by Moondi, Romi
She took a deep breath which she’d usually do at the beginning of a rant. “We’ve been together almost a year and a half, I’m twenty-nine years old, I’d like to have a baby by the time I’m thirty-two, which means I need to get pregnant at thirty-one, which means I should get married at thirty-and-a-half, and obviously I need a year to plan a big Italian wedding…which means I should be getting engaged in like…a month!”
I was dumbfounded. “What?”
“Or at least by New Year’s. But of course he hasn’t even hinted at it.” She scowled. “I bet he’ll end up ruining everything!”
She was pouting now, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding right? He’s Dave. He’s a wonderful, caring man. You love him...remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah…”
I stared at my almost-empty glass as I thought. “I don’t know...sometimes I feel like if you make too many detailed plans, they end up turning into a shit pile and exploding in your face.” I scrunched my nose. “Gross. Sorry. Anyway when all those plans fall apart, it’s like the universe’s way of laughing at you for being cocky.”
She raised an eyebrow. “But Romes…if you don’t plan things out, you end up forty with a uterus full of cobwebs.”
My eyes bulged out of my head. “In that case, I’ll probably regret not having a schedule…”
***
After a late day at work thanks to an absentee-platform-heeled boss, I’d missed another train and was shuffling along Yonge Street at night, meandering my way to the station. I had already passed the crazy stretch with random sex shops and dollar stores, leading me now to the ever-popular block of clothing stores. These shops were bustling with young adults who had time on their hands and credit cards to burn. Their excitement was a muted affair from my vantage point, until of course a door would swing open. That’s when the excited chatter and dance music poured outside.
My evening plans were a little more subdued, with another night of book marketing and research up ahead. Being a self-published author was becoming a second full-time job, which left no room for shopping or pining over guys, so I was glad to have no one in my life. Sort of glad.
I stopped at a crosswalk and pulled up the collars of my wool coat high, to block out the chilling wind. Turn green you stupid light! I scanned my surroundings as I stood there, and my eyes fell upon a mannequin in a storefront window. She was wearing an impossibly short skirt, and her legs were the width of my wrists. And it’s not like my wrists are fat. I scowled at it.
My rude looks were halted by the slightest sound of a phone vibration, coming from inside my bag. I pulled out the phone to find an unexpected person from my contact list, his smiling face splashed across the screen.
I nervously answered as the traffic light turned green.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Romi Narindra of Canada.”
My nerves instantly calmed and I raised an eyebrow. “Who is this again?”
“Right,” he said curtly. “I’m sorry I lost touch.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on Erik, do you really think you need to be apologizing? You don’t owe me anything. We’re practically strangers if you think about it.” I walked briskly down the crowded street, not believing anything I was saying.
“Strangers?” he said. “Well maybe we don’t know each other so much, but you’ve struck me in some way. Sometimes it feels harmless but sometimes not, like when I realize it would be so nice to talk to you for hours.” I smiled. “And for nights now...I’ve been asking myself if I can really just leave it all behind.”
My expression suddenly softened as I navigated the busy sidewalk. “Can you?”
“Maybe I’m supposed to, but for right now...I can’t.”
I sighed. “Me neither! I mean your whole situation is complicated as shit.” I shook my head. “Well not literally, ‘cause shit isn’t exactly complicated. It is what it is.”
He laughed.
“What I mean is,” I continued, “simple is boring and I don’t like boredom.” I paused. “And you’re not boring.”
“I’m so relieved that you say that,” he said. “Relieved because last night while I was away on business in the Florida Keys, staring up at the full silver moon…you are the one I thought of.”
My eyes now closed in pleasure, and a smile spread across my whole face. But I continued walking. Like a blind man. Within seconds I ran into a stroller and practically fell right onto a baby.
“Open your eyes!” said the no-nonsense mother steering the stroller.
“Sorry!”
“Excuse me?” said Erik.
“No not to you, sorry to the mother whose child I almost sat on.”
He laughed. “What?”
“Never mind; listen it’s dangerous to talk and walk, let me find a quieter place.”
And just like that, the forbidden Erik boomeranged back into my life…
Chapter Twelve
I stared at the Asian pedicure artist and tried not to gross myself out, as she filed down my freshly-soaked toenails. It wasn’t just my own feet I disliked, but all human feet in general (or maybe some more than others, let’s be honest). I wasn’t going to assume this pedicure lady was Korean, because how would I know unless she told me? It’s like when so many people assumed I was Middle-Eastern. You could never be sure until you asked...and I wasn’t going to. I just wanted to get some nice-looking toes and leave.
I’d picked out the perfect dark pink shade, for an Indian engagement party I had to attend that weekend. I didn’t really know the couple, but apparently we were related in some weird village way so I had to go.
In the regular world, painted toenails wouldn’t be needed in early November, but for an Indian party? Where you wore glittery opened-toed shoes no matter what the weather? It was a must.
I turned away from the sight of my sickening toes when I heard my phone buzz. I grabbed it and immediately smiled.
“Hello Erik.”
“Hi Romi.”
