by J J Hebert
“A writer doesn’t have a choice whether to write or not. A writer has to write, like a painter has to paint and a musician has to make music.”
He tilts his head. “Interesting,” he says, uninterested.
We go our separate ways. I go to my bedroom, my writing sanctuary, feeling like Dad isn’t as supportive and enthusiastic as I’d like for him to be. I’m aware that, internally, I’m still a little boy yearning for Daddy’s attention, for his love.
I sit at the desk in my room, lit only by a small lamp behind my back. Unmoving, I focus on the laptop, its screen. I wait impatiently, tapping a foot (like Sonic the Hedgehog) beneath the desk.
The file finally opens, my entire novel, the fruition of countless hours slapping at the keys of this worn keyboard. I stare at the text, marveling at my masterpiece, the piece of work I haven’t laid eyes on for almost two weeks. As I read, the words seem foreign, like they could have been written by someone else. As I read on, entire paragraphs don’t match up to my memory. For the first time, I’m able to look on this manuscript objectively, virtually unattached to the creature I created. My eyes dart left to right over the screen, word after word. Smooth prose. I read on. Proper grammar. I read further. A fast-paced tale. Dynamic. Magical. I continue to read for about an hour.
I stop at the end of a chapter, smiling inside and out. The characters are surprisingly three-dimensional, the dialogue succinct and meaningful. The settings are brilliant, believable, and otherworldly. Nonstop action! The scenes hang, forcing the reader to turn the pages. Suddenly, I’m a book reviewer.
I shake my head, chuckling. What am I worried about? Rejection and failure? What if they don’t like it? What if it’s not good enough? My mind flips to the literary agents and the publishers, the mysterious individuals. Doubts come in waves, but not one crashes on me now. Truth is: I’m pretty good at formulating a story.
There aren’t many things that make me feel this way. Actually, I can’t think of anything that makes me feel this way. Pride swells within me, love aimed at the living, breathing story I birthed. I imagine this is how other artists feel while they gaze at their finished work: paintings, songs, sculptures . . . I wonder how Robert Frost felt after he completed a poem.
The image of him sitting at his Morris chair comes into focus. His face carries a beaming smile. He crosses his arms, pen on the writing board beside his written-on piece of paper, and he knows. He doesn’t think or hope what he’s written is quality. He knows.
I’m glad I submitted this novel to those bigwigs in New York. Even through all my insecurities, I know now I made the correct decision. I’ve always worried about the questions, What if they don’t like it? What if it’s not good enough? Currently, I think this instead: What if they do like it? What if it is good enough? The positive spin I choose to take. I will hear back from those agents and publishers, each with their own rendition of “I love your novel.”
The smell of lasagna wafts by my space, tapping at my memory. I glance at the blank wall above the screen and flash on dinner, then on Dad, and his face, his well-groomed goatee, elongated nose, and saddened brown eyes. He was a talented baseball player, an all-star in each league in which he participated. He could have gone somewhere with baseball, maybe the big leagues, but he quit. He withdrew because he didn’t believe he was good enough.
Every time he watches baseball, I see pain etched in his face, the anguish of an abandoned dream. He’ll never get his prime baseball-playing years back. One can’t reverse time. I see where he is now, the owner of a janitorial company, and I never want to be him. His situation motivates me to go at this writing gig with full force.
Dad’s face fades away, and my laptop’s screen comes into focus. My father will scrub toilets, mop floors, and vacuum carpets until the end of time, I’m convinced. So, I’m not just glad I sent my manuscript to those agents and publishers, I’m extremely glad. I’m not my father. We aren’t the same.
* * *
Another night at the school.
I take my fifteen-minute break. I’m eating a package of crackers when Randy joins me in the hallway, a Diet Pepsi in his hand. He asks, “How was your weekend?”
“Good.” I prepare myself for his stories.
