Greetings from the Flipside

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Oooh, like complaint mail. You think they’ll send us free cards if we complain? I love their cards.”

  I roll my eyes. I think Gertie is missing the point. “Just ask them to acknowledge people’s real pain. That’s all I want, Gertie. But tell the girls not to be too mean because the writer, well, he’s not the worst guy in the world.”

  “Oh! A man’s involved. You didn’t tell me that. Then we must help you out!”

  I notice just then that the bride and groom that I know I tossed in the trash can is back on my desk. I take it fully into my hand, stare at it for a moment, squeeze it like I’m juicing a lemon, and then throw it into the trash can with a good measure of annoyance.

  “Tell the ladies to send at least ten of them.”

  “Send one?”

  “Ten! Ten, Miss Gertie.”

  I start unpacking my groceries, stuffing them in the tiny closet in my room. The refrigerated stuff has to go in the community fridge. Ugh. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Suggest they use humor to help people deal with pain, like breakups. Deaths. Ask them to be more real.”

  “Muriel? Honey, she died years ago.”

  “More real! More. Real.”

  “The proper term is realer.”

  I sigh. “Let me just give you the address.”

  I articulate it slowly as I grab my grocery sack and go to the fridge. As Gertie writes down the address on the other end of the phone, I peer into the community fridge in the kitchen down the hallway from me. There are various paper bags labeled with room numbers. Nice and organized, but what’s going to keep someone from stealing my stuff?

  “Okay, got it,” Gertie said.

  “Also, don’t tell them how old you are. In fact, it will help if they think you’re young. So don’t use the nursing home address.” I grab a Sharpie on the counter and start labeling my bag of food. I write Room Eleven!!! four different times. Should I try to draw the Hazardous Material sign on it? Couldn’t hurt.

  “The nursing home address. Okay. So, our Hope found a man?”

  I say my good-byes to Gertie and turn in for the night. I sleep fitfully, barely able to contain all my ideas, going through mock conversations with Jake to try to convince him of the direction he needs to go with his cards.

  The next morning, my food is still in the fridge in the community kitchen. I guess that hazardous waste symbol worked. I grab some yogurt and head in to work. I definitely don’t want to be late for my first day. But just as I’m entering the building, my cell phone rings. It’s Mom—spilling out a dozen questions before I even have a chance to respond. When she takes a breath, I say, “It’s so great here. I found this awesome new apartment. So chic. I mean, you wouldn’t believe this place. And I landed a job too.”

  “Have you found a man?”

  “Is he lost?”

  “You lost him already?”

  I sigh. My mom doesn’t really catch humor. “No, Mom.”

  “I’ve had seven calls responding to my ad in the paper.”

  “Mom, I got the job at the greeting card company.”

  There is a pause. I am on the elevators.

  “Mom? Hello? You there?”

  “They actually hired you to write greeting cards?”

  The doors ding open on the third floor. I grin like there is a crowd awaiting as I step out. First, a trip to the bathroom is in order, to check my hair and makeup. I walk in, still with the phone to my ear, and stand in front of the mirror. “Not exactly writing cards yet. But I will. I’m going to show them how their sappy cards can be so much better.”

  I fluff my bangs and turn—and smack into a wall. No, wait. Not a wall. Solid, definitely. But it’s a man . . . in the women’s bathroom. I drop the phone from my ear and am about to scream for help when I glance over at the . . . urinals. Oh . . . no . . .

  I can hear my mom from my phone. “Hope? Hope?”

  This is the part that’s a little unclear, but in my horror and embarrassment, I shriek and run, only glimpsing a part of his face. Somewhere in there I say it out loud: “Sam?”

  I stand, heaving against the wall outside the bathroom. It couldn’t have been. But he looked just like Sam. At least the chin and the nostrils. That’s about all I saw.

