Greetings from the Flipside

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Which ones?”

  “The one with the storm and the sun behind it. Took that picture on the plains of Kansas, and then I wrote a poem.”

  Bette set everything down and went right to the shelf. Jake turned, biting his lip. Bette opened it right up. “Behind every storm in life is a rainbow full of promise and hope. May God’s comfort and love be with you.”

  Bette patted her chest. “Just beautiful, Jake. And so true.”

  “I’m not sure everyone really believes that. But I do.”

  Bette smiled at him. “I do too. And I believe this girl is going to wake up. There’s a rainbow coming, Jake.”

  She walked to the door. “What about the smelling salts you were going to give her?”

  “Honestly, I think the tuna is doing a fine job.”

  “Get some rest, Bette.”

  “See you tomorrow, Jake.”

  Greetings from My Life

  When I am aggravated, I have an extremely hard time not showing it. I clench my teeth together and then move them back and forth slightly. That’s very bad for the enamel. And for the person who has to hear them squeak. But it’s the only way I can keep myself from exploding.

  It’s after work and I’ve been on hold with the Social Security office for forty minutes. I’ve been transferred twice by two different operators. Now I’m listening to music that was never good enough to hit a radio station. My head is throbbing. So I walk outside the YMCA and pace the sidewalk across the street. I am in desperate need of getting undead and receiving a paycheck.

  I hear a little beep. I grow excited, imagining that someone is going to be on the line with me any second. But then I realize it’s my phone, warning me of a low battery. Then, suddenly, a chipper voice greets me with, “You’ve reached the U.S. Government Vital Records office. How may I assist you?”

  My body relaxes like a rag doll. Finally. “Hi! Yes. So glad to finally get someone.”

  “Glad to assist. What can I do for you?”

  “You see, my mother applied for my death certificate, so my Social Security number keeps reporting my death. I need to get that fixed.”

  “Oooh. How unusual.” I’m about to rattle off my SSN when she says, “But you’ve reached the wrong department.”

  Rag doll goes stiff. “What do you mean? I’ve been on hold for forty minutes!”

  “You’ve been on hold for the wrong department.”

  That chipperness in her voice is really starting to tick me off. “Who do I have to talk to, then?”

  “Not to worry, ma’am. I can transfer you directly to the correct department and I will see to it that you can talk to someone—”

  Click.

  “Hello? Hello???” I shake the phone like I can rattle it back to life. But my battery has gone dead.

  First my life. Now my battery. There is death all around me. There’s almost a third as I step into the street and nearly get run over by a taxi. He honks his aggravation.

  “Yeah? Well honk you too, mister!”

  I drag myself back across the street toward the YMCA, where I’m apparently going to be a permanent resident. As I start to walk in, I spot Mikaela. She is sitting against the brick wall, drawing something.

  She doesn’t even look up as I approach. “So, Room Eleven. You revolutionize the greeting card world yet?”

  I decide to slide down against the wall beside her. I can’t really face my room right now. It’s small. Cold. Small.

  “Not quite. What are you writing?”

  “My own set of greeting cards.”

  “Really?”

  “No. My Christmas list.”

  “Where did you disappear to yesterday? You helped me get the job and then bam . . . gone.”

  “We got the job?”

  “I was going to buy you a hot dog.”

  “Things couldn’t very well get romantic with me in the way, could it?”

  I glance at her. “You mean with . . .”

  “Jake. You see the way you look at him, don’t you?”

  “I, uh . . .” Trick question? Or am I that transparent?

  “So, what’s next on our plan?”

  “You know if they’ve got any Bibles around here? I have to find verses on love.”

  Mikaela raises an eyebrow.

  “Long story.”

  I follow Mikaela in and out of some rooms until we land in the kids’ area. She goes straight to the shelf and finds a children’s Bible. She lays on her stomach, the Bible wide open, scanning verses with her fingers. I catch her up to speed.

  “We have one last chance to come out with a set of cards that will sell really well or the company could close. So we’re working on the Valentines line.”