Sure enough, before I can even ask him about his weekend, he goes off about the party he hosted at his house and how the cops had to get involved because one of his friends hit another one and blah, blah, blah.
I keep eating my crackers. About five minutes go by, and he abruptly changes the topic, not uncommon for him, the alcoholic with a short attention span. “Anything exciting happen for you?” he asks.
I think of laughing because he’s totally implying that he finds it exciting that cops showed up at his house because they needed to break up a fight. “I wrote a lot,” I say finally, knowing that’s not what he wants to hear.
“You really believe in that, don’t you?” He looks surprised, like the concept is something new.
I nod. “I wanna get out of here.”
Randy drinks from his can. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high,” he says.
“Huh?” His insensitivity shocks me, even though it shouldn’t by now.
“Us common folk don’t read much anymore,” he says.
Speak for yourself, Randy. “A lot of people read . . .”
I think I can read his mind, and it says, Well, none of my friends do, bro, but then his words don’t match my telepathy: “Just don’t believe too much.” His statement leads me to think that at some point, he trusted in something but that something didn’t work out.
Then I think: Is there such a thing as believing too much? And I don’t want anything to do with this exchange anymore, so I say, “Well, I need to get back to work,” putting an end to this encouraging (not!) conversation.
We separate. I return to mopping the mucky hallway floor, and I begin thinking about the unexpected voicemail messages I recently received from Erica, her all-too-familiar perturbed tone. Apparently, she’s upset because I haven’t written to her since the day in Sam’s dorm. It seems she thinks I forgot how badly she treated me when we were together—the lies, the verbal abuse—and now she wants to be my friend. I wonder about her motive. Presumably, loneliness, a condition that can make a person carry out practically anything. In my case, even contemplate befriending a girl who mistreated me.
Twisting the mop back and forth over the floor, I decide not to waste my time with her. I’m lonely. Sure. My friends are gone. I have nothing but an absent father, a couple mentor-like friends, and the ability to write. The latter is enough to keep me away from Erica.
I dunk the mop in the soapy bucket, wring the mop out, plop it back onto the floor, and begin, once again, to clean. I still haven’t heard from Sam, the brother of mine. I’m losing hope in our friendship. Perhaps this relationship is like all the others: The person leaves and whatever we had fades.
Time will tell.
* * *
After work and dinner (which I prepare and eat solo), I knock on Dad’s bedroom door and ask him if he would be up to listening to me read my novel. I hear him sigh from the other side of the door. I hear footsteps approaching, then they stop at the door. I hear the door handle jiggle. I watch Dad open the door inward. He’s wearing boxers and a sleeveless shirt.
“Can’t you read to me tomorrow?” he asks sternly.
Standing at the door, I say, “But you always ask that and it never ends up happening.”
He glances at the computer behind him. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“You’re always in the middle of something,” I say, and I wonder if he stays busy on purpose because my dream of getting away from cleaning is too threatening for him to handle. I hope that’s not the case, but his lack of interest sure makes me feel like he doesn’t want me to succeed. After all, in his mind, it wouldn’t be fair, would it? Years and years of scrubbing toilets and his son gets to walk away from it all in a fraction of the time . . .
&n
bsp; Dad looks at his computer once more. “I need to get back. Christy’s waiting for me.”
The next day, I ask, once again, for a few minutes of Dad’s time, but he turns me away, says that he has things to do, that it will have to wait. I settle on never asking him again.
Never, ever again.
CHAPTER SIX
I sit up in bed, smiling, just in time to witness the morning sun slip through my window. Last night showed great promise. The dull, uneventful life I’ve grown accustomed to changed directions. I was on MySpace.com when I came across an attractive profile of a woman by the name of Leigh. From the looks of things, she was the complete opposite of Erica. Different hair and eye color. Different energy surrounding the posted words: language of kindness and gentleness, not of hatred and anger. Naturally, I messaged Leigh. Amazingly, she messaged me back. She said she liked what she read and saw in my profile. She wants us to talk soon.
