Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I hired a moving company to help.”

  We stand in awkward silence for a minute, lost in this hollow house.

  He excuses himself. “I need to hit the bathroom. Can you stick around for a minute?”

  Hardly an ideal time for a dump. “I’ll be here,” I say.

  He walks away, into the bathroom positioned across from my sanctuary. He shuts the door. I go into the ole bedroom, gaze at the room devoid of any sign that I once occupied this space. I look to the spot where my desk once sat, picture it still there, me sitting before it, the laptop on its surface, my fingers poking at the keys, the sound of clicking. From across the room, I watch the backside of James Frost, his foot tapping on the carpet, his body steady as he scribes The Forsaken World. I watch James, my heart aching, standing in my used bedroom two days before my father leaves for Boston, getting ready to depart before he can leave me, before he pulls the house out from under my feet.

  I will always remember this room, the sanctuary from a conventional world, the place where dreams were born, where my relationship with Leigh hatched from a few messages passed over the Internet. Where I once lived.

  Goodbye, dear sanctuary.

  I’m rampantly crazy, talking to all these inanimate objects.

  I think I hear Dad cry in the bathroom, a faint weeping sound. I leave the bedroom and knock on the bathroom door. Either he’s feeling emotion or he’s passing a kidney stone. He blows his nose and says in a weak tone, “I’ll be out in a minute . . .”

  I go to the kitchen table, heart heavy for him, sit there and wait. I hear the bathroom door open, and Dad appears at the table. I stand as his equal, man and man, no longer man and boy. Eyes puffy, he says, “Good luck, James.”

  “You too,” I say, opening my arms to him. He appears baffled; leans in toward me, raises his arms waist-high, then lowers them so they dangle. Leans back, raises them again, unsure of the procedure for hugging, a Martian to affection. I lean in, place my arms around him, the teacher giving a lesson. I wait for his response. Several seconds into my embrace, his arms come alive and fold around my back. I hold him tightly, not wanting to let go.

  “I understand your decision,” I say, and in this split second, I genuinely do comprehend: Our parting is inevitable, and he’s been searching for a woman, like a quest to find the Holy Grail, because once I’m gone, he doesn’t want to be alone. I feel like crying, thinking of his desperation, and all the times I felt so angry about his seemingly selfish actions. Are we that different? What would my life be like if I didn’t find Leigh? I picture Dad alone in a beat-up apartment somewhere, and that’s not what I want for him. I wish for him to have someone, like I have Leigh. Fighting my desire to cry, I continue, “I stand behind you, I’m happy for you, and I love you.”

  We pull apart. He looks at my face. His eyes water. “I . . . love . . .” He swallows some air and can’t continue.

  Why can’t you say it, Dad? For once, why can’t I hear it?

  “I’m . . . proud of . . .” He turns his head, hiding the emotion, ashamed.

  Why can’t you say it?

  He turns to me again, wet-faced. “You’ll be . . . missed,” he says, eyes downcast and dripping.

  I walk to the door. He comes along, eyes on the carpet.

  “See you later, Dad,” I say, lips quivering, my back to the door.

  He looks up. “See you later, James,” he says, and touches my shoulder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It’s my first night at the new apartment in Portsmouth, and I can’t fall into a deep sleep because I hear something skittering across the kitchen floor. I turn on the bedside lamp—a lamp that came with the apartment and closely resembles a manikin’s leg covered by a shade—and I stumble toward the kitchen in my half-sleeping daze. I rub my eyes, look down at the faded and peeling brown linoleum floor. No creature in sight. Becoming more aware, I scan the studio, one end to the other, and see no trace of any critter. I wonder if I was imagining the sounds. Perhaps I was. I walk to my bed, climb aboard, wrap myself in the clean sheets—the only part of my apartment that is clean, it seems—and shut off the lamp. I try to fall asleep, but I can’t.

