The Worst Romance Novel Ever Written

by H. M. Mann

  Marion smiled at Gloria.

  Gloria did not smile back.

  “I told you this was deep.” Johnny looked into Angel’s eyes. “Aristotle said we have to have jobs that we are best at doing. He said we wouldn’t be happy if we did jobs we were only good at doing. If a pizza delivery driver wanted to be a writer and that made him happy, he must be best at being a pizza delivery driver and a writer. An eye, Aristotle said, is for seeing because that is what an eye is best at doing. An ear is for hearing because …”

  “That’s what an ear is best at doing,” Angel said.

  “And lips, then,” Johnny said, turning to look into Gloria’s eyes, “are for kissing because that is what lips are best at doing.”

  This is so romantic, Gloria said. Boring, but romantic.

  This is the dumbest children’s story I’ve ever heard, Marion thought. Lips are best for smacking.

  “Aristotle’s point is this,” Johnny said, hoping he’d at least come close to any point Aristotle might have made. “He said human beings are best at reasoning, at thinking things through, so in order for us to be happy …”

  “We have to think a lot,” Angel said.

  “And learning this beautiful fact,” Johnny said, “made Angel very happy because she liked to think a lot. ‘My job must be to think,’ Angel said, ‘because I’m the best thinker I know.’”

  The kitchen was quiet.

  It’s too quiet in here, Johnny thought. That’s all I got, folks. I’m tapped out. The end. End of chapter one. Put in the bookmark, close the book, and turn out the light.

  Angel nodded. “Was that the first chapter?”

  Johnny nodded. Just don’t ask for chapter two until next week.

  “It was okay,” Angel said. “May I be excused?”

  Gloria nodded, and Angel left the kitchen.

  “Angel?” Gloria called.

  Angel returned. “Oh.” She took her bowl, spoon, plate, and cup to the sink. “Sorry.” Then she skipped out of the kitchen.

  Johnny looked at Gloria and Marion. Why are their eyes so wide? What just happened? A little girl forgot to do something then skipped out. Big deal. I forget to wear socks sometimes, but no one can see that I’m not … Wait. “That was a first, wasn’t it?”

  Gloria and Marion nodded.

  “She doesn’t normally forget her dishes,” Johnny said.

  Gloria and Marion shook their heads.

  “And she doesn’t skip,” Johnny said.

  “I didn’t know she could,” Gloria whispered. “And all because you told her a whack story about a Greek philosopher.”

  “So she digs Greek philosophers,” Johnny said, ignoring the whack crack. “It could be worse. She could dig big fake purple falsetto singing dinosaurs or sponges that talk or singers named after states.”

  “She likes your story,” Marion said, “because she is the star.”

  True, Gloria thought.

  “And we’re all liable to see even more changes because of what you two are up to,” Marion said. “You two have messed with her daily schedule. She’ll get used to you, Johnny, and she may even come to tolerate you and your crazy stories, but this is still her house. You’re still just a visitor to her.”

  I don’t mind the sound of that, Johnny thought.

  I could get used to that, Gloria thought.

  Look at them, Marion thought. Both of them have nothing but lust on their minds.

  At three o’clock, Johnny said his goodbyes, first visiting Angel’s room.

  It was the scariest child’s room Johnny had ever seen.

  Nothing was out of place. Even the dust was in places dust was supposed to be. The army could have used Angel’s room as an example of the ideal room, the bed made to perfection, every book lined up according to size on a bookcase, an old-fashioned blotter the only thing on the shiny desk. No paper, no dust bunnies, no gum on the headboard, no clothes on the floor.

  Johnny also didn’t see a single toy, stuffed animal, or poster, navy blue baseboards accenting the bright white walls. I would go completely insane in here, Johnny thought. This is an adult’s room, not a kid’s room.

  He eased over to Angel as she sat in a small easy chair reading the Egyptian history book, a glass floor lamp towering over her. If she’s up here reading, does that mean … No way.

  “Have you finished the puzzle?” Johnny asked.

  “Yes,” Angel said, and she turned a page.

  “Amazing,” Johnny said. “And it looks as if you’re almost done with that book.”

  Angel nodded. “I finished it last night. I’m just reading the most interesting parts again.”