Scary? Yes. Exciting? Yes. Scary because I may have received a message from some murderer. Exciting because if the message actually originated from a woman named Leigh, who created that nice profile, and who looks like that person in the provided photo, then I could be onto something great.
Every part of me wants to believe she’s real.
* * *
Unfortunately, I still haven’t received a response from any of the agents or from the publishers. Life goes on. I continue to breathe, to eat, to shower, to poop, to shave, to work, to write. To survive.
I finally crack and call Sam. He doesn’t pick up. I stay on the line to hear his outgoing message. I feel ridiculous, like a teenage girl who can’t get over a break-up. I don’t leave a message. I’m beginning to let go. Sam’s new life takes precedence. Time is telling.
I check MySpace nightly to see if Leigh, or the person posing as her, is signed on, but her status shows OFFLINE. I feel alone in this world, the trite reclusive writer. Who am I kidding? Leigh can’t be real. Good things can’t just fall into your lap. Attractive women don’t treat me nicely, they look strangely at me and say words like “Are you kidding me?”—“Do I know you?” They think they’re superior to this gaunt, tooth-decayed freak. Mutely, I concur.
* * *
Wow, I’m pathetic. I sit at my laptop on yet another night, waiting for Leigh, the specter, to sign on. The average person, the conformist, would go to a bar or a club to meet a woman, but where do I go? To a Web site. Yes, that’s right. Unconventional Man himself. Complete with cape, spandex, and padded crotch region to accentuate my manhood.
My patience wears thin and I sign off. Saturday night and I’m home. My dad, on the other hand, is out on a date. Something wrong with this picture.
I’m going to sign on one last time and if she’s not online, then forget it.
To my surprise and delight, when I sign on this time, I notice a message from Leigh in the inbox, an apology for zero communication. She says she feels bad and would really like to get to know me as soon as possible. She includes something I never expected: her screen name for AIM.
I open AIM and add her screen name to my buddy list. She appears online, ready to chat, ready to embark on this possible relationship. In the back of my mind, I still have doubts about her legitimacy.
The conversation begins the way most do; we discuss family, hobbies, religion, and politics. She seems genuine; the information she offers doesn’t feel phony. She has a brother, a dog, her parents are still married, she’s twenty-three-years-old and still living at home. She plays the piano for the Baptist church she attends. She’s one of those Christian girls. Not necessarily preachy, from what I can tell, but Christian nonetheless. Something about how openly she mentions Jesus’ name causes me to feel uncomfortable. She refers to him as though they are friends. One would think they have daily discussions. I know the historical Jesus existed, believe that much is true, but I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him. We are not friends. He’s a ghost to me.
Furthermore, Leigh enjoys Bush. And I don’t mean shrubbery. She likes President Bush, the talking Chimpanzee. Talk about your conventional Christian. The man declares himself Christian and suddenly every Christ follower in this so-called Christian nation thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Okay, it’s been established that Leigh and I are very different people. I’m not a Christian. I can’t play the piano, and I don’t attend church. I think Bush is a pretentious, spoon-fed, power-hungry bully. My parents are divorced. I don’t have a brother or a dog. It seems our common ground is that we both live at home and we both eat, breathe, work, and live.
She is certainly nothing like any of the girls I’ve known. Her face isn’t green and she doesn’t have a long, protruding nose, and she doesn’t ride a broomstick. In the past, I would have steered clear of anyone like Leigh, but I’ll give this a try. I’m not stupid enough to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results.
From out of nowhere, she announces her bedtime. She proceeds by typing: It’s been nice talking to you. Let’s make sure to do it again sometime soon.
I respond: Yeah, sounds like a plan.
Then she does something earth-shattering—she supplies her cell phone number and types: Give me a call tomorrow night. It’d be nice to hear your voice to make sure you’re for real.