  The skittering sound returns. I sit up in bed, reach toward the lamp but decide not to turn it on. I continue to listen to the claw-tapping sounds coming from the kitchen floor. I slowly and silently get off the bed, creep toward the kitchen, expecting something furry to rub against my bare feet. I don’t feel anything. Suddenly, I don’t hear anything. I run my hand along the nearest wall. There is a light switch here somewhere. I’ve used it once or twice before. My index finger locates the switch. I hear a squeak. Another squeak. A third squeak. I flip the switch. Light fills the studio. On the linoleum, sure enough, I spot a rat, its worm-like tail dangling behind its plump and furry body. The rat stares up at me, doesn’t move, petrified. I don’t move either. I come to the shocking realization that my apartment is a rat’s nest. Literally. Of course, I didn’t know that when I signed the lease. My eyes dart along the studio, searching for something with which to flatten this rodent. The worn-out rocking chair? No. Too loud. A book? No. Far too messy. My alarm clock? No. I’ll need that for work. A sneaker? No. I’ll need that for walking. The broom? Perfect. One problem presents itself, however; the broom is leaning against the side of the refrigerator and the rat is standing upright in front of the refrigerator like he wants to do a trick. I don’t think I’ll be able to cross paths with the rat without it scurrying away. I take my chances and leap toward the fridge. The rat kicks into reverse, does a cookie, falls on its butt, jumps to its feet. I grasp the broom, take a swing, hit the floor, miss the rat, and watch helplessly as the rodent dives beneath the refrigerator.

  I get down on my knees, poke the broom handle through the opening between the floor and the fridge. No contact made. I stand, then push the fridge away from the wall. I walk behind the refrigerator, eyes on the ground. The rat does not reveal itself. I take a step back, notice a fist-sized hole in the wall, a wormy tail swinging from the opening like a pendulum. I shove the broom handle in the hole, hear high-pitched squeaking, then nothing. I step away from the cavity, but see no movement inside.

  I smile, return the fridge to its original position against the wall, lean the broom on the side of it, and revisit the bed. I throw the sheets over my body, feeling a sense of accomplishment from defeating the insignificant rat. Five minutes pass and my eyes close, my body relaxes, and I start to drift off to sleep. Wonderful sleep.

  The sudden sound of tiny feet pattering inside the wall at the other end of the studio causes my eyes to open. I glance at my alarm clock. I need to sleep. The feet keep moving in the walls. I wonder if there are more rats or if I somehow missed my target. I hear squeaking. More squeaking. Crunching. Clawing. Scratching. Squeaking. There has to be more than one. Did the rodent decide to call a meeting with his fellow rats? I can see it now: Fievel and family plotting to oust me from their home. I don’t belong here. They know it. I know it. But this is what I have, what I can afford.

  This is my life.

  * * *

  There are accountants here, customer service representatives, managers, engineers, directors. I overhear men in power suits talking about growth rate and customer satisfaction and profit. Three people work in Human Resources. Seven in Marketing. Twenty in Sales. High-paying, important jobs galore. I know their names (they’re posted on the cubicles), but they don’t know mine, don’t bother to ask. I’ve been here for three days. My hours are nine to seven, a fifty-hour workweek. I clean the bathrooms and the lunchroom. I vacuum around the cubicles as people shuffle out of the office at the end of the day. I clean the hallways, upstairs and downstairs. I ensure that supplies are stocked in the lunchroom—paper plates, plastic ware, napkins, condiments, soap, paper towels. For the bathrooms, I make sure that there is plenty of toilet paper, paper towels, soap. It is also my job to see to it that there is ample paper available for the copiers a
nd printers. Sometimes this means walking out to the warehouse with a dolly, returning to the office with over a hundred pounds of paper. I do little boring jobs, like the one from the other day, when I installed metal cubbies above select cubicles in the Sales Department during their weekly meeting, which they held in the Conference Room upstairs.

