I not factor into this?”

  “You’re his son. You should.” I love that she’s agreeing with me.

  “He’s more concerned about himself than anything else. He knows my situation. Where am I supposed to go if the house sells and he moves to California and closes down the business?”

  She spreads mayonnaise on the bread. No maggots. Honey ham and Swiss. “Have you started looking for a new job yet?”

  I’ve been caught with my pants down. “No,” I say, aware of how that must sound.

  “You need to jump on that.” She closes the sandwich and cuts it in half like my mother.

  “But what if I can’t find a job? What do I do then?”

  “You come live with me.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t let you live in a cardboard box, James.”

  “You’re a good person,” I say, in awe of her, the woman who would turn her home into an orphanage.

  Blushing, she walks the plate to the black table and sets it down. We sit on opposite ends.

  I take a bite and swallow. “Your parents, though. They’d hate me even more . . . if that’s possible.”

  “If you moved in here?”

  “Yeah. They wouldn’t want you living with your boyfriend.”

  “Well, if it’s either that or you live on the streets, they can deal with it. I love you and want to keep you safe.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  She goes red in the face again. “Just care is all.”

  “It would look really bad, you know. Me living here with no job. I’d be the boyfriend who mooches off his girlfriend . . . I need to find my own way in order to retain any amount of dignity.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  I take another bite. “As much as I don’t want to, I guess I’ll have to start looking for a new job.”

  “What would you want to do? Any ideas?”

  “Be a novelist.”

  “Well, yeah. Of course. But other than that?”

  “I’m good with computers. I’m a fast typer.”

  “You might be able to do some data entry. It’s tedious work but you’re used to that.”

  “If I had to, I guess.”

  “You might have to.”

  * * *

  The next day, while the house is being shown, Leigh and I gather newspapers at Barnes & Noble and sit with them in the café section of the bookstore. We’re at a round table. Every so often blenders blend, machines—microwaves and coffee/
espresso makers, I think?—beep, and cell phones ring. The air smells of espresso, with a hint of chocolate chip cookies.

  “What about this one?” She speaks through the unfurled paper held over her face. “Customer service position for a—Oh, wait, never mind. You need an Associate’s degree.”

  I turn the page of my paper and set it on the table. “Engineering. Good pay. Bachelor’s degree required. Next . . .” I’m beginning to see why people sell their bodies for sex.

  “How about this?” Leigh says, then immediately: “Oops. Forget that. College degree necessary.” Male gigolo—that will be me at this rate.

  I come across a position dealing with passports. “This looks good.” I read the ad further. “Scratch that. I don’t wanna work third shift. Second shift has been bad enough. Plus, I want to be able to see you, and working third shift wouldn’t help that cause.”

  “Pass on third shift . . .”

  “You don’t want a vampire as a boyfriend?” I chuckle. “You know—hissing at the light?”

  “No thanks.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Arthur calls my cell and informs me that the editing is going swimmingly.

  “How far along are you?” I ask.

  “Page one hundred and eleven.”

  Move faster, Arthur. I need it back so I can query agents. I need to get that novel published! “How do you like it?” I ask him.

  “From what I’ve seen thus far, the story is vastly improved. Good job, James.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” Hurry up, Arthur. Hurry.

  * * *

  I go on the Internet to different career Web sites, create a fresh résumé and cover letter, find an ad for a job working for a newspaper in Portsmouth, e-mail my cover letter and résumé to the editor. I find another ad for a data entry position. Matches the hourly rate Dad gives me, first shift, and you need not have a college degree to apply. I send them a cover letter and résumé. A day later, I hear back about the data entry opportunity. The position filled. Two days thereafter, the editor from the newspaper responds—writes that he’s searching for someone with experience in journalism. He goes on to say he doesn’t have time to train.

  In a sense, I’m relieved because I didn’t really want to land either of those positions. I didn’t really want to work for a newspaper—the chaos, ridiculous hours, unsteady income—and I didn’t especially desire to sit before a database for eight hours per day, typing letters and numbers into fields that mean nothing to me, a twenty-first-century android.

  In another sense, I’m scared. If I can’t land these positions, then what am I going to be able to land? What am I going to do? I don’t want to have to live with Leigh, although seeing her daily is certainly an appealing notion. Her apartment is too small for the two of us, for starters, plus, living together would lead to temptation. There are times when all she has to do is move a certain way, wear certain clothes, smile a certain smile, talk a certain talk, and I feel like I’m going to explode. Sleeping in the same bed night after night, holding each other, kissing, hugging, I would not be able to take it. I can’t live with her. Not now. Not before saying “I do.”

  Leigh’s parents. I can hear them now.

  Her mother: James is a bum. I told you he couldn’t support a family. Look at him, he can’t even find a job. He’s a leech.

  Her father: You should’ve listened to us. You should know better than to get with someone who has no future, someone who has to live on food stamps and has to live with his girlfriend because he has no job, no money, nothing. You should’ve chosen Tim!

  I want to play pretend on paper for a living. This will start by getting my manuscript back from Arthur, making the corrections needed, and querying agents once again. The agents will read my revised work, see the potential in it, decide to take a risk on me, the never-before-published writer. The agent that chooses me will land a deal with one of the largest publishing companies in the United States and that will be it. Visualization. I’ve heard it’s powerful stuff.

  I don’t want to be a journalist. Don’t want to slap at keys for a database. Don’t want to have to work at a supermarket, a mall, and a convenience store at the same time. Don’t want to get up in the morning knowing that I’ve given up on my dream, that I don’t have enough time to dream. That I’m working sixty, seventy, eighty hours a week and I’m still poor, eating oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, unable to purchase spices, or toilet paper to wipe my butt, toothpaste and mouthwash and floss to tend to my rotted teeth, soap to clean my body, to wash my hands, shampoo to wash my hair, detergent to wash my clothes.

  * * *

  Lying in bed amid the pall, I pray. God, I need your help more than ever. I don’t know what I’m going to do. What do you want me to do? I can’t hear you. I can never hear you. Are you giving me answers and I’m not listening? Why can’t I hear you speak? My ears are open. I’m waiting for your voice. I’m open to you. Please help me. Please.

  I’m a beggar who doesn’t get the hint.

  * * *

  Dreaming—and I know that I’m dreaming because I can’t see anything. Can only hear.

  Test one, two, three. Can you hear me? Is this thing on? A voice rumbles through my brain.

  I find it rather unusual that I don’t feel my mouth move.

  You know.

  Seems like a reasonable question.

  You know what to do.

  Even Magellan had a compass.

  Why?

 

  You need to keep writing . . .

 

  Of course you did.

 

  No.

 

  I’m you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I open my e-mail, expectant, and spot a message from Meranda Erickson: James Frost, I rEmembre you. Thanks’ fro you’re emales. Just like that, misspelled, grammatically incorrect, and hasty. I sit with her response for a minute, tapping at my desk with uncut fingernails, then I type and send her an e-mail asking if she would be up to meeting me for a cup of coffee. I tell her I would gladly base the meeting time around her schedule.

  A couple hours later, after reading thirty-two pages of Entangled, I check my e-mail again. I find another message from Meranda: 9:00 tomorough AM @ Perk Up Café. Be theyre. My mind flashes on her sitting at her computer, a wineglass—the same one she held at the Luncheon—in her hand, tipsy, seeing two screens, cracking jokes to herself, laughing. Honestly, though, I can’t understand a prize-winning writer typing such ludicrous e-mails.

  Maybe it isn’t her at all. Maybe Brad is on the other end of cyberspace, cozy in a bedroom with his buddies, laughing aloud, with booze and Grateful Dead posters and bongs all around, and he and his friends are poking fun at this hopeful writer known as James Frost, wanting me to think that I’ve come in contact with Meranda Erickson. They want me to believe I have a chance of getting to know her, and that someone who has written the greatest literature of our time actually desires to speak with a person aspiring to do the same.

  That’s impossible. Well, not entirely. My imagination is running wild. I need to quit it. I’m being crazy. It’s Meranda. It has to be Meranda. She handed me this business card, the one sitting on my desk next to the keyboard. She gave me this e-mail address.

  Maybe Meranda isn’t wearing her glasses and she doesn’t know how to type without looking at the keys. That could explain her sloppy e-mails. Or she could be a sleeptyper. There are sleepwalkers, people who walk in their sleep, and there are sleeptalkers, people who talk in their sleep, so there must be sleeptypers, people who type in their sleep, right? I can see her with her mushroom haircut, no makeup on, groping at the keys, her glasses remaining on her nightstand. I like this much better than the idea of her sitting at her desk with booze, drunk
out of her mind.

  I don’t put a stopper on my imagination. I can picture myself going to Perk Up Café, waiting there, waiting, waiting, and waiting, and she doesn’t show. She doesn’t remember the e-mail she wrote me. She’s in bed dreaming and drooling while I’m at the café, glum and forgotten. I wait some more. Three, four, five hours. I finally leave the café. I am unseen once again. I write her another e-mail, ask her where she was, I was waiting for her at the café, and she doesn’t respond, ignores my message as though we never met, as though we never agreed to finish our conversation at the Luncheon via e-mail.

  Okay, okay. Enough assumptions. I should’ve learned my lesson by now, not to assume things, like when I assumed Leigh wanted Tim and I later found out she never actually wanted him but really only thought she did—or something like that—because of her parents. I allowed that assumption to fester and it threatened to fracture our relationship.

  I can’t allow assumptions in with this Meranda situation. She could very well be at the café when I get there. She could have already ordered a coffee and be sipping it by the time I spot her in a booth and sit down with her. She could remember our correspondence clearly. She could want to get to know me, ask in-depth questions about my novel, then speak elegantly in general, not stumbling over a numbed tongue.

  I have a fervent desire to go meet with her. Tomorrow. 9 am. Perk Up Café. Be there.

  I should.

  I will.

  I must.

  God and his mighty hand maneuvered everything into place. I trust in him, and believe he didn’t bring me to this point only to crush my hope, to laugh and poke fun at me like Brad from my reverie. Mitch revealing that newspaper clipping, me bumping into the poster, going to the Luncheon and meeting Meranda and her handing me the business card—none of this is coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence. We aren’t floating around aimlessly like a bunch of hobos. I believe in Jesus and in order and in reasons behind every aspect of my life, and everyone’s lives.