“How are you? Any multi-million-dollar investment deals today?”
“Lots of money exchanged hands, I won’t lie.”
I laughed. It had been a week now since Erik and I committed to staying in touch, and so far we’d kept things light. I hoped it would continue this way, as it distracted me from the grim reality of knowing this was probably doomed.
“Are you at home now?” I asked.
“Yes, just winding down. What about you? Did you go to the bookstore yet?”
I looked around the salon. “Not yet...”
Erik was referring to my inaugural visit to a used bookstore, where I would try to get some local support for my copies in print. This was the awkward part about being a self-published author...the part where readers couldn’t walk into a bookstore to buy your book. Most progressive authors showed little concern for this gap, as they predicted the demise of all bookstores in the next five years. Digital books were certainly on the rise, but that didn’t mean my dream of having a signing in a bookstore was gone. Not yet. I hadn’t really thought about this problem in too much detail, until James e-mailed me a list of independent book stores in Toronto. He explained why it was so important to have a local presence, and like always, I was grateful to have him in my life. I suddenly remembered that James wasn’t the one I was talking to.
“Well what are you waiting for Romi? Are you getting scared?”
I scowled. “No!” Just then the woman at my feet started yelling at the salon’s cashier in some unknown Asian language (I still don’t know what it is so I won’t assume, never!). The cashier looked to be about ten years old. Gotta love the family-owned business.
“Where are you exactly?” he said. “Do I hear yelling in Korean?”
I lowered my voice before I spoke. “It might be Mandarin, it might be Korean...what am I a translator?!
He laughed. “Really, where on earth are you?”
For some reason I started to blush. “Just getting my toenails done...”
<
br /> “I see. Well I’m sure your toes will look nice, but is this your way of avoiding book business?”
I scoffed. “No, this was a necessary errand! There’s a big Indian party coming up!”
“Oooh, tell me more. Will there be aloo tikka?”
“Of course there will, no self-respecting Indian would exclude it from a standard buffet!”
He laughed. “Are you surprised with my knowledge of Indian food?”
I rolled my eyes. “Dude, you already spoke to me in Punjabi. So no.”
“I did, didn’t I...” He paused. “I should practice again, I’m getting rusty.”
I felt all warm and fuzzy inside, but quickly decided to switch gears. “Forget Punjabi, practice your guitar and play me a song.”
“Right...well before any of that, why don’t you write me some lyrics?”
A million gallons of blood rushed straight to my face, as I remembered our whispered exchange in his apartment. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t joking when I said I can’t write songs,” he said. “I’ve been stuck for so long that I have nothing to share.”
“But writing about my awkward family or being sarcastic isn’t exactly what makes a good song.”
“Well it doesn’t have to be that,” he said. “Try something new.”
“Okay...”
“It’s up to you Romi. But just remember: you can’t keep asking me to send you songs if you don’t help...I need you.”
I wanted to dive right into the phone and give him a hug, but since I couldn’t have him...I couldn’t let him know.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said casually.
“Okay Romi, thank you. Now good luck with the bookstore...and the toenails.”
I watched the ambiguous Asian expertly apply the base coat. “The nails will be fine. Bookstore? Not so sure.”
“Just be your confident self and make sure to smile. How could anyone say no to that?”
Ooh that Danish charm.
“I wish I could have you around during all my big work presentations!”
“You can always have me around. Call me anytime Romi.”
“Well maybe I will!”
I certainly wouldn’t, but boy did I ever want to...
***
I consulted the map on my phone and read the sign once again: “JLK Books: We Buy AND Sell!”
I had five brand new copies of “Year of the Chick” in my bag, and from the bookstores on James’s list, this was the only one that publicly advertised buying people’s books. Safest place to start.
I crossed the street to the store and went inside, where I found endless narrow aisles crammed with book shelves.
I approached the register with a business-ready smile.
“Yes?” said a stern balding man in his forties. He looked like someone had stolen all the fun from his life. Was he actually glaring at me from behind those glasses?
I pulled out a copy of the book from my bag. “Hi there! I have some books for you to buy---”
“Wait!” he said. “Don’t take those out here. This is the buying counter. Go to the back!” He pointed to a small counter in the corner of the store.
I was starting to feel incredibly warm in this big wool coat. I lowered my head as I quickly walked past him.
A young hipster-looking dude, all ironic T-shirt and thick-rimmed glasses, was sorting CDs in the back. The sign above him said: “We buy!”
I stood there for a few seconds before he acknowledged me. “Can I help you?”
Why did he already sound sarcastic?
I smiled broadly. “I have some books to sell, and they’re in perfect condition.”
He seemed mildly interested. “Cool, what’ve you got?”
I handed him the first copy. “This is the book I wrote, and since I’m not in a big bookstore I’m trying to get some exposure. And since your store is an independent...and I’M an independent…”
“Whoa hold on…who published that?” He dropped my book on the counter and pushed it away like it was mouldy cheese.
“Well I did.”
“So you don’t have a publisher…”
“No...but the reviews have been pretty decent, and the digital copies are selling well…” I was seriously starting to sweat underneath my coat now.