  It’s two o’clock and time to collect the garbage. I start in the Sales Department, where people always look agitated and stressed, never smiling. I step to Adam’s desk with a back pocket full of trash bags, say hi. He says hi in return, but doesn’t look at me, doesn’t make eye contact, fingers striking the keyboard. I take his garbage, toss it in the trash bin on wheels I’ve been rolling around, install a fresh bag in his can, and move on to the next person in line, Tom. I ask him how he’s doing. Tom says he’s pretty bad, actually, and he doesn’t look at me, would rather I didn’t exist, I guess. I dump his garbage, insert a new bag in the can, advance to Ingrid’s cubicle. I greet her. She mumbles something, tosses a candy wrapper at the garbage, misses the garbage, doesn’t care to pick it up off the carpet, eyes focused on the database-filled computer screen. Her fingers hit the keyboard. I stare at her, wonder if she knows that she missed the can, wonder if she’s taunting me, if she’s seeing how far she can push the janitor before he snaps. I breathe. Compose myself. I want to tell her that she’s being inconsiderate. That I am a human being and I should be respected just like any other person. Instead, I bend and pick up the wrapper, take her garbage, adorn her can with a clean bag, and walk away.

  Fifteen minutes later, with a rolling trash bin packed with garbage, I head toward the door, surprisingly catch my name (“the janitor”) from the lips of one of the employees. I stop and stand behind a partition, eavesdropping. Marcy is saying that the janitor is far too talkative, overfriendly. Virginia laughs, says that she just tries to stay away from making eye contact. I cringe, walking away from the partition, beaten and furious, hands clenching the bin’s handle.

  I dispose of the garbage, go into the bathroom, into a stall, shut the door and lock it, hiding from the world I’ve gotten myself into. My heart hurts. Why did I do this to myself? I feel anger toward Leigh, since she directed me to this job. I want to blame her for all of this, but I remind myself that I have no right to blame anyone else. I was scared. I made a choice based on fear. A bad choice. One that placed me here.

  I lean against the wall, shaking. I hate myself. I’ve always hated myself. The suicidal thoughts, the self-sabotaging behavior . . . it all makes sense. Deep down, I feel that I don’t deserve anything good in life.

  I hear Brad: That’s right. You’re not good enough.

  And I still think he’s right. I’m not good enough. Even when I found Leigh, I didn’t think I was worthy of her, didn’t understand why she wanted to be with me. The years working for Dad . . . why didn’t I get out? Why couldn’t I walk away?

  I imagine Brad saying something like: Because you wanted to be unconventional, you idiot. You strive for that. You live in pain, love the pain, feel you deserve the pain.

  I could have gone to college, could have taken out a loan and gone. I could have been an unconventional college student, could have chosen to stay away from alcohol, parties. I could have chosen to study. At least then I wouldn’t be standing here in a bathroom stall as a custodian. But college would have been too easy. Brad’s right. I love pain, feel I deserve pain. I am pain. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I want to feel good.

  I’m worth something. I have to be worth something.

  * * *

  I go to the grocery store, calculator on the cart’s seat. I need meals—breakfasts, lunches, dinners. I walk to the frozen aisle, select several one-dollar microwavable meals, throw them in the cart, add the amounts to the calculator. I walk to another aisle, pick out the cheapest, roughest toilet paper they have, essentially sandpaper, and add it to the calculator. I need more toothpaste. I go to that aisle, get a tube of Crest. I also get mouthwash, the store brand, and floss. I stock up on Dial hand soap, Lever body soap, Head and Shoulders shampoo, Tide laundry detergent. The total on the calculator is more than I can afford. I sigh, return the Crest, get the store brand, recalculate. I return the Dial for the store brand. I do the same with the Lever, Head and Shoulders, and Tide. Recalculate. I can afford this. I have enough left over to buy some mousetraps. I pick them off the shelf, smiling. I don’t want to live in an apartment full of rats. For once in my life, I want some comfort.

  I arrive home. Is that what this is? Is this really my home? Do Dad and I really live apart? I set the traps with plenty of cheese. Leigh calls me. She says, “I don’t care about those rats you told me about. I want to spend some time with my boyfriend in his apartment, rats or no rats.” I invite her over.

  * * *

  We cuddle on the couch. This is one of the very few good things about taking the job: I’m able to see Leigh nearly every day after work.

  As the sun sets and my apartment darkens, I hear the snapping of traps. Leigh chuckles. I laugh. I’m tired of living in pain.

  I will not live among rats.

  Farewell, Fievel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I go to a local bookstore, research the writing market, purchase books (with my credit card, of course. Will the debt ever end?) that are supposed to help hone the art of query writing. At home, via the Internet, I research the names of agents and editors taking on fresh literary voices. I write five, ten, twenty drafts of a query letter. Trash them all. I write twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five drafts. Trash those, too. I write the thirty-sixth draft. I stare at the laptop’s screen, and laugh. Thirty-sixth time is a charm.

  I send the letters to fifteen agents, then pray God will hear me.

  * * *

  I miss Dad. Miss him so much. He never calls me. I call him once a week. When he picks up, I do the bulk of the talking. I mostly talk about surface topics—my job, my apartment, the weather—without any mention of my feelings. This is the type of relationship we have. I’m learning to accept it. I love my father, always have, always will. Unconditionally.

  During one of our calls, he surprises me and asks if I’ve learned anything from this experience. I say, “Yeah, I’ve learned that when you work fifty hours a week, you can still dream . . .”

  * * *

  I talk with Meranda on the phone every other night. I ask, “What have you been writing?” She says, “The Diary of an Alcoholic.” She tells me that The Sweet Widowed One is still sweet, and she says that she’s been drinking inordinate amounts of coffee lately to replace the whiskey, if that’s possible. She tells me that she started reading my book. I hold my breath. She says, “I think you’ve created fantastic characters with great dynamics among them.” I want to cry and laugh at the same time. She apologizes for taking a while to get started, especially after she requested the novel. “I needed to get some things in order before I could give your book the attention it deserves,” she adds.

  She tells me that someone from AA relapsed recently, and she worries that she will do the same. “The urge never ceases. I want to drink, Jimmy, so much. Drink and drink and drink. But I don’t want to fall into that trap again, don’t want to slip back into my old self-destructive ways.” I tell her that she doesn’t have to relapse, that she doesn’t have to live in pain, love pain, or be pain.

  She says, “I don’t love pain.”

  I say, “Yeah, you do.”

  She says, “No, I don’t.”

  I say yeah you do for a final time and explain: “You love alcohol, right?”

  “Umm, well, not really, but . . .”

  “Admit that you love it. I know you do.”

  “Okay, yeah.”

  “And what does alcohol do to you?”

  She pauses, then chuckles. “Causes me pain.”

  * * *

  Leigh and I spend time all around Portsmouth. We visit the Jackson House (a local museum), Market Square (the heart of downtown), The Music Ha
ll to see a play. We take a steamboat cruise to the Isles of Shoals (she pays), see the forlorn, castle-like Portsmouth Naval Prison along the way, Lunging Island, the Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse, Smuttynose Island, Star Island, The Wentworth Hotel, Whaleback Lighthouse, and more. We spend time in an independent bookstore (window-shopping) and a music store (again, not buying anything) that features thousands upon thousands of new and used CDs and DVDs. We go to the mall (just to look around).

  * * *

  Frail leaves float aimlessly to the ground.

  Rejections find me. One rejection, two rejections, three, four.

  I don’t know what to do. How much longer can I go on like this? Where are your hands, God? I’m still waiting for you to reveal them to me. I need you. Jesus, where are you? Unconventional Jesus, where have you gone? I go to your church every week, pray to you constantly, love you, even through doubts that you’ll let me crash to the ground. I don’t want to live in pain, love pain, be pain anymore, God. Take the pain away. Please.

  And I think that maybe he won’t take the pain away, because part of me still loves it. I’m like one of those sick and twisted masochists. Yeah . . . bat me upside the head. Again and again and again. Feels wonderful!

  * * *

  I receive a call from Arthur’s sister, Mindy. With an unstable voice, she says, “I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m not sure how to say . . .”

  My heart descends. “What is it?” I ask.

  She gulps. “Arthur, he, well . . . he died three days ago.”

  I fall to the floor inside my apartment, shocked, scrabble to find the phone. I ask her how he died. She tells me it was a heart attack, that he was dead when she found him. She begins to cry. I can’t help myself. I start to cry, too. “No,” I say. “No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.” She assures me, in an uneven tone, that yes, he is dead, and this is happening. Her brother is dead. She says, “He spoke of you all the time. You don’t understand how important you were to him.” I tell her no, I didn’t realize. She gives me a time and date for the funeral. She asks if I’ll be there. “Yes,” I say, still on the floor, “I’ll be there.”