* * *
The next morning I woke up with the sort of hangover that can only be adequately described with the assistance of several medical journals. I crawled on the floor to the bathroom, pulled myself to the counter, got out a couple aspirins and swallowed. Then I inched my way into the kitchen, tripping over Mark, who had curled up under the table.
“Oh god,” he said. “Oh god oh god oh god…”
I hoped he hadn’t remembered what I said last night. But I also hoped that I had planted a seed of doubt in his mind. Maybe one that would blossom into the act of him dumping Sasha. I really didn’t like her, mostly because I thought Mark was such a good guy and didn’t deserve the belittling presence that she had.
I helped him up, with great effort. I couldn’t exactly stand myself. I had to hold onto the sink for support. When we were both standing, we stood, wheezing, holding our heads with one hand and bracing ourselves against the kitchen counter with the other.
After a few minutes, Mark spoke. “You’re right,” he said.
I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be. You’re right. Sasha’s a bitch. I need to get rid of her.”
“Oh, you remembered?” I said.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s really all though. There was a lot of beer. Good beer, however.”
“Only the best for you, roomie,” I said, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
“Besides,” he said. “I’ve always wondered why she stopped sending me to buy her tampons.”
I handed him my cell phone with the cracked screen. “Make the call,” I said.
“What happened here?” he said. The screen itself was fine, but the plastic covering it had a large split traveling right down the middle.
“Some jackass astronauts at NASA called me last night and said they were aliens who wanted to publish my book.”
“Ouch,” said Mark.
“I was pretty upset about it. I’m glad I took it out on my phone and not the bartender.”
“Well,” said Mark, typing Sasha’s number into my phone, “How do you know it wasn’t actually aliens from another planet?”
“Because they haven’t launched the probe yet, dummy.”
“The Hermes? Yeah, they launched that almost a year ago. You don’t remember?”
I shook my head. “I thought they would have sent me an email or something, at least.”
“It didn’t get that much coverage. It’s just a probe. Nobody really cares. It’s like how hundreds of satellites go up every year, you know? It’s just another launch.”
“Well, I still thought it was in bad taste,” I said.
“Hey Sasha.” Mark had apparently reached his soon-to-be-former girlfriend. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. Can you come over?” He nodded a few times. “No, it’s just important, that’s all. Can you make it?” He closed his eyes tightly. “No, I’m not trying to trick you. You don’t have to come by if you don’t want to.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you want to come over now? That’s great. See you soon.” He hung up the phone and looked at me. “Now, this time, you probably should get lost.”
“Should I lock my possessions in my room?” I asked. “Some stuff might break.”
“I don’t think so. But you should probably close your door.”
I smiled. He smiled back. Then I put on my coat and left.
I spent the evening in an internet café looking over my piles and piles of rejections. Most were forms. Some were personal. All of them said the same thing: We’re sorry, we really are, we just don’t want you to send us any more of your work. It doesn’t get any easier the more you see that. My book wasn’t a groundbreaking work of literary fiction, by any means. It wasn’t going to win any awards. But it still didn’t make me feel great when I was all finished with my final draft, staring at the query letter that I put months of work into and saying to myself, how could anyone say no? How could someone look at this and truly say, No, I’m not interested, not even a little bit? Only to find out that, not only will someone say no, but two hundred someones.
Of course, when you’re the writer, you’ve got a bigger stake in your letter than any agent. You have an emotional attachment to your work, so you’re looking at it through a biased lens. But still, you think to yourself, someone’s going to like what I write. This thought is especially prevalent as you’re walking through bookstores, watching the latest teenaged heartthrob mythological creature mashup selling dozens of copies per day. Someone’s going to want to buy my work! It’s better than this stuff.
I thunked my head on the desk. A few surprised people jumped in their seats. The girl behind the counter shook her head disapprovingly. I wanted them all to go to hell. And then come back so I could kick them. And then go to hell again.
The door opened. I don’t know how I did this, but I just knew there was trouble. It didn’t open with any more ferocity or noise than usual. I just got some really bad vibes. A chill went down my spine.
And then a voice that I was not too happy to hear said, “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”
I looked up. It was Sasha. And she wasn’t too happy.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”
“You gave him the idea didn’t you?”
“Are we really doing this?” I said, not in the mood.
“You told him to do that, didn’t you?” Not a tear. No emotional fragileness usually tantamount to someone who had just been dumped. Just good, old-fashioned anger.
“You’re just upset that your free clothing, food, tampon and gravy train stopped coming.”
“I liked him,” said Sasha.
“You liked his wallet. He’s better than that. I’m going. Don’t follow me.”
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Sasha called after me as I left the internet café.
“The police can,” I called back.
I went home. Nothing was broken, and nobody was dead. “Hey,” said Mark from the couch, still massaging a headache. I was impressed. It’s not easy to dump an emotionally manipulative partner while nursing a hangover.
“Sasha came to see me,” I said.
“Oh, boy.”
“She just shouted at me a bit. Didn’t even follow me home.” I plunked myself on the couch next to him.
“So, I was thinking,” said Mark. “Since you were so nice to me and bought me drinks last night…”
“Don’t count yourself too lucky. You were just there,” I said.
“Well, anyway, I was thinking I could return the favor and buy you some dinner tonight.”
I looked over. “Sure,” I said with a smile. “I’d like that.”
Needless to say, I married him three years later.
The Devil Still Has My Lawnmower & Other Tales of the Weird Page 8