“So here’s the thing…” he rolled his eyes at me before he continued, as two curious co-workers now stood next to him in solidarity. One had those scary earrings that somehow expand your whole earlobes. I had no idea how those disc-like earrings were installed, and I’d only ever seen them on metal-heads or African tribeswoman. The other one was a grown woman wearing braided pig-tails (ironically, I’m sure) and a flannel shirt, as was custom for hipster women going for “unique” but ending up looking like all the others. They both stared at me condescendingly as their leader continued. “If your book is a new release, you probably don’t want it in a used book store. It lowers the value.”
“Oh that’s okay,” I quickly said. “I’m just trying to get it on a shelf so I can spread the word locally....you know when I do a book event.”
He chuckled to himself. “Right…but you see we wouldn’t even be able to pay you what the book is worth, since we need to keep the prices low.” The other two nodded like zombies.
“No really that’s okay,” I insisted. “I don’t need to turn a profit when I’m first starting out.”
“Yeah, but the other thing is…if a book is self-published…there’s probably a reason…so, yeahhh…”
Ah, now I finally understood it. Out of all the writers in the world, because I wasn’t part of the less than a tenth of a percent who had a publisher…my book just had to be crap.
I slowly nodded at this massive punch to my ego.
“I mean maybe it’s a good book,” he went on, “but if a publisher didn’t print it how do we know? We just can’t stock things unless we know they’re going to sell.”
I tried not to laugh as he made that statement. “Is that a big pile of CDs you’re about to put out?” I pointed to the stack.
“Yep.”
“And you’re expecting to sell all of those…without going back in a time machine.”
He suddenly looked offended. “People still buy CDs!”
I tried not to laugh. “I’m sure they buy them by the bag full, that’s great stuff! Anyway I’ll just leave this copy with you, and if you change your mind you can let me know.”
He rolled his eyes yet again. “You might as well take it with you, because we’re not going to read it.”
Asshole!
“You can read it, or not read it, or use it to balance a table, it’s yours. Thanks for all your help!” Now it was my turn to sound sarcastic, as I turned and walked away.
Once I was back outside I gulped in the fresh cold air. This was my first real moment of being treated like a second-class-writer-citizen, simply because I’d learned and done everything by myself (which up until that moment I’d viewed as a real accomplishment). I knew this attitude came from a real place, when so many people uploaded shitty books on Amazon just so they could call themselves “author,” but that didn’t really lessen the sting. A bunch of bad books were making the rest of us look awful! It didn’t matter that we’d been in writing groups or had critique partners; everyone was lumped into the same pile of crap.
And by the way, how did hipster-jerk know that some other book would sell just because it said “Random House” on the back? Maybe he should’ve read the numbers, stating that ten percent of a publisher’s authors made up ninety percent of their sales, and that everyone else got lost in obscurity like the rest of us. Loser.
I walked through this sketchy neighbourhood as quickly as I could, past the tired-looking convenience stores and crack-heads, then straight to the subway to escape this land of broken dreams. Before I left I made myself a secret promise. I promised myself that if I ever became even a moderate bestseller, I would go back to that store, wave my book in hipster’s face,
yell “You can’t have it now!” then cackle and run away. By god I would cackle…
Chapter Thirteen
I stood in my bedroom modeling a saree blouse, as my mother measured for adjustments. After my sister’s wedding in July which had included three straight days of Indian garb and butter-chicken-laden buffets, I’d had my fill of Indian parties for the next two years. Of course my personal needs were irrelevant when it came to family functions, and tonight was a relative’s engagement party. Though I still had no idea who that relative was.
I sighed as she tugged at the blouse. “It’s fine!” I said.
My mother shook her head. “If it’s too tight your chest will look big, then everyone will notice!”
Thank you very much, padded push-up bra.
Just then my phone started to vibrate from my dressing table. Why did I leave it there? The phone was mere inches away from my mother, which was never a good idea. I held my breath as the screen lit up and there it was: Erik’s face smiling at my mother. Oh god. Not getting married and being a disappointment was one thing, but spending my time chatting with a forbidden white boy? No matter how much of a functioning grown-up I was, this would give my mother a heart attack.
To my surprise she kept her eyes squarely focused on my chest. “Who is that?”
“Oh, just a girl from work,” I lied. Finally the screen went black as the call was officially missed. Meanwhile I cursed myself for not assigning Erik an Indian girl’s name and photo as a cover.
My mother shook her head a final time. “Just wear your hair down to cover this.” She waved at my boobs like they were a hideous curry stain, and finally left me alone.
I shut the door and immediately started texting Erik, a huge smile spread across my face…
***
The banquet hall looked like a rainbow that had hurled out its intestines. Walls were draped in green and yellow satin, and every chair had garish light pink seat covers (at least my sister’s wedding was a classy purple and white). Then there were the two hundred women dressed in glittering garb to complete the multi-coloured paradise. To an outsider this gathering was on the scale of a massive wedding, but to someone in the know, this was a moderately-sized Indian engagement party…