  “Jake’s already letting you write? You must be charming.”

  “Not exactly. On the writing. Or on the charm. I’ve managed to fail at both so far. I think I actually offended him. He’s got this brother who is . . .”

  But she’s not listening. She’s beckoning me over with a hand. “Check this out.” Her voice changes, and she sounds like a mature woman. “‘Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth! Your love is better than wine.’” Then she puts on a deep voice. “‘You are the most beautiful of women, your cheeks with ornaments, your neck with jewels.’”

  “Is that right before God kills all the Egyptian babies?”

  Mikaela glances at me. “You don’t know your Bible very well, do you?”

  “I’m familiar with . . . you know . . . the important parts.”

  “They’re all important.” She starts reading again. “‘My lover is like a bag of myrrh, that lies all night between my breasts.”

  I snatch the Bible from her hands and clamp it closed. “You can’t say lover! You can’t say breasts! Isn’t this a children’s Bible? We’re in the YMCA! Where was this again?”

  Mikaela is expressionless as she watches me mildly overreact. Okay, mildly is too mild of a word.

  “It’s from the Song of Solomon.” This girl’s tone of wisdom strikes me as too mature for her age. “Steamiest part of the Bible.”

  I tuck the Bible under my armpit, but not before noticing the lamb and rainbow on the front cover. “Okay, no more Bible for you, kiddo.”

  “I can handle talking about breasts. I’m not ten. I have a trainer bra.”

  I grab her by the neck and steer her away from the children’s area.

  She is grinning at me as I guide us toward a small sitting area near the front of the building. “So, didn’t you find Jake heavenly?”

  “No.” I plop down in one of the old chairs, duct-taped on one side. Mikaela sits across from me. I begin flipping through the Bible, hoping to come across something between mass murder and breasts. There’s got to be something that shouts Valentine’s Day in here. It’s just a guess but I don’t think Jake is going to go for a card about wine and ornaments and breasts.

  Mikaela is still grinning at me. “I could pick up a bag of myrrh for him. Help boost his love factor.”

  “What do you know about love, anyway?”

  She sighs and in a dreamy voice says, “It makes me sick to my stomach.”

  “You must have inherited my low tolerance for risk.”

  “Love . . . one thing you’re missing is—”

  I turn to her. “Mikaela, listen. Let me break it down for you. Love means—”

  “Loss. Yeah. And loss means pain.”

  She says this with such conviction in her eyes I am momentarily distracted. I regain my focus. “I don’t need either. Perfectly happy without those.”

  “Landon, Landon . . . you don’t have to lie to me.”

  Am I that pathetic that even an eleven-year-old can read me like a book? Except I don’t think I’m lying. I don’t need those things in my life. Not even a bit.

 
; I grab the Bible. “You know what? No eleven-year-old is going to tell me what I need. Go play with your Barbies.”

  I head out the door with the Bible, immediately regretting my anger. I mean, who knows if this kid even owns a Barbie. And honestly, she doesn’t seem like she’d play with one if she did. But I keep walking.

  “Funny,” she calls after me. I round the corner but I still hear her. “Find out what happened to Jake’s humor department!”

  Yeah. Real funny. That’s the whole problem. Jake sees no value in humor. I walk across the street and buy the cheapest deli sandwich I can find because I’m running out of money. The cats have returned but keep their distance.

  Back at the YMCA, I don’t see Mikaela. I clutch my sandwich and my Bible and head down the hallway.

  That old woman, the janitor, is near my door, sliding her mop elegantly across the floor, stroke by stroke. She clutches it tightly, like it might be the only thing that is keeping her from falling over. There is something familiar about her, like I’ve known her for a long time, but I am certain we’ve never met. Maybe she just has one of those faces.

  I’m so consumed with watching her that I don’t at first notice the A taped to my door. When I spot it, I grow angry. I rip it off my door. It really just needed a gentle pull. It was only held on there with a small piece of Scotch tape, but it’s just annoying me. What does it mean? Am I supposed to know what it means? Why are people pasting the alphabet on my door? Nobody else has the alphabet posted on their door.

