by H. M. Mann
And then a thought hit Gunn like a freight train hitting those stupid semi-trailers that have gotten stuck on the tracks and someone had the sense to film it with his or her cell phone.
I love her, Gunn thought, because Thais Knotts makes me feel safe.
Johnny appreciated the irony of it all. “She’s there to assassinate you, stupid!” he yelled.
The mice shook their heads, too, and Johnny continued to type.
Thais Knotts makes me feel safe and secure, Gunn thought.
But mostly, Thais Knotts made Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn feel. He felt. It felt good to feel. It made him feel full of feelings that felt good. His feelings were strong. His feelings were virile. He couldn’t ignore the manly feelings coursing through his Scotch (or Irish, or both) veins. Felt feelings must be released, he thought. He needed to feel something. He needed to feel feelings for someone who made him feel.
“I don’t know what to say,” Thais said, not knowing what to say.
And neither, again, did Johnny. He was exhausted, emotionally tapped out, and it was way past his bedtime. What do other romance writers do when they’ve run out of meaningful plot?
Duh.
So Gunn kissed Thais. He kissed her so she didn’t have to say anything. He kissed her so he wouldn’t have to say anything. They kissed each other, not speaking, mind you, in a silence without words of any kind, so neither would have to say anything for a long, long time. It was really quiet except for a whole bunch of lip smacking going on.
Her lips felt good to him, and his lips felt good to her. They kissed each other hard, loosening teeth and even bruising the little spaces under their noses, those spaces that have a name that nobody knows except maybe anatomy students, Jeopardy contestants, and those nerdy kids in the national spelling bee.
Her tongue tasted like dusty Hummel figurines mixed with coffee and donut sprinkles. His tongue tasted like Tom Collins, Johnny Walker, Cuban cigar, and ash from his dead mother. But neither cared, because they weren’t saying anything, and saying nothing was sometimes a very good thing to say.
They were kissing fools. They swapped spit. They shared old saliva containing, as everybody knows, all known diseases and even some that had threatened to spread into a pandemic and cause the Centers for Disease Control to throw up their collective hands and cry, “We are so not in control of any diseases, but at least we’re safe here in Atlanta since we have all the cool antidotes.” They played tonsil hockey, Thais using a wicked slap shot to score again and again and again. They tickled each other’s uvulas into submission. They stayed in lip-lock while Gunn’s mother’s dust floated maternally all around them, and afterwards, Gunn’s little crooked tooth, the one that made him look most like an incorrigible rogue, had straightened out.
Johnny decided to use the “have ‘em shut up and kiss” method when he couldn’t think of anything interesting for them to say or do. He reasoned that fifteen pages of teeth-rattling followed by, oh, a sentence or two of plot and a fragment of character development would make his book become an instant bestseller.
Johnny looked at the clock. He noticed the sun for the first time. It had this habit of rising every single day. He had been writing all night and most of the day and was forty minutes from clocking in for his shift. He didn’t know whether to edit what he’d written or simply print it out, warts and all, for Gloria. He knew he was too close to his work to give it an unbiased edit, so he decided to print it all out while he showered.
The shower water startled Johnny awake several times, and when he stepped out of the tub, he realized he wouldn’t have time to separate all the pages of his manuscript. Instead, he rushed off to work, his manuscript an accordion of fanfold paper resting on the passenger seat.
“You are late again,” Hector said, eying several orders on the counter ready to be delivered.
“I was on a hot streak,” Johnny said.
“With a lady?” Hector asked.
Johnny smiled. “With two ladies, actually.”
“You?”
Johnny didn’t like the way Hector said, “You?”
“You?” Hector said again.
Johnny didn’t like the way Hector said it the second time either.
He tried to ignore Hector for the first part of the night, collecting coupons, miniscule tips, and growls from one customer’s Pomeranian. He once again visited Randy, who pursed his lips this time and flexed some seriously hairy toes while wearing only some Lycra bicycle shorts, but Johnny didn’t care, even when the twenty was soggy this time, because someone was going to read his masterpiece tonight.