  The door to the men’s bathroom opens and Sam walks out. Except . . . it’s not Sam. Very similar, though. It’s just, this guy couldn’t be a musician. He’s far too clean-cut. He’s tall. Solid, as I said before. And dressed kind of casual. But in a way that makes me think he understands fashion.

  “I’m Everett. Do you want me to be Sam?” He’s grinning at me. It’s the kind of grin that melts you right on the spot. In my new life mantra, I’m determined not to be melted by anything a man does, so I stand a little taller, less melty-ish.

  “No. Um, no. Really.”

  “You can call me Sam. Sam’s a nice name.” He reaches for a handshake, but it’s not the kind that business people do to seal a deal. It’s the kind where a guy pretends he’s shaking your hand, but then he holds it a little longer than necessary. I retrieve my hand quickly.

  “Sorry. You just remind me of this guy I knew.”

  “Is this a good reminder?”

  I take a breath. “Let’s start over. I’m Landon. New employee.”

  “In the ‘sap’ department?”

  Oh dear. He heard that. Okay, damage control time. I turn on my best flirtatious smile. And listen, I’m not claiming it’s got any power. I haven’t really tried one in a long time. But I give it my best shot. “Could you forget you heard that? I wouldn’t want my new boss . . . you know . . .”

  “No worries,” he says smoothly. I am getting a sense about this guy—he’s the kind that flirts with everyone but makes you feel you’re the only one. Currently, it’s working. “I heard this place is going down anyway.”

  My smile drops. “What? Really?”

  “Your new job in the Sap Department will be over by Christmas.”

  He seals this proclamation with a wink then strolls off. I’m left standing there feeling like I need hand sanitizer.

  I find my new desk, right outside Jake’s office, and organize it the way I like it. I tape a picture of my father to my computer monitor. This is more for effect than anything, but I have to admit I do like seeing him staring back at me. It’s like he’s resting on my shoulder, telling me I can do this.

  Jake walks out of his office. “Morning.” He hands me a stack of papers. He is holding a small dish with a small fork and a heaping mound of tuna fish. “Type these into PowerPoint for our next product presentation.” He’s talking fast. “When Pearl and Ruby are done with their illustrations, you’ll scan those in, mount the words for the front of the card on top of them. Page two words go on the second slide.”

  “Okay.”

  He smiles. The tuna smell is engulfing me. “So, your first day.”

  “Yep.”

  “Welcome.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay. Any questions, just holler.”

  “Literally? Or should I use the phone?” His office is a stone’s throw away, but this doesn’t seem like the place where shouting happens. Shouting scares puppies and kittens.

  He pauses. “The phone’s fine. Dial four.”

  “Got it.” I grin while trying to hold my breath. Tuna? Really?

  He leaves and closes his office door. I can now only see his shoulder through the window. The tuna smell lingers.

  I pull up the PowerPoint program and open the folder that contains the papers. The first one reads: Be strong. Be courageous. Have faith. I turn the page to see what the inside of the card is supposed to read: This too shall pass.

  “Oh, brother.” It can only go up from here. I turn to the next page. Jake’s handwriting, I notice, is nice, very legible. I read this one out loud: “‘I know you
think there is no way that you can carry on. Yet don’t lose heart. You’ll be okay—despite the one who’s gone.’” I can barely get myself to turn the page.

  “‘Our God has a plan, a future and a hope. Let this truth help you cope.’”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!!”

  I shout this actually. I don’t mean to. It’s just some things barrel right through my filter and straight out my mouth. Luckily, nobody is around to hear me. I see Jake sort of lean to his left and peek out the window. I give a friendly wave and pretend not to know what’s going on. But I know. Really bad greeting cards. That’s what’s going on.

  I feel a surge of renewed purpose. I’ve got to stop this madness, somehow, someway.

  But for now, I have to enter all this bad text for a slideshow, so I do my thing.

  Just before lunch, I hear arguing. Jake left around ten, citing a meeting, and I hadn’t seen him since. Now I hear his voice, and someone else’s too. They’re down a hallway but they might as well be standing right at my desk. It’s not quite shouting, but voices are raised.