  The janitor lady is staring at me. I try a congenial smile as I unlock the door. I slide in and shut it quickly. I wad the A up and toss it in the trash just as I notice the plastic bride and groom are back on the desk.

  It’s got to be Mikaela. She’s found some way to get in my room. I grab the little plastic piece, ball it up in my fist, and throw it straight down into the trash. Then I take my hands and cover it up with the other trash.

  After a while, I calm down. I am tired and I still haven’t compiled the verses Jake wants. He didn’t give me a deadline but I want to make a good impression, have them done sooner than he expected.

  I get as comfortable as possible on the bed and crack the book open.

  * * * *

  I take my midmorning break thirty minutes after I arrive. I’m stressed. I am struggling to find a way to convince Jake that his card line needs an overhaul. He doesn’t seem receptive to change, as was evident when I witnessed his conversation with Everett.

  I stand in the break room and stir my black coffee even though I’ve forgotten to even add the cream. I know I have the answer to his dilemma. I know how to save his company. But how do I convince him?

  In a corner, I spot a stack of canned tuna fish. Good grief! Is that what this man eats every day of his life for lunch? How am I going to endure the stench every day? I barely have time to think about that problem when Everett comes in, hands in his pockets, grin on his face, casually observing me as he walks by.

  “So, new girl . . .” He pours himself a cup of coffee into a mug he’s chosen from the cabinet.

  “Everett.” I turn to him, still mindlessly stirring my coffee. “I was thinking, maybe we could talk about a new approach to Valentines.”

  He looks very receptive to the idea and I’m about to pitch him a punch line for a card when he says, “How about we discuss it on my boat?”

  Like a flash fire, my whole face heats in an instant. From experience I know that my neck is soon to follow. Also from experience, I know that a wave of nausea is about to trigger a gag reflex over which I have no control. This happens when I get to a level of discomfort that my soul does not want to deal with. Sam’s breakup has brought an entirely new dynamic to my just-below-normal tolerance for pain.

  “Yeah . . . ah . . . no.”

  “Was that a yes or a no?”

  “A no.”

  I back up. I don’t know why. It’s just instinct. Maybe I want to make sure that if I upchuck he’s a safe distance away. Or maybe I just want him a safe distance away. He’s smiling at me like Sam used to. There is amusement in his eyes, like this is some sort of fun game. I hate to break it to him, but only one of us is playing.

  “With a yeah in front of it.”

  “What?”

  “A no, but first a yeah.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “So yeah?”

  “No.” I bite my lip because although I don’t want to be on a boat, I do want to pitch him my ideas. I know I can help this company! I am certain of it. “I mean, we could talk here.” To my shock and horror, this comes out sultry. I’m not meaning it to. I’m kind of keeping my tongue close to the back of my throat to keep breakfast down, and I’m blinking rapidly—not batting my eyelashes—because I’m nervous. “Later,” I say with a weird mix of emphasis and breathiness. By the way he raises one eyebrow like I’ve just seduced him, I realize I’m giving off all kinds of false signals. “Would you excuse me?”

  I turn, about to skedaddle right out the door when I run smack-dab into Jake, who is reaching for a can of tuna. He’s looking very relaxed today. As I back up and apologize for nearly knocking him over, he opens the tuna with the electric opener. It makes a small buzzing sound, so slight that it gives no hint of what is about to come—tuna odor wafting through the air like we’re out at sea in a fishing boat. I can almost hear the slapping sounds of their fins as they’re brought up by a net.

  He grins at me, oblivious to it all. “Hey Hope. I can’t wait to see the love verses you’ve compiled.”

  “It’s Landon. They’re on my desk.” I didn’t know it was possible, but you can actually speak while holding your breath.

  “I didn’t doubt it,” he says with a wink. He dumps the tuna on a plate, slides it into the microwave. My gag reflex cannot handle this smell heated.