  This child makes me feel so dumb. “Um, I don’t know when I’ll see you again, maybe next Saturday.” Johnny watched her turn another page. “I’ll try to find another puzzle that’s more of a challenge for you.”

  “That’s all right,” Angel said. “I’d rather go to the library.”

  The library. Of course. “We could do that,” Johnny said.

  “Saturday morning,” Angel said.

  Johnny smiled. “It’s a date.”

  Angel finally looked up from her book. “I like to get there when they open, so get here early.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Or should I have saluted her here in this military room? “You have a good week in school.”

  Angel sighed. “I always have a good week in school.”

  Johnny nodded. “Then you have the best week in school.”

  Angel rolled her eyes and continued reading.

  I’m getting to her, Johnny thought. Those rolling eyes don’t lie.

  26

  After that first Saturday in mid-November, Gloria and Johnny established a routine that wore them out but kept them smiling. Johnny visited Gloria more often during his shift whether he needed gas or not, and Gloria had to buy more Dum-Dums. He sometimes picked her up after her shift at 5 AM, took her to his somewhat cleaner apartment thanks to the new vacuum Gloria gave him, and gave her some good rubdowns and backrubs, always making sure that he drove her to her house before six-thirty each morning to see Angel off to school. While Gloria slept, Johnny only thought about writing, fantasized about bliss, drowsed, and sometimes even remembered to eat and do laundry. On weekends when Gloria was off, Johnny spent most of Saturday and Sunday with his new family, including his first Thanksgiving dinner with family since he was in high school.

  Marion had even let Gloria make a pound cake for the event.

  It didn’t explode.

  Johnny helped them decorate the house for Christmas, something he hadn’t done since he was Angel’s age. He helped Angel wrap the banister with fake ivy, helped Gloria string outside lights and didn’t electrocute himself, helped Gloria and Angel make angel cookies that wouldn’t be used as mouse poison, and even bought and somehow made a nine-foot spruce fit in a room with an eight-foot ceiling.

  The Minnicks decided that a star wouldn’t be necessary this year and that Johnny would patch and paint the ceiling in January.

  Everything in the Minnick home had its holiday place. The ivy wound up the banister clockwise. Johnny didn’t ask why. The glass angel candleholders had to go in ascending order from left to right. Again, Johnny didn’t ask why. Angel’s homemade ornaments had to be put on last in prominent positions on the tree. Tinsel hung individually, one strand at a time for even coverage. Mary had to touch the baby Jesus’s hand in the nativity scene. The Christmas candy dishes were filled with silver, red, and green Hershey’s kisses arranged in a diamond shape. The solid white outside lights had to go in straight lines with no renegades and no “blinkers.” Gloria took pictures of Angel in front of the tree in the exact same spot “so she can see how she has grown from year to year.”

  Nature was random.

  The Minnick Christmas was not.

  They even attended Faith Ministries, a small but vibrant, young, and growing church a few miles away in the town of Salem. Johnny somehow fit into one of Nathan’s old suits and
even remembered how to tie a tie, but when Angel noticed Johnny’s white-gray socks sprouting from his boots during the first service, Gloria had gone to Kmart immediately after the service and bought him several pairs of black socks and a pair of black church shoes.

  “Early Christmas presents,” Johnny told Angel, showing them off at the next service.

  Angel had once again rolled her eyes.

  Johnny loved listening to the excellent Gospel music that opened every service, boys ages ten to sixteen forming the band of drums, keyboards, and bass, the pastor’s wife, Faith, filling the small sanctuary with powerful melodies about God’s love, mercy, and holiness. He found himself getting goose bumps later in the week just from the memory of these songs.

  Johnny also loved listening to Marion talking back to the preacher, a man not much older than Johnny. “That’s it!” she’d shout. “You ain’t lyin’!” she’d cry. “That’s what the Good Book says, indeed,” she’d assert with a nod. Sometimes Marion even grabbed Johnny’s leg or hugged him for no reason at all.

  Gloria didn’t need any reasons. She just hugged him because he was there.

  When Gloria introduced Johnny as an “engineer and novelist,” Pastor Payton immediately started calling him “Doc” and asking his advice about the sound system, the heating and air conditioning, and the old wiring in the building, hinting that he could “sure use a you as a deacon” and urging him to “come up with some ideas for some skits and plays.”

  And this was just in the first two minutes of meeting the man.

  Johnny became a deacon-in-training the following week.

  When Johnny told Pastor Payton, “I deliver pizzas for a living, Pastor,” Pastor Payton smiled broadly and said, “So you work nights! There’s so much to do around here during the day.” Pastor Payton put Johnny’s apartment phone number into his cell phone on the spot and promised to call often.

  And Pastor Payton didn’t lie about that.

  Johnny found he couldn’t say no to the dreadlocked, charismatic former Marine, and he was often working at the church right up to this shift. He cleaned and vacuumed. He painted. He removed paint from old windows so they could be opened. He closed windows that had been open for years. He moved tables, chairs, and oak pews, seemingly on a daily basis. He fixed toilets. He re-fixed toilets. He made Mickey Mouse pancakes for the children in before-school care, and they didn’t complain about the misshapen ears. They even laughed at his silly jokes. When he commented to Pastor Payton that the church could use a sidewalk from the parking lot to the stairs so the ladies wouldn’t have to carry their spiked heels down a muddy hill, Pastor Payton gave him a mandate: “Get that sidewalk done.”

  Johnny got it done. He ruined a pair of jeans, the long johns under them, a sweatshirt, and some winter gloves so the women wouldn’t ruin their shoes.

  He tried to fix phones and phone lines in the ancient building, but even he and Pastor Payton had no luck there. “Guess God will just have to speak to us in still, small voices for a while,” Pastor Payton said.

  On Sundays before the service, Johnny would stand in the parking lot greeting folks, complimenting outfits, shaking hands, and generally smiling to dispel the December gloom. After standing in the back during the music that lasted forty-five minutes, Johnny would join his new family.

  Though Johnny was only listening to and not quite speaking to God, he most loved the long prayers during the service that allowed him to hold the hand of Gloria, the woman he loved more and more each day. And sometimes, just sometimes, little Angel’s hand would sneak into his, disappearing from his hand before the “Amen.”

  He found himself getting goose bumps later in the week just from the memory of these moments, too.

  Yes, Johnny Holiday had never been happier because he was finally a Holiday at home for the holidays and had a purpose in life.

  Gloria, however, wanted Johnny to join the rest of the world in the twenty-first century, so she begged him to get a cell phone.

  “Do I really need one?” Johnny asked. “I’m technologically challenged.”

  “You had one before,” Gloria said, “and you do have a degree in engineering, Johnny.”

  “And now you know another reason that I don’t use that degree,” Johnny said. “All those buttons. I’m all thumbs. I’m afraid I’ll call Guam by mistake.”

  “But then Pastor Payton can reach you more easily and at a moment’s notice,” Gloria said.

  Johnny didn’t agree that this was a fine idea.

  “And I can whisper in your ear while you drive,” Gloria added.

  Johnny agreed that this was a fine, romantic idea that would give him yet another excuse to deliver his pizzas late.

  He zipped over to the Verizon Wireless store half an hour after it opened on the second Tuesday in December, deciding, irrationally, that Tuesdays in December were slow at wireless phone stores. He had expected to waltz right in, get a phone, and waltz right out within ten minutes.

  He was deader than dead wrong, as usual.

  The store was already crowded when Johnny arrived, most of the customers staring at their own phones or browsing for new ones. I am amazed more people don’t walk headlong into walls or each other because of those things, Johnny thought. Forehead injuries have to be on the rise worldwide. If I patented a forehead pad and found a company to make it, I’d be rich!

  Johnny also marveled at the black and red color scheme inside the store, likening it to a checkerboard or chessboard.

  Johnny’s chess match with Verizon had just begun, only he was the pawn that never moved.

  A girl, who was dressed casually in jeans, sweater, and sandals on such a cold day and was seemingly fresh out of middle school, blocked his path to the shiny phones on their little plastic stands. “Welcome to the Verizon Wireless store,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  Who are you? Johnny thought. Do you really work here? Do your parents know you’re here alone? Where’s your nametag? “Um, I’m getting a cell phone today.”

  “Wonderful,” the girl said. “Let’s get you into the queue.” She pivoted and stepped over to a computer keyboard at a kiosk. “What’s your name?”

  “Johnny.”

  The girl typed in his name, checked the SALES box, and hit ENTER. “Now you’re in the queue.”

  Are we suddenly in Great Britain? The queue? We Americans call it “the line,” Missy. “I am?”

  The girl pointed to a flat-screen monitor hanging from the ceiling. “Your name is third in the sales queue.”

  Oh, bully, will we have scones and tea and discuss the thrilling retreat to Dunkirk while we wait? “You mean I just can’t go pick out a phone and pay for it over there?” He pointed to a long counter, a few customers milling about in front of it, a few workers professionally milling around behind it. No nametags on them either. What’s up with that?

  “Um, no, sir,” the girl said. “You have to go through the queue.”

  “Why?” Johnny asked.

  “It’s more efficient, sir,” the girl said.

  Johnny wanted to tell the girl that a store, by definition, actually allowed customers to shop, put their purchases in a cart or basket, stand in line, and pay for their purchases. “How long will the wait be?”

  “Oh,” the girl said, “not long. It’s Tuesday.”

  Johnny didn’t appreciate the vagueness of her answer. “About how long exactly?”

  “Oh,” the girl said, “I couldn’t tell you. Could be ten minutes, could be twenty. It depends on what the customers in front of you are here for today.”

  There’s a Wal-Mart right behind us, and I could just use the U-Scan. “Does Wal-Mart sell cell phones?” Johnny grimaced in his head. Of course Wal-Mart sells cell phones. They sell everything China makes now.

  “They do,” the girl said, “but they don’t come with the Verizon network.”

  Johnny didn’t want any phone that came with a couple thousand people following him around. I don’t think Gloria wo
uld like me making a call from my car with all those creepy people in the back seat.

  “If you have any other questions,” the girl said, “don’t hesitate to ask. I’m Ruth Ann.”

  No wonder she’s not wearing a nametag. Who names their kids “Ruth Ann” these days? “Um, nice to meet you, Ruth Ann. So I just wait until …”

  Ruth Ann seemed to sigh. “Dan, a member of our sales staff, will call your name when it’s your turn.” She looked up at the monitor. “You’re right after Carl.”

  Johnny stood by the festive fake holiday shrubbery and other somewhat Christmas-like decorations in the middle of the store so he could watch both the service and sales sides of the store. Like a good sheep, he waited to hear the sound of his name and whispered, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not fidget in the queue …”

  After thirty minutes, Dan called out for the top name—Herb—and a dumpy man in a Virginia Tech sweatshirt approached Dan with his phone. Herb needs to be in the service queue, not the— Oh. He’s upgrading. Never mind. But that makes me the fourth person in line, not the third. Ruthie Ann lied to me.

  After forty-seven minutes, Johnny had to pee. “Ruth Ann, do you have a restroom?”

  “No,” Ruth Ann said. “But Subway does.”

  Johnny wanted to ask where Verizon Wireless employees peed, but that would have been rude. I’ll bet they have to put their names in the queue, too. “But I might lose my place in line.”

  Ruth Ann looked up at the monitor. “I doubt it.”

  Johnny rushed to the Subway to wait in another queue behind other Verizon Wireless customers. Unlike the electronic line at the wireless store, the queue at Subway actually moved.

  Johnny ran back to the Verizon store in time to see his name move to the top of the queue. He watched Carl, who was about seventy yet wearing high-top Nikes and black socks—my kind of fashion whiz!—buying his phone, or trying to, for the next twenty-three minutes.

  Note to self: Do not “shop” at a Verizon Wireless store on a Tuesday or any day ending in the letter Y.

  Carl talked too much. Dan the salesman talked too much. They talked to each other too much. They talked to the phones too much. They looked at every phone in the store, and as soon as Carl decided on a phone—“This is the one!”—Dan would point out another phone with more bells, whistles, and features not even James Bond could use during a movie. Carl asked the same stupid questions for each phone: “Does it have text? Does it have a three-point-oh mega-pixel or higher camera? Can I play games on it? Does it have streaming video? Can I listen to music with it? Will it connect to the Internet? Does it come with cool ring tones?”