The Fourth Day of November

by Mark Campbell

  The Fourth Day of November

  One Man’s Reflection of Life, Love & Breast Cancer

  Copyright © 2014 by Mark Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Dedication

  This book is written to inspire and encourage people to continue the fight against (Breast) cancer. It’s for people who have undergone and are undergoing cancer treatment, and the families and friends who stood by during the darkest moments of the battle. The author would like, through a fictional account, his personal experience with cancer as one of the closest persons to him struggled with the disease. Certain proceeds will be donated to the Breast Cancer Association. Please continue to support the fight against cancer. God bless you all.

  Special Thanks To:

  My sister Monica and her husband Clinton, Terry Stewart, Michelle Stewart, Dennis Stewart, Neil Stewart, Cherry Clarke, Claudette Campbell and family, my two sons, Mark Campbell and Vincent Campbell my daughter Valencia Campbell and Josan Sian for the undying love and support.

  My family and friends, Myrtle Henry, Jonah and Jenny Dyer, M. Campbell, Peter Beverly, Ronnie Parris, Hyacinth Burton, Owen Ming and family, Andre Pierce and family, Ruslyn Ashmead, Dean Williams, Denise and Steven Louison, Pastor Moses Edwards, Derrick McCollum and family, Max Azemard, Carl Brown, Clyde Osbourne, Ricketts, Arthur Campbell, Daryl, Tiffany, Ingrid McSween, Helene Miroy, Lhamea, Melissa Williams, Elmena Hazle, Tanya Cifaldi, Clive and Sharon Boothe, Neil Bonnick, Juliet Gail, Mandy Hillman, David Jefferies, Danny and Kirsti Milner, Paul Davis, Joanne Senior-Lane, Tammy Newbury, Jason Regler, Lucius Brown, Cynthia Anderson, Charmaine Lewin, Karen Wilkins, Gloretta Caine, Naomi Burke, Anne Marie, Daniel Morris, Janine Laborde, Julie Lewin, Noel Morgan, Karen Baker, Michelle Davis, David Harrison, Amanda Dyson, Alan York, Emma Swift, Laura Arlett, Karen Arkle, Shayn Bennett, Jamila Chergui, Paul Griffin, Marjorie Thomas, Annette Burke, Liza McCarthy, Brina Dyer, Inez Simpson, Patti Tooker, David Censi, Jackie Robinson, Sarah Deadman, Jane Vowles, Lynn Dunnill, Steve Barrett, Sarah Heard, Aurdy Tucker, James Nelson, John Bliha, Dana Lawson Nations, Beth Allan, Janine Carter, Michael and Rachel Draper, Sonia Baker, Mike Baldwin and all my Facebook friends.

  November 4, 2015

  I often sit here in Memories—one of the many rooms in our quaint Victorian home, which sits on five acres overlooking a vast expanse of land behind its seven foot steel gate. Memories is where my wife, Emma, Ellen and I come to reminisce on the good times we’ve shared as family. As I sip a freshly brewed cup of coffee, and listen to the relaxing sounds of Nat King Cole, I scan photos that the four of us have catalogued over the years.

  We bought this house twenty years ago from the Fords, a retired New York couple. Every square inch of the wall used to be white. But now, glued or pinned in place are snapshots of family, friends and famous people we’ve encountered on our journey. In my hand is a picture of Lee and myself at our first dance championship. It usually sits on a solid oak curio facing a double glazed window. This room holds our most treasured memories. It's true what people say, “Pictures are worth a thousand words.”

  ---

  My story began March 4, 1986 after emigrating to the United States. I journeyed to the Big Apple, to be more precise, good ole New York. Leaving my birth country, England, proved to be somewhat of a challenge. Being a twenty-year-old black Englishman, standing five foot eleven inches, weighing 195 pounds with an athletic build and a British accent shocked most Americans. Few had ever been in the company of a black gentleman who spoke the Queen's English.

  While living in England, I had a job in Bristol at Gatwick Airport as a ticket agent for British Airways. There, my life lacked adventure and excitement. Trowbridge was a rather dull, humdrum place. The closest I'd ever come to excitement was going to London to watch a Chelsea versus Man United football match; and thereafter, witnessing a bunch of dickheads having a scrap.

  The fights always started the same. There would be lots of choppsing off as Man United supporters called Chelsea supporters wankers; thus ensuing, a mass scrap followed by several arrests. And those who didn’t get arrested, went to a local pub and got pissed up with a pint of lager in one hand and a half lit fagg in the other. This lasted until the pub’s owner called last order at half past eleven.

  For most, this was an acceptable way of living. But for me, there was a greater need to fulfill something beyond destroying my brain cells and accreting a lengthy criminal record. How could I explain such a record and lifestyle to a potential employer? I'm not knocking anyone else’s choices; I just had a higher calling. It was time for a change. The eventualities of life had long ago ensured.