  I don’t know which way to turn. Everett says, “Did he just call you Hope?”

  It’s nuked for ten seconds and already the smell is overwhelming. Hot tuna? Can this get any worse?

  I mumble something about getting back to work, smile and nod on my way out, and rush to the bathroom.

  Luckily, Pine-Sol fills my nostrils as soon as I hit the bathroom tile. I breathe it in deeply, encouraging the chemicals into my lungs. It’s better than fresh mountain air. Soon the tuna smell is gone and I’m grateful. I make a mental note to buy some kind of scented candle for my desk and return to work.

  Lunch finally arrives. Jake, Everett, and everybody disappear from the office. I don’t have money to go shop or do anything like that, so I decide now is the time to go investigate the Humor Department, otherwise known as the Dungeon of Doom.

  There is a small desk, nothing on it but a lamp, in the center of the department. There are three cubicles. The corkboard has some outdated company announcements on it and an ad for free puppies. Other than that, it’s cold and dark.

  I sit down at the desk, trying to get my mojo on. A lamp provides one, small, circle of light from which I can work. And work, I do. I’m on a mission. I’ve got to produce a whole line of cards that will show Everett and convince Jake that humor needs to return to their company.

  I don’t realize it, but a lot of time has passed. All of a sudden I hear my name being called. “Hope? Hope, I need you. Where are you?”

  I scoop up my pad and pencils and yank open the drawer of the desk I’m sitting at and shove everything in there. I figured it would be empty, but my hand hits something. I pull out a picture frame. It’s a photo of Jake with his hands wrapped around a very pretty woman. He looks happy—and in love.

  “Hope?”

  I rush to my desk and practically jump over it to get to my chair. Jake has walked down a short hallway looking for me and is returning when he spots me at my desk.

  “There you are.”

  “Sorry about that. What can I do for you?” I’m out of breath
, trying not to show it, grabbing some sticky notes like I’d just gone to the supply closet.

  “I just need those verses.”

  “Right away!” The overly enthusiastic reply is punctuated by how he pauses at the doorway of his office to glance at me. My chest is about to explode with guilt and wonder. Who was the woman in that picture?

  He walks into his office and I also wonder why he keeps calling me Hope. I’ve specifically asked him to call me Landon. Even if he’s seen my real name, he should call me what I want to be called. I’m going to have to address the issue but now is not the time.

  I grab the list I’ve typed up and hurry into his office. Then I’m slammed with the smell of tuna. Again. I assumed he went out to eat, but no—there is that ominous small dish with the cheap metal fork. The tuna has been consumed yet it lingers like a jealous lover. A jealous lover who needs to bathe in something less oceanic.

  “Tuna for breakfast and lunch . . . wow . . . some people prefer peanut butter and jelly . . .”

  “Some people, when coming to work for a new boss, tend not to galvanize him within the first week. Hope.”

  “Yes, about that. Not the galvanizing—interesting and ancient word choice there—but Hope. Hope with a capital H. I prefer to be called Landon.”

  “Not a hope kind of girl?”

  “Not lately, no.”

  Just then Everett swings in. I wish I could say he’s a breath of fresh air, but I’ve found that not to be the case.

  “It seems,” he says, acknowledging me with another wink, “that we’ve been making enemies. Our first set of hate mail.” He throws part of the stack in his hands onto Jake’s neatly arranged desk. The letters slide into a line, stopping right at the edge. Everett holds a couple in his hand. He reads the one on top out loud:

  “‘Dear Heaven Sent People. Your cards are far from heaven sent. After my marriage ended, I received a card that said life will get better. It hasn’t. If you’re going to lie to me, you could at least make me laugh. Sincerely, the Former Mrs. Teasley.’”

  My eyes widen so much my eyeballs start to hurt. Wow. I didn’t know Mrs. Teasley had it in her. I glance at Jake. He looks genuinely pained. I’m kind of regretting the plan now, but Everett begins the second letter: