Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I think about her question at length. “About a year after I was born.”

  She pauses.

  Nerves set in.

  She laughs, but not at me. “My dad started his business about a year after I was born, too. Can you believe it?”

  We lose ourselves in laughter, then she says, “This has been great, James. I haven’t had a conversation like this in a long time. Can you believe we’ve been talking for almost four hours? I’ve gotta get some sleep.”

  “It went by too fast,” I say, aching for more. “What would you say about meeting up sometime? In public, of course,” I blurt. Was that too aggressive? Don’t wanna scare her.

  She doesn’t shy away. “I think our best bet would be to give it about a week of, you know, talking and see where it goes from there.”

  Right. You wanna make sure I’m not an ax murderer . . . “Sounds good to me.” I pause, taking in the moment. “It’s been great, Leigh. Let’s keep in touch.”

  “We will.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gazing into her photograph online, I can’t believe she agreed to meet with me today, after only five days of conversing. Her long, flowing brown hair, friendly coffee-tinted eyes, and glowing smile will no longer be visible through a mere picture on the Internet. In three hours, she will stand before me, marvelously palpable. Bernard’s, a fairly well-known eatery in her hometown, Troftonfield, is the site where we will come face-to-face.

  I close my laptop, the matchmaking device, and begin to pace around the house, full of anxiety and excitement. Dad’s out on another date, I have been seemingly disowned by Sam, for unknown reasons, and Donovan is virtually unreachable, as busy as he is, so I have to keep these feelings to myself.

  What will I wear? I think.

  I mosey into my bedroom, open the closet door, and stare at the worn and tatty clothing. I think of Fred, the college guy, oddly enough, his apparel of great splendor. Truthfully, I wish the closet looked different, brimming with Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger. One will not find any brand names in this mockery of a closet. No way. I pick out a pair of no-name jeans, shake my head at the pitiable garment, and toss it on the floor. I reach deeper in and grab a pair of hole-ridden khakis, the only pair I own, and chuck them as well. For a solid half-hour, I rummage through the rest of my clothing. I come to the last clean outfit I own, a Superman shirt and carpenter jeans, and decide I have no choice. I visit the bathroom, gripping the outfit, where I strip from my pajamas and stand nude in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my deplorable body. I’m exceedingly skinny. I can barely look at my stick-thin arms, my underdeveloped chest (am I twelve?), the paleness of my body (am I albino?), and, of course, my rotted teeth (is my name Billy Bob?). I want to peel out of this sallow skin, find a body I halfway enjoy, and live in it. Metaphorically, of course.

  * * *

  I am clean, dressed, and away from the mirror. I check my watch. I have to leave for Bernard’s in an hour. What to do? What to do? My car needs cleaning. I go outside with a trash bag, meet up with the rust box, and collect candy wrappers and empty soda bottles from the passenger’s-side floor. I move to the back seat and set off on the same process until all the trash lies in the bag.

  I take a step back from the vehicle, bag in hand, and sigh. The interior is spotless but the rest of the car is still a mess, forlorn. Unfortunately, in this society, cars disclose status. When I pull up to Bernard’s in this thing, Leigh will develop a different impression than if I were to drive up in a Mercedes or a Beemer. BMW and Benz equal success. Dilapidated, pig-squealing Escort means failure. I don’t need to add wrappers and bottles to the first impression.

  I flash on children laughing and wrinkling their noses at my car, and I can see Leigh doing the same. She turns her cheek and says, “This was a big mistake. I didn’t know you were so unsuccessful—and dirty!”

  I shake off that reverie, pondering. Leigh doesn’t strike me as superficial. She knows what I do for a living. She can’t expect me to appear at Bernard’s in a Benz. I need to think positive. I must leave in a half-hour.

  I tie the bag and stride toward the house.

  * * *

  Upchucking butterflies fly inside my stomach as I drive away from the house, thinking of meeting with Leigh. I pull to the end of our road and open our mailbox. Mail is stacked inside, bound by an elastic band. I reach in the box and remove the pile. I riffle through the load. Credit card offers. Bills. Flyers. Then I spot a disparate piece of mail. The envelope bears the insignia of a publisher to whom I sent my manuscript. Slack-jawed, I throw the rest of the mail on the passenger seat and drop the publisher’s envelope on my lap. For ten seconds that seem eternal, I mull over the options. To open, or not to open. Heart racing, I choose to remove the letter from its home and unfold the stationery. My hands shake as though palsied. I read the publisher’s handwritten response:

  Dear Mr. Frost,

  Thank you for sending me chapters from The Forsaken World—you certainly are very creative! Regretfully, though, I must say that the manuscript seemed a bit overwritten, and I will have to pass on this project.

  Beth Cinder

  Editor

  I’m shocked. What have my eyes seen? I look down at the text and reread to confirm that the largest, most exalted publishing company in the world has rejected me. They’re not busting down my door to publish my tome and they’re not leaving glorifying messages on my answering machine. Anger, flaming in all its fury, replaces the previous numbness.

  My manuscript is overwritten? What is that supposed to mean? Overwritten. What was overwritten about it? The Forsaken World isn’t like some of the drivel I see on bookstands these days, the books that try to find meaning in a snowflake or describe in excruciating detail settings that could easily and more effectively be explained in a couple quick sentences.

  In this incensed state, I shove the letter in its envelope and throw it onto the passenger seat with the other mail. I feel like I’ve been attacked. I’ve never met Beth in my life. Never seen a picture of her, so I don’t even know what the woman looks like, but I loathe her entirely. I spent an innumerable amount of hours on The Forsaken World, draft after draft, hour after hour, week after week, month upon month, and with one quick decision on her part—which probably took her all of ten minutes, if that—I’m stuck with a dagger in my chest. Perhaps it’s good that I don’t know what she looks like, this way I have no image to wrap my rage around, just a name.

  I try to shake the fury by busying myself as soon as possible, shifting the car into gear, but to no avail: I remain horribly angry. I let the car roll away from the mailbox. Steaming inside, I drive down the road, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I almost lose circulation in my hands.

  “WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?”

  I press down harder on the accelerator, going twenty miles over the speed limit, body tense.

  “But I worked so hard!”

  Without much thought, I abruptly pull to the side of the road. Sorrow replaces anger. My heart is heavy in my chest, raw and aching, and I think of Leigh. How in the world will I go through with our meeting? What will I say if she asks how I’m doing? “Well, Leigh, honestly, I’m having a horrible day. I just got rejected by the biggest publishing company around, which shows you that I officially suck at writing. Now what do you think of me? Still wanna get to know this person who cleans for a living?”

  Maybe I should turn this car around.

  I shake my head. No.

  I get back on the road and start driving once again. I should stick with my plans to meet Leigh today. It would be tacky to stand her up. I fight the urge to go home and isolate myself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I sit in the parking lot at Bernard’s for a couple minutes, trying to fake myself into an improved mood, so as not to appear angry and downtrodden in front of