  Days before making a decision on what my next step would be on this quest for a new life, I was sitting in a cafe having lunch with my manager. He suggested checking new, upcoming job listings within the company. I considered this a good idea. By four o’clock that same afternoon, new positions populated the online job board. One particular opening stood out until I continued reading. MUST RELOCATE was written in big bold letters. DESTINATION JFK AIRPORT, NEW YORK.

  Potential relocation took me by surprise. I was unsure whether or not this was the big change I needed. Leaving the United Kingdom had never crossed my mind. Nonetheless, the idea of starting over abroad had me thinking. Maybe this was what a fresh-faced, twenty-year-old, ambitious Brit needed. My mother had always said, “Nothing ventured nothing gained.” Call me crazy, but this young Brit was about to make a decision that would change the course of my life forever.

  April 1987

  Thirteen months later, New York was my new home. Things were undoubtedly different in the big city as compared to small town Trowbridge. The pace was much faster, and most New Yorkers were obtuse. They had no time for anyone but themselves. Nevertheless, the beautiful city took me by storm. This was the Big Apple, my new home. And it was up to me to secure a piece of the Apple for myself. Settling into my new job requirements came easy. I even made effortless acquaintance with my new friends Ron Parris and Peter Beverly. They helped me adjust to my new life and job as the new kid on the block.

  Ron was a twenty-two-year-old, Trinidad native with dark skin. He had suffered some burns from an unfortunate kerosene accident back in Trinidad as a child. It was never my place to formally ask what had happened to him, but my co-worker and soon to be longtime friend, Peter, would tell me the story some time later. Ronnie stood five-foot-eight inches, had dark eyes, a short afro, stocky build and no hint of a West Indian accent.

  Peter, on the other hand, was four years older than Ronnie and I, although he looked much younger. He ran everyday before coming to work. This helped Peter maintain his140-pound, five-foot-nine frame. He too sported a short afro, and wore glasses that covered his brown eyes, making him look like a professor from my old school. Peter was also a product of a third world country, Jamaica. He never spoke with a Jamaican accent, though.

  If I were ever in need of help, Peter and Ronnie were there.

  June 5, 1987

  I needed love in my life. Everything else seemed to fall into place except that. But, I didn’t just want any kind of love. I wanted the kind that would keep me wanting more.

  I would see a young lady around noon everyday who caught my eye. The first time I saw her, she took my breath away. Her beautiful olive skin, hazel eyes, shoulder length jet black hair, cherry-colored lips and pearl-white teeth put me in
a trance. She was no taller than five foot one, and she walked with assertiveness. Her American Airlines uniform complemented her every curve. And like clockwork, by noon everyday, she would sit alone in the lunchroom, reading a James Patterson novel or some kind of study guide.

  Her lunch was always simple: a tuna melt, diet Pepsi and cup of hot tea. You could say I fell in love the first time I saw her face. Something had to be done if she was to get to know me. So, I decided to enlist the help of my friend Ronnie to conduct some information digging on the mysterious woman that made my insides dissolve. Ronnie knew people that knew people; so, this would be the perfect opportunity to ask for his help.

  June 6, 1987

  It took Ronnie less than twenty-four hours to unearth information about the mysterious woman who sat two tables across from me in the lunchroom daily. He couldn’t wait to share the information.

  Lee Chan—that was her name—worked as a ticket agent for American Airlines while paying her way through law school. Ronnie also found out Lee's parents owned and operated a local fruit and veg stand located in Queens on Hill Side Avenue across from the Clearview Expressway. I was quite familiar with the store he was referring to. I bought fruits and vegetables from there many times, but I had never spotted Lee inside her parent’s shop.

  Once Ronnie told me what I needed to know, Peter began discussing a matter regarding, Fred Benjamin. Fred had been actively employed at British Airlines for more than thirty-five years and would soon be retiring. Accordingly, there was to be a party held in his honor in the days that followed. British Airways was losing one of their most reliable and dedicated workers. Fred had worked his way up the ranks, and would now reap the benefits of his dedicated working career.

  The retirement party was to be held at a local hotel, and British Airlines would generously foot the bill for a deejay and catering. This would be the perfect function to ask Lee to accompany me. I continuously replayed thoughts of how I should ask. Nothing seemed right. This was a hopeless case, I concluded. My shyness and indecisive speech was destined to keep us apart.

  June 12, 1987

  Friday had arrived, and I had been far too afraid to ask Lee out on a date. The party was now well into its second hour. Time ticked by slowly; as it does when you’re alone. And since my mates Peter and Ronnie where occupied with their dates, I sat solo at the bar. The bartender—or mixologist, as they like to be called nowadays—told me his name. Harry was an older gentleman in his late forties, who had done bartending for much of his life.

  “What’s on your mind kid?” The mixologist’s heavy New York accent made him sound like a wise guy. “What’s your name kid?”

  “Alistair.”

  “I can tell you’re not from around here. Where is that accent from?”

  “I was born and raised in England.”

  “Well pleased to meet you; I'm Harry at your service. What will it be, a scotch or whiskey?”

  “Neither thanks. Give me a diet Pepsi to drown my sorrows in.”

  “A broken-heart Pepsi coming up. Take my advice kid, whatever happened it's for the best.”

  “I'm not sure about that, she doesn’t know I exist.”

  “That’s terrible. Go on kid, tell me more.”

  I continued talking and Harry filled my glass each time it was half empty.

  “So, where is this lovely lady you’re crazy about? Is she here tonight?”

  Before I could answer, Fred Benjamin jumped into the conversation. “Harry, I've told Alistair that being shy won’t get him the woman of his dreams. Only confidence, respect and a positive attitude will bring him success.”

  “That’s right. You have to make that first move kid. Don’t wait for someone else to step in. You snooze, you loose.” Harry said as he and Fred gave each other a big boy pound.

  “If you look over there, Alistair, you will see that an Angel just walked through the door by herself.”

  “Is that the young woman he's crazy about? She really is something.”

  “Hey kid, if you don’t move now Fred and I will tell the DJ to call you to the front to ask her out! Are you in, or do I have to walk over to the DJ?”

  “Okay, give me a minute.”

  Pleased with themselves, Fred and Harry gave each other a big boy pound. Slowly, I made my way across the dance floor towards Lee. She was wearing a red sleeveless dress that stopped just above her knee.

  “Hi, I'm Alistair Scott.”

  “I'm Lee Chang.”

  “Your dress looks beautiful. You seem to have admirers looking.”

  “My dress isn’t too short, is it?” She blushed.

  “No, nothing like that. In fact, they’re taken aback by how stunning you look.”

  “You’re too kind.” Lee giggled.

  “It’s the truth. Would you like a drink?”

  “I would love one.”

  Lee and I sat at the bar chatting the night away before dancing to Dr. Hook’s Sexy Eyes. As the evening progressed and the guest count dwindled, Lee and I decided to call it a night. We left the party and walked towards Lee’s grey Honda Civic, which sat under a brightly lit streetlight in the hotel’s parking lot. We stood there chatting for a while longer.

  “Tonight was delightful.” Lee gushed looking up towards the night sky.

  “I have to agree. Would you like to share this experience again sometime?” My confidence was building.

  “Are you asking me out on a date?” Lee smirked.

  “You could say that.” Trying to act cool, I put my hands in my front trouser pockets. Lee handed me a piece of paper, on which she scribbled her phone number before getting into her car. Once inside, she started the car engine and drove off. I waited there until the grey Honda was no longer in sight. This was, undoubtedly, a perfect end to a wonderful night.

  ---

  I couldn’t wait to call Lee that weekend. We talked for hours on the phone, sharing stories of our upbringing. We even planned a location for our next date.

  June 15, 1987

  On Monday afternoon, while on lunch break, a tall slender blonde who was extremely tanned approached my table. She was wearing an American Airlines uniform. I was sitting alone eating a cheese and onion sandwich and reading the local newspaper.

  “Hi Alistair.” She said.

  “Have we met before?” I curiously inquired.

  “No, but I feel as if we have. My name is Annie. Lee talks about you all the time. We work together at the ticket counter for American Airlines. Lee constantly talks about how handsome you are. She’s right you’re cute.” Annie smiled.

  My cheeks turned red with embarrassment.

  “Sorry for embarrassing you. I may have said too much already.”

  Something told me Annie could never say too much to anyone because she was quite charming.

  “So what is this all about Annie?” I asked.

  “Please do not tell Lee what I just told you, she would kill me.” Annie pleaded

  “That would depend on whether or not you’re going to tell me what this meeting is all about.”

  Annie then replayed the phone conversation she and Lee had regarding me. This was an invitation sent by a messenger. Lee wanted us all to meet at the All American Diner on Merrick Road. This was a popular spot among airport workers. They were famous for serving good food. I was a regular at this place. After successfully delivering her message, Annie extended her hand, and wished me good luck on my date before turning and walking away.

  3:00 pm

  My shift ended and I was relieved. June was one of the busiest travel times of the year. However, in a few short hours, I would be on a date with Lee. I was anxious, nervous and excited as I imagined how the night would turn out. But first, I had to make it home through the monstrous traffic that plagued New York City.

  7:00 pm

  Finding a parking space was shockingly easy when I arrived at the diner. The smell of old-fashioned home cooking greeted me as I opened the glass door. As I entered, a young Africa
n American woman warmly greeted me.

  “Hello sir. Table for two?” she asked.

  The single rose I held in my hand must have suggested that I was not dining alone. The sound of Nat King Cole playing created a romantic warmth in the place.

  “I take it that you’re waiting for the young lady seated at table five.”

  It was then that I noticed the silver plate on the waitress’ chest with engravings that read Kelly.

  “And which table is number five, Kelly?” I glanced in the direction of her gesture and saw Lee.

  “Is she waiting for you, sir?” Kelly smiled.

  “Yes, she is.” I exhaled.