And she will be amazed.
13
By the time the Vega’s gas gauge dipped below the “E,” it was past eleven. Johnny rolled next to a gas pump at Quick-E Mart, and before he could get out of his car, the gas pump whirred to life. Gloria is so efficient, he thought. He pumped in five dollars’ worth, grabbed the manuscript, and walked inside.
“Busy night?” Gloria asked, tapping her fingertips on the counter.
Johnny slid across five ones and looked around. We’re the only two people in the Quick-E Mart universe tonight. Cool. “Yes,” Johnny said with a sigh. “Hector and his two-for-one coupons.” He laid the manuscript on the counter. “This is a really rough draft, and I mean, rough. There’s bound to be a typo or two.”
“I’ll mark them for you,” Gloria said, “only if it’s all right with you.”
“Um, sure,” Johnny said. “Go right ahead.”
Gloria rang up the sale, sliding a cherry Dum-Dum across the counter. “When will you be back?”
Johnny focused on the clock behind her. “I get off at two or so.”
“I’ll still be here.”
He rapped the counter. “See you later then.”
“Drive safely,” Gloria said.
“I will.”
Gloria watched Johnny go and sized up the manuscript. Fanfold paper, she thought. Either he’s old school, or …
Gloria didn’t know what to think.
After tearing off the edges and separating all the pages, she stood at the counter and prepared to read.
The bell on the door tinkled.
Shoot, Gloria thought. I hate when work gets interrupted by work.
She set the manuscript aside as Vic, a regular, entered the store followed by a young white kid.
“Hey Vic,” Gloria said.
Vic only nodded. Vic rarely spoke to her or anyone else, preferring to chat only to himself and occasionally to a bag of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries.
Gloria wished that Johnny would look at her for more than a few seconds at a time. It was obvious that Johnny was shy, but it was also obvious that he liked seeing her. There were four other gas stations closer to Señor Pizza, but Johnny always bought his gas at Quick-E Mart, even when Quick-E Mart’s gas prices were often higher than the others were.
And here I am flirting with a man using cheap suckers, Gloria thought. She kept a handy stash of Dum-Dums under the counter just for Johnny.
And she didn’t know why.
Johnny wasn’t Gloria’s type, not that she actually pursued a specific type of man or any man for that matter. She had always preferred men who took care of their bodies and had a decent education, which had severely limited her choices. These men didn’t necessarily have to be athletic, just fit. She wondered often if Johnny had once been an offensive lineman or a wrestler in high school.
“Hey, baby.”
Gloria looked down at the skeletal boy in front of her. He wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap tilted to the side, a white hoody covered with skulls, creased jeans, and unlaced Vans skateboarder shoes.
“How ya doin’, beautiful?” The boy pointed behind her at the cigarette case. “How ‘bout gettin’ me soma dem Black ‘n’ Milds?”
Gloria didn’t move, staring holes into the twelve-pack of Budweiser the child was trying to buy. She had leg stubble older than the peach fuzz under his nose. “I need to see some ID.”
/> The boy’s eyes darted to a car idling outside. “Sure thing, beautiful.” He handed her a shiny ID, its edges ragged and held together by Scotch tape.
It’s his picture all right, Gloria thought, but he isn’t Salvatore Bella, who was born in 1967. “You’re older than I am, Salvatore,” Gloria said, hoping the kid would get the hint and give up.
“What can I say?” the kid said. “I age good.”
You age well, Gloria thought. Lazy public schools don’t teach these kids a thing these days. “Uh-huh.”
The boy leaned in. “Look,” he whispered, “the other lady don’t give me no trouble, yo.”
Because, Gladys, the other manager, don’t care about nothing, yo, Gloria thought. And as soon as they make me store manager, I am going to fire Gladys, yo. “Okay, um, Salvatore, what’s your social security number?”
