Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  * * *

  I receive another rejection slip, rip it up and immediately toss it in my wastebasket. Jesus, with his long hair, wearing a white robe, stands above the pit, looking down at Brad, vigilant. I fear that it won’t be long until Jesus grows tired, desiring a rejuvenating sleep, and Brad finds a way out of the hole.

  * * *

  Leigh sends me e-mails containing links to job Web sites. Stubbornly, I don’t follow the links. I reply to her e-mails with gratitude but then delete them. I have my own way and that “way” doesn’t include hunting down more tedious jobs.

  * * *

  Another rejection lands in my mailbox. The letter then finds itself in the garbage. God, please. Where are you? I can’t afford to fall.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, the second week of August, two more rejections come in the mail. I think I see Brad climbing up the rocks in the pit. Jesus’ eyelids are heavy, and he’s looking away from the chasm.

  What else do I have to do, God? Are you hearing me? I’m ready. I love you. I’m trying to be patient, to smile in the middle of this chaos, like Paul. Why aren’t you listening to me, God? Don’t you see me struggling? Didn’t you see me packing my life away? Don’t you know I need you to come through?

  I’m scared.

  So scared.

  * * *

  More e-mails of job links load my inbox. The fear is getting to me. What am I going to do when Dad leaves? What am I doing? I give in, click on one of the links, an ad for a custodial job at an office in Portsmouth, the seacoast. I stare at the ad.

  Decent money, it looks like. But I’d be stuck, once again, cleaning up after people . . . But I could live on my own. Not easily, but it could be done. I could eat. Not easily, but it could be done. I could afford toilet paper to wipe my butt. Not easily, but it could be done . . .

  I walk to the mailbox, open an envelope addressed to me. A fresh rejection letter smacks me in the face. I imagine Jesus is sleeping now, curled up at the mouth of the pit, dreaming of the Last Judgment. Brad will step out of the hole any minute.

  * * *

  Meranda and I sit on her porch. We discuss AA yet again.

  “The Sweet Widowed One hit on me last night,” she says.

  “Do I dare ask what you did?”

  She tells me that she doesn’t know how it happened, but they kissed. She hadn’t expected it, didn’t even know if she wanted it, but they kissed. “We pulled apart and I was scared,” she says, “and angry at myself.”

  “Why angry?”

  “Angry because I feel guilty for enjoying The Sweet Widowed One.”

  “Why do you feel guilty?”

  She can’t look at me directly. “I feel guilty because when we kissed, I stopped thinking of Eddy.”

  “Does The Sweet Widowed One make you happy?” I ask.

  No hesitation, “Yes.”

  “Eddy would want that for you,” I say, “and you know that.”

  Her lips quiver. She starts to cry.

  I say, “Let go.”

  She says, “I don’t know if I can.”

  I stand, walk to her chair, bend down, lean in, hug her as she cries. “Let go,” I say. “Let go.”

  * * *

  Leigh and I walk barefoot along the beach, beneath an overcast sky. The ocean to our left is choppy and rumbling. The smell of seaweed fills the air. We dodge clumps of seaweed as we move over the sand.

  “Have you been submitting your résumé to any of the employers I pointed you to?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The custodial job in Portsmouth. I don’t know what else to do. It’s what I’m qualified for.” I hate myself for thinking of this as an option.

  * * *

  Meranda and I take another walk. We decide on a different route this time. Instead of walking on the road, we walk through a path carved in the woods. In the winter, she says, the path is for snowmobiles. Birds shriek and sing and chirp. We see a moose in the distance. We stop. It stops and stares back at us. It has a full rack—as in antlers. It’s one of the biggest creatures I have ever seen—as in body mass. I whisper to Meranda, “Don’t move.” She doesn’t. The moose looks away, then slowly departs from our area. We take a right, start walking down a separate, connecting path. This path is wider, more plush. Watchful for other moose, we start to talk.

  She says, “I think I’m ready for the thirteenth step, Jimmy.”