I chuckle, Ringo tapping at my heart like it’s a drum. Leigh wants to know that I’m for real?
I type: Tomorrow night it is.
We swap farewells. Excited, blood filling my head, I dash to my cell phone, flip it open, and enter her phone number as a new contact. For once, I have something to look forward to, a glimmer of color in my world.
* * *
Sunday night. The three-quarter moon casts a silvery glow over the porch. I lean my left elbow on the railing, right hand at eye level, gripping the cell phone, trembling. I stare into the lit screen of my phone, contemplate not calling, but decide it’s only right to follow through. With the push of a button, I dial her number.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three.
Four.
“This is Leigh.” The voice of an angel, tender and soothing to my senses, floats through the cell.
Those three words help me to discern her authenticity. My hand shakes, sweating. “This is James.” I take a deep breath.
“Oh, hello, James!” Her tone reveals excitement, stunning me. “I hope you don’t think I’m crazy,” she says.
“Why would I think that?”
“Because I threw my number at you,” she responds. “I don’t do that for just anyone. You’ve gotta be special.”
She obviously wants to make sure I don’t perceive her as easy. “So what makes me special?” I ask, curious.
“Most guys online, they only talk about sex. You don’t seem like that type.” She pauses. “And, not to mention, you write for fun. Now if that isn’t original, I don’t know what is.”
I feel my face redden. “Well, thank you.” This a refreshing experience. Friendly, attractive women do exist!
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” she says, “but I like your voice.”
“Really? I can’t stand the sound of myself.” I laugh nervously.
She chuckles. “Come on now. You sound like a sweetheart.”
We continue with small talk for a couple more minutes. Compliments fly every which way. My suffering self-esteem receives a mild boost. Every time she sends praise my way, though, a piece of me can’t accept it. She wouldn’t treat me nicely if she were to meet me, I surmise.
We transition into a discussion about her religion. She asks if I am Christian. I tell her I’m not. She gives a cursory glimpse of salvation: “Everyone falls short of the glory of God. We’re all sinners,” she elaborates, “but because Jesus died for our sins, we can be cleansed from those sins through his death. All we have to do is repent and accept him as our personal savior.”
Jesus undoubtedly means a lot to Leigh. I still experience discomfort with her mentioning his name so liberally, but I
think I understand now why she does. She’s testing the waters. She wants to know if I have an open mind and heart toward Christianity. Consciously, I don’t furnish any clues.
We move gradually to another topic. Work. She has two employers; the first, a prestigious advisory group and the second, a management company that runs local hotels and inns. I listen attentively throughout her spiel, give my two cents where appropriate, hand over the occasional “uh-huh” to let her know I’m still on the line, awake, listening. All the while, anticipation throbs in my throat. Before long, she’ll want to know about my job, for sure. This thought presses on me, creating a knot in my stomach. The last piece of information on earth I want her to know is that I work for Dad’s janitorial company.-
I tell her about my fantasy novel, that I sent it to publishers and literary agents for review.
“Great, James,” she says, impressed. “That shows a lot of devotion and persistence on your part.”
I thank her. Then, unexpectedly, she goes off on a tangent about her lazy ex-boyfriend. She says she desires a man with a more diligent work ethic. “You don’t sound lazy,” she says, “and that’s good news.”
Throughout the next half-hour, I discover, while extra vigilant, that her friends no longer live close by. Suddenly this situation makes increased sense. She and I have more in common than I once thought. We’re both friendless and yearning for companionship.
A tad over three hours into our exchange, our comfort level rising, she finally launches her version of the dreaded query: “I know you write, and that’s awesome, but what do you do to pay the bills?”
A dishonest approach pops into mind—tell her you work construction—but the heart directs me away from a deceitful answer. I reveal the truth, bracing myself: “I work for my dad’s janitorial company.”
She doesn’t laugh, chuckle, mock, or ridicule; instead, she seems interested, “When did he start the business?”