The boy slapped a twenty on the counter. “My social security number is two-zero, and you can keep the change, beautiful.”
No wonder Gladys drives a nice car, Gloria thought. I have to ride the nasty city bus. “Put the beer back now, whatever your real name is.”
“What?”
Gloria opened the register, dropped in the illegal ID, and closed the register. “The cameras are rolling, Sal.” She pointed at several cameras. “Don’t make trouble or I’ll send your video to World’s Dumbest Criminals. I’m sure you’ll make the top ten.”
The boy cursed and kicked the counter. “Gimme back my ID!”
“No.” Gloria pulled back the twelve-pack. “I’ll put these back. You have a nice, safe night, okay?”
Vic shuffled behind the boy, and the boy turned to stare at Vic. “Who you eyeballin’, old man?”
Vic whispered something in the boy’s ear, the boy’s eyes popped, and Vic whispered something else.
The boy took off his hat and turned to Gloria. “I’m sorry, lady.”
Gloria smiled, but only at Vic. “Apology accepted,” she said.
The boy tore out of the store and the car outside squealed tires and roared away.
Vic placed a can of Diet Coke and a bag of hot fries on the counter, sliding a pile of change to Gloria.
“What did you say to him, Vic?” Gloria asked.
Vic held up his right index finger, the fingernail at least an inch long. “Told him I had a blade in his back, gonna cut him if he don’t apologize.”
“Oh.” Gloria quickly separated Vic’s coins and pushed several pennies back to Vic.
Vic winked. “Keep the change, beautiful.”
As crazy as he acts, Gloria thought, Vic doesn’t miss a thing. “Thanks, Vic.” She put the remaining three pennies in the “Need a penny, take a penny” cup.
Vic shuffled out, talking to Andy Capp.
And to think I went to college for all this fun, Gloria thought, secretly wishing the boy would have tried something. She knew she could whip his tail, and not because she once took a karate class. Gloria Minnick knew how to fight, learning firsthand on the mean streets of Northwest Roanoke. She still had scars from a fight in seventh grade with a much bigger girl … who still won’t speak to me almost twenty years later. What’s up with that?
She rubbed the tiny scar over her right eyebrow and sighed. At least Vic did something, Gloria thought. Now if only Johnny would do something, say something. She pulled the manuscript from under the counter. This will just have to do for now. Okay, Johnny, what are you going to tell me tonight?
A minute into the manuscript, Gloria’s eyes ached, threatening to withdraw from her face.
She blinked often for half an hour.
She picked her jaw off the floor several times, glad she had earlier mopped it so well.
She even laughed when she should have been cursing.
“No … way,” she whispered often.
“Is he serious?” she cried several times.
“I can’t believe a single word of this!” she yelled into the page.
Unfortunately, no customers kept Gloria from finishing Johnny’s rough rough draft.
When Gloria finished the last offensive page, she sat on her stool, her entire body shaking, her jaw muscles tight. This, she thought, is the all-time worst romance novel ever written. Vic talking to his hot fries makes more sense than this does!
She closed her eyes. Unless …
Calm down, Gloria. Breathe. That’s better.
Unless Johnny is trying to write a satire or a farce. I hope he’s trying to do that. It might actually work as a satire on romance novels, but as a straight romance? No freaking way!
Gloria had to admit to herself that Johnny, the seemingly down-to-earth shy guy she gave suckers to, was probably insane and did not have a firm grip on reality. She feared he might never have had any grip on reality at any time. Johnny saw women as evil, brain dead bimbos dragged along by their hair by their cave dwelling Neanderthal men. Johnny didn’t know a thing about logic, plot, character development, pacing, or transition.
Gloria knew that Johnny couldn’t write.
A lick.
She opened her eyes, and the manuscript was still there. She was amazed that it didn’t instantaneously burst into flames out of shame.
She took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. Okay, yes, he can string a group of words together, he generally has a subject and a verb in each sentence, he’s pretty decent with his punctuation and paragraphing, but … He’s no storyteller. Yes, he tells a story, but his story is whack. It’s crap. It’s gum on the bottom of a shoe. It’s literary excrement.
But how can I tell Johnny all this without hurting his feelings?
Gloria knew she couldn’t keep the truth from Johnny, deciding that Johnny’s feelings would have to be hurt for his own good—and for hers. Gloria had self-respect, character, and integrity. She couldn’t say a book was great when it wasn’t, even if she was somewhat sweet on its author, who now scared the living crap out of her.
Gloria’s integrity was all she had sometimes. She said, “Excuse me,” whenever she burped or pooted, even when no one else was around. She never cursed and kept her ample bosom and skin hidden under her clothes where they belonged. She did her own hair and nails and wore sensible, quality, comfortable shoes. She ate only when she was hungry, didn’t drink or smoke or hang out with those who did, and exercised daily, rarely sitting on the stool behind the counter for any length of time. She still brushed her teeth after every meal, still took multi-vitamins every morning, and still managed to get eight hours of sleep every night. She didn’t go clubbing, she didn’t flirt (except with Dum-Dums), and she didn’t raise her voice to be noticed. She was always in church every Sunday that her schedule allowed, and she always started each day with a prayer.
Gloria Minnick considered herself a spiritual no-drama hot mama.
And she was lonely because of it.
Gloria was single and waiting for the right man to notice her integrity, her simplicity, her self-respect, and her sensible shoes. And here I am giving Dum-Dums to a dum-dum so he’ll notice me! What does that say about me?
She sighed and looked at the clock: 2 AM. Johnny should be here by now. Oh yeah. It’s coupon night. Maybe I should get a coupon and order a pizza this weekend. But do I want a misogynistic sexist freak delivering a pizza to me?
She saw a pair of headlights turning into the parking lot.
I am so glad the store is empty. I hope to God that I’ve read this thing wrong. I really hope to God that I haven’t been reading Johnny wrong all these months. But if I haven’t, well, I have to tell him the truth, no matter how much it hurts him.
Or me.
14
Johnny approached the counter gradually, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, his eyes no higher than Gloria’s brown hands firmly planted on the orange counter. “Sorry I’m so late.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s sometimes hard to get folks to give me the coupons,” Johnny said. “They want to use them again.”
“It’s f
ine. Really.”
Johnny looked at Gloria’s right thumb. “Um, did you have time to …”
Gloria nodded then realized Johnny didn’t see her nodding. “Yes. I read it.”
“So, um, what did you think?” She has a cute thumb.
Gloria caught a strong whiff of bleach mixed with degreaser, oregano, and pizza sauce. “Well, it was an interesting satire.”
Did she say “satire”? “A what?”
Crap, Gloria thought. It wasn’t a satire. It really was crap. Maybe I can make him think differently about his book. “A satire. You do a pretty fair job of satirizing the romance novel.”
“Of doing what?”
Oh no! “You’re making fun of romance novels, aren’t you?”
“Um, no. I hadn’t intended to do that. Why?”
Why? Because it sucked rocks! “You mean that you actually expect this … this manuscript to be taken seriously.”
“Yes.”
Gloria wished there was something she could count on a man—his freckles, his eyebrow hairs, his teeth—that would give her an accurate idea of his IQ. Johnny was hard to read, and his current IQ was in the single digits. “You wrote this as a serious romance.”
“Yes.” Johnny sighed. “You hated it.”
Gloria looked at her hands to see what Johnny saw so fascinating down there. “Hate is a pretty strong word, Johnny. I have, um, I have some issues with it, some reservations, some problems that maybe we can solve, um, together.” That was actually nicer than I intended to be.
“Oh. Um, well, like I said, it’s really, really rough. I haven’t had any time to edit it properly. I wanted to give you a substantial chunk tonight. I know it’s pretty, um, raw.” He raised his eyes to Gloria’s chin. Hey, her chin is cute, too. Small and kind of smile-shaped. “Is it really that bad?”