  The other voice says, “Sales have dropped twenty percent since last year. Our investors are going to exercise their option to buy us by the end of the year if we don’t turn a profit this quarter.”

  Jake’s voice is softer but less calm. “We can’t sell. They’re not illumined to our audience. You never should have let them buy into us!”

  Illumined?

  “We need the operating capital. If you wouldn’t give away so much of our profits to every bleeding-heart cause—”

  “This place is my life!” The words are full of emotion, fueled by what sounds like complete and true conviction.

  There is a slight pause in the conversation.

  Then the other man says, “Hey, that’s your choice.”

  Suddenly they round the corner. I can’t even begin to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping. And I immediately recognize the other voice as the guy I ran into in the men’s bathroom. Everett. His frustrated expression brightens as he sees me.

  “Well, well, well. Who do have we here?”

  “This is Landon. My new temporary assistant,” Jake says, introducing me as enthusiastically as one might mention an upcoming colon screening.

  Everett grins at me. “L-l-l-andon.”

  Eck. Not liking what he’s doing with the Ls there.

  Jake continues. “This is my brother, Everett, C.E.O. of Heaven Sent.”

  “C.E. . . . oh . . .” I probably would’ve gulped except I’m frozen with embarrassment. “Good to meet you, Everett.” It’s really more of a squeak.

  “Some people call me Sam.”

  I glance at Jake and he is glancing at Everett like, No they don’t . . .

  I clear my throat, stand at my desk, press my palms against it. “Boys, what’s it going to take for you guys not to sell?”

  “Simple. How about cards people want to buy?” Everett says.

  “People are buying our cards,” Jake says.

  “Not like they used to. What do you think of our cards, Landon?”

  Sometimes sudden bursts of sweat also come with painful prickles. I feel like I’m being stabbed by my own sweat beads. “Ah, um . . . I . . .” I glance at Jake. He looks like one of those puppy dogs on the cover of their cards.

  “Honestly. Gut reaction,” Everett says.

  Gut. Okay. I measure each word that comes out. “One thing I noticed . . . they’re great, you know. Kittens. So cute. Rock on, kittens. But what if we looked at adding a little . . . humor?”

  Like “Pop Goes the Weasel,” Ruby’s head shoots up over her cubicle at the word kitten. Pearl’s follows. They’re the sisters. They have plaques of themselves on four different walls.

  I glance at Jake. He looks wounded. Uncomfortable. He’s staring at the ground. But I recognize my moment—I mean, it’s practically begging me to pitch. I turn to Everett. “A lot of these cards talk about the future, but it’s a place people haven’t made it to yet. What if we write a card line that addresses the now? Where someone is at this moment? But use humor to help them through it?”

  Everett has dropped the “I’m cool” shtick and looks genuinely interested. “Not the worst idea I’ve heard . . .”

  Jake’s voice has an edge to it. “I know you want to help, Landon. But we’re okay here.”

  “It’s your coffin, Jake,” Everett says. “But this next round of cards, make them count. Or they could be your last.” He winks at me and clicks his tongue—I’m baffled at the motivation behind the clicking noise—and walks off.

  Jake stares at me as I return my attention to him. “Here’s what you can help me with. I need love quotes.”

  For a second I think he’s issuing a pickup line. Then I realize he’s giving me a job. “You want me to write love poems?”

  “No. I want you to compile verses from the Bible about love.” He points to the Bible sitting on my desk. “You do know how to reference topics in a Bible, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m well-versed in the accumulation of, um, love verses.”

  “Now that our Christmas line is out, our next campaign needs to include Valentines.”

  “Ohhh, that kind of love. I thought you meant like ‘Love thy neighbor.’” I glance at the Bible. “There’s lovey-dovey kind of stuff in there? Maybe I’m reading the wrong parts. The last time I read the Bible the earth was destroyed by a flood. I don’t remember anything in there that would go good with chocolate and flowers.”