  I scan our surroundings—the trees, undergrowth, squirrels, birds, tiny orange salamanders, rocks. “But what about step twelve?” I ask, glancing at her.

  She frees a laugh, adjusts her hefty glasses. “The Sweet Widowed One makes me happy. I want to be happy. You were right, Eddy would want that for me. I know he would want that for me. I’ve spent too many years in self-pity, too many years oppressed by grief. I’m ready to be happy.”

  “Then you should be with him,” I say.

  She nods, changes the subject, tells me about another member of her Group, “DUI-er.” She says DUI-er, he’s about my age and he started Group yesterday, so she’s not “the baby” in Group any longer, which she likes. From what she says, he got a “Nudge From The Judge”—was court ordered to attend AA—after a reckless driving charge. She says she’s glad to have met him. “He reminds me of you, Jimmy—an alcoholic, driving-while-under-the-influence copy of you.” She smiles.

  It’s my turn to change the subject. I ask her if she’s had a chance to read my novel. She tells me that she hasn’t had a chance, but not to worry. “I’ve been writing my own novel,” she says, then winks.

  I stop, and face her. I tell her that Eddy would be proud. She says, “I know, Jimmy. I know.”

  I arrive home (home for the time being, that is) from Meranda’s, get out of the car, sweating, and crying. I want to be happy. Why can’t I be happy like Meranda? I throw my hands toward the sky, the cottony expanse. “Where are you, God?” With tear-filled eyes, I watch the clouds float. I scream beneath my breath: “Show yourself to me! For once, show yourself! I’ve done everything I can. If you can part the Red Sea, create the sun in the sky, create the universe, you can do this for me, God! You have the authority. All authority. I’ve given myself to you. How about some divine influence?” I’m unstable on my feet. “Where are your hands to catch me? Where are your hands, God? Hold them out for me. Let me find myself in them. SHOW YOURSELF TO ME!”

  * * *

  On the night of August 21, after more cleaning, I pass by my landline phone. The answering machine blinks 1. Exhausted, I play the message. A person claiming to be the Facilities Manager from an office in Portsmouth says that he looked over my résumé and he would be very interested in interviewing me for the custodial job. He provides his phone number and extension and would like me to call him tomorrow to set up a time and date for the interview, if the job is something I’m still interested in.

  I sit on my bed and sigh. The question of all questions—am I interested in the job? The answer is no, I was never truly interested, but I have to eat and I need a place to live. I think of God, balling my fists. Where is he now?

  I watch Brad as he pulls himself from the pit. He grins, stepping over the sleeping Jesus, then he says, That’s right. I’m back, sissy. I put my face in my hands. I don’t want him to be back. I want him isolated in that pit, moaning and suffering.

  * * *

  I pick up the phone, hating myself. I dial the Facilities Manager’s number. He picks up. I give him my name, tell him that I’d like to interview and that I need a job quickly. The first part is a lie; I wouldn’t “like” to interview. I would “hate” to interview, actually, because that would mean that I’m interested in more cleaning. More mindless tasks. That would mean that I’m one step closer to becoming conventional—working fifty, sixty hours per week, dreamless. The Manager asks if tomorrow at twelve-thirty would be good for me. “Yes. That sounds fine,” I say. I hate myself for agreeing to interview.

  After I hang up the
phone, I realize that I don’t know the first thing about interviews. I’ve never been on one. I start to hyperventilate. What type of questions will he ask me? I want to be prepared. Are there standard questions asked at interviews? I force myself to take a deep breath.

  I laugh. This is what my life has come to: I’m worried about interview questions for a custodial position.

  * * *

  I drive to Portsmouth, nerves mounting. I arrive at the office, park my car in the lot. I don’t exit the car right away. I sit and look around the parking lot, which is full of expensive cars. My car is by far the ugliest out of them all. The car parked directly to my right, a black Mercedes, gleams in the sun. The car to my left, a red Porsche, looks like a vehicle out of a James Bond movie.

  I step out of my car, legs like rubber, hands shaking slightly. How did I get here? I don’t remember the drive. This is a mistake, a big mistake. I shouldn’t be here. This is not what I envisioned for my future, for life after Dad’s janitorial business. I walk across the parking lot. With each step, I want to turn around, get back in my car, and drive away. I come to the entrance, grab the door handle, and pull. The door doesn’t budge. I pull harder. It must be locked. I let go of the handle, step away. This is definitely a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I can’t even get in the building. I should turn around and walk—no, run—away. Never look back. Never stop. I should get in my car and drive. See where I end up. But I can’t move. I stare at the door.

  Is this my destiny?

  I take another step back. I’m about to turn and start walking away when the door opens and a man in his mid-thirties appears. “James Frost?” he asks.

  I nod. He tells me to come inside. “Sorry about the door,” he says. “We keep it locked for security purposes.” He goes on to say that he told the secretary to keep an eye out for me, but she went home sick and he just got out of a meeting. I step inside the building. We shake hands in the vestibule, then enter into the lobby together. He asks me if I found the place all right. I say that the building was easy to find and thank him for asking. We walk past the secretary’s desk—ten feet long, rectangular, sleek and black, devoid of a secretary, covered with papers, a computer, pens and pencils, folders.

  He brings me to a conference room. “Have a seat. We’ll get started right away.” I pull out a chair before the conference table, heart jumping. He sits across from me, my résumé on the surface before him. He reads parts of it aloud, says that I’m undeniably qualified for the job, but he wants to get to know me a bit more. He wants to know why I want this job. I lie to him, say that I like performing janitorial work, that I like the feeling I receive after I’ve cleaned up a really big mess.

  He nods, writes on the paper. “Why don’t you want to work for your father’s company anymore?”

  I set my hands on the table. “He’s closing it down.”

  He nods again.

  “And you won’t mind the commute from Moose Acres?” he asks.

  I tell him that I’m looking to relocate. He asks several other questions. Quick, intrusive questions. I answer each question vaguely like I’m a member of the Mob and my existence is top secret. He nods a lot, doesn’t say much.

  He stands, and I follow suit. We shake hands and he says, “I’d like you to work for us.”

  I force a grin. “Okay.”

  I feel like one of those Goths interested in self-mutilation who roam around with a life sucks mentality. Black mascara. Dyed black hair. Black clothing with chains. I’m full of self-hatred.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  On Friday, August 25, at the school for my last day of cleaning on behalf of Dad’s company, I bring him into the library, and ask him to have a seat. We sit at one of the wooden tables.

  “I’ve been looking at apartments in the seacoast area,” I say, trying to get him involved.

  “That’s where you’re going to move?”

  Perhaps. “I want to live closer to Leigh.”

  “What are you gonna do for work? Figure that out yet?”

  I hang my head, eyes on the table, fire in my chest. “I took a custodial position at an office in Portsmouth.”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  I look at him, like—You jerk, your decision to leave is doing this to me. “No, it’s not what I want to do, but I need to eat. I need to have a place to sleep . . .” And you’re giving me no choice.

  He says, “Well, you have plenty of experience with cleaning. You’ll be fine.”

  I stand suddenly, emotions growing. Can’t let him see me cry. I say, “I have to get back to work.”

  He nods, gives a long, “Okay?” as if to say, What was the point of this?

  We exit the library, Dad walking in one direction, I in another. I stride down the hallway, into a bathroom near the gymnasium. I enter a stall, looking down at the toilet, tears pouring like rain into the bowl. No, Dad, I won’t be fine. Why are you doing this to me? How can you decide one day that it’s time for you to pack up and leave? How can you toss your son away and do whatever it is you want to do?

  I wonder if he even loves me, and if he has ever loved me. Then I think: Why would he? I’m worthless. Nothing. Less than nothing . . .

  Ten minutes later, I leave the bathroom, eyes dry. I walk by the gym and see the bald guy from the past, the person who, in front of the children, said, “Don’t worry, it’s just the janitor.” Summer basketball practice is going on, kids dribbling, shooting at the hoops, running up and down the court, and the bald guy (who looks like a basketball) is watching, his back to me, leaning against a wall near the gym’s entrance.

  The guy’s voice echoes in my mind: It’s just the janitor . . .

  My body tenses. My jaw clenches. I’m not just the janitor. Dry-mouthed, I watch the bald man for about a minute before I decide I should approach him, tap him on the shoulder, and tell him what I think of his statement.

  He spins around, looks at my hand pulling away. “What do you want?” he asks, fiery.

  Puffing out my chest, ready to swing if need be, I say, “I’m James Frost, not just a janitor. I bet you didn’t know that I wrote a novel, did you?”

  “No,” he says freshly.

  “It’s going to be published someday, and I’m leaving this place.” I pause; his nostrils are flaring. “Someone else will come in here and perform janitorial work in my stead, and you won’t know him, either. You won’t know what he does outside of this building. You won’t know his aspirations. So don’t ever think you know him based on what you see him doing here, because I can guarantee you, that’s not him.”

  He folds his arms over his chest. “Are you done yet?”

  That wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for, and it throws me off. “Uh—well—yeah, umm—I guess . . .”

  “Sign any big deals with any publishers lately? I’m sure you’re having to beat them off with a stick.” His tone bursts with sarcasm.

  My cheeks fill with warmth. Meekly, I say, “No. No big deals.”

  He laughs. “A janitor who writes . . . What’s next? A garbage man who sings opera?”

  I don’t know how to verbally respond to that, so I shake my head at him, then turn around, before I humiliate myself further. As I start to walk away, I hear him say, “Good luck with the publishers. I’m sure they can’t wait to sign a—janitor.” He busts out laughing.

  I keep walking despite my desire to drop that guy where he stands.

  Body tense, I enter my end of the school, the hallway I have swept and mopped for the past few years. I go into the janitor’s closet, taking deep breaths, composing myself. I grab the broom and sweep the hall one last time. Afterward, I retrieve the mop bucket from the closet, roll it into the hall, and mop the floor one last time. I find solace in the fact that there have been many one-last-times tonight: I scrubbed the toilets one last time, cleaned the sinks, vacuumed, and mopped the rooms. One last time.

  I finish mopping the hallway, place the mop in the bucket, bring the bucket i
nto the closet, and rinse out the mop in the sink one last time. Ten minutes before midnight, I peek inside the rooms, say goodbye to each of them, walk out of my designated area, into Randy’s.

  He turns off his vacuum and stands it at his side. “So what’s next for you, bro?”

  My face feels hot. “More cleaning. In Portsmouth.”

  His eyes show delight. “Yeah, that feels about right. Writing’s not for you . . .”

  I shake my head at him. I can’t believe he said that. “Goodbye, Randy.” I will never have to see him again.

  I go into the gym (which is empty now) and say goodbye to the floor, the walls, the basketball hoops, the bleachers. I go into my father’s end of the school and say goodbye to the rooms as he buffs the hallway.

  At midnight, I step out into the vestibule and say goodbye, my heart rejoicing. I throw the doors open and depart the building. One last time.

  Beneath the joy, however, exists the heart wrenching truth that I will continue to clean, not here, not for my father, but somewhere else.

  Once again, I’m scared.

  * * *

  August 30, I rent a small U-Haul and drive it to Dad’s house, Leigh with me; she took the day off from work, using accrued vacation time. By mid-afternoon, Leigh and I have the U-Haul loaded with my possessions. Dad pulls into the driveway, and parks next to us.

  “I’ll wait out here,” Leigh says, opening the U-Haul’s passenger’s-side door. “Take your time.”

  I nod at her, leave the dutiful girlfriend behind, greet Dad as he gets out of the car, and follow him into the house.

  He tosses his car keys on the kitchen table. “So this is it, huh?” He lingers next to the table.

  I step toward him. “Yup. Start the new job tomorrow.” I scan the room—the kitchen table, boxes upon boxes, Dad’s life in cardboard, the television in the living room, the couch. “Will you need any help with this stuff?” I ask.