  Jake smirks. “Look hard. I bet you can find something.” And he leaves it at that.

  I stare at the Bible. It must be three inches thick. I’m baffled as to how I’m going to extract meaningful love verses out of a book that I’m sure was very opposed to sex.

  I’m pondering this when Candy arrives at my desk. She is still wearing pink, but a different shade. “Ms. Landon, we have a problem. Your background check revealed some . . . how shall I say this . . . irregular test results.”

  “Is it cancer?”

  She doesn’t smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we ran your social, you appear to be dead.”

  “Not again.”

  Candy’s eyebrows rise. “This is a reoccurring problem for you?” Oddly, she looks hopeful. “I’m a huge fan of Twilight. You’re not a . . .”

  “Vampire? No.” I sigh, gesturing to myself. “Do I look dead to you?”

  “According to the U.S. government, you’re dead. You are claiming to be Hope Landon, are you not?”

  “Not claiming. I am.”

  “Well, honey, we need to clear this up for me to sign you up for health and life insurance. They don’t pay for people who are code blue to noxious stimuli.”

  Candy has the weirdest way of saying things. Oh, wait! Noxious stimuli—does she mean the tuna fish? “I am not dead, Candy.”

  “I don’t know if I can even cut a paycheck for a dead person. We have a strict policy that our employees must have a pulse. Don’t we, Jakester?”

  I quickly turn. Jake is standing there, listening. “So, Hope Landon. I like that name. Any reason you go by Landon?”

  “Sometimes my first name gives people a false sense of who I am.” I’m only half kidding and I think he gets that. He looks a little sad for me.

  “Anyway, can you get this cleared up?” Candy asks me.

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  Jake returns to his office, not saying another word. I stare at the Bible and wonder which book of the Bible I should start with to try to find verses on love. I decide to just randomly pick. I land in Nehemiah.

  I remind myself, this too shall pass.

  7

  Visiting hours were almost over. He hated leaving Hope’s side. He pictured her alone in the dark. What if she woke up? What if no one was here?
The evening nurse that took over from Bette didn’t seem as nice. But he knew he had to go, so he savored the last hour with her, even if she didn’t know he was there.

  Nurse Bette came in, looking tired from a long shift, but as always, she wore a smile. “How’s our girl doing?”

  “About the same.”

  “Where’s the mother?” She always whispered this like just the mention of the woman might cause her to appear.

  Jake laughed. “She’s not here. Her church was holding a prayer revival for Hope. I promised CiCi I would stay here with her until visiting hours were over.”

  Bette was holding something in the palm of her hand, but suddenly waved her hand in front of her nose. “Goodness! What is that smell?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Jake said sheepishly. “Just a can of tuna fish I brought for dinner.”

  “Goodness, gracious me. I brought in some smelling salts for some aromatherapy tonight. Thought I’d try it before I got off my shift, but I mean to tell you, I think that tuna might do the job a little better!”

  “Sorry . . . won’t happen again.”

  “I say bring it on, Jake. Whatever we have to do to get this girl awake. I say bring tuna every single day until she wakes up!”

  Jake laughed. “Maybe. I forget how bad it smells. I eat it every day so it doesn’t bother me.”

  “What’s that you got there in your lap?”

  Jake looked down. It was a sketchpad he took with him any time he thought he might have some time to think . . . the park, a doctor’s office. It had traveled the world with him.

  “It’s just kind of a hobby.”

  “You draw?”

  “No . . . I write greeting cards.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. I try to find encouraging words and verses in the Bible. And then I also dabble in photography, so I like to match it with a picture I’ve taken. I turn it into a card and sell it at my floral shop.”

  “How lovely,” Bette said, but seemed to mean it. Most people didn’t care much about well-crafted, carefully thought-out cards these days.

  “A couple of my cards are over there,” Jake said, nodding toward the shelf where all the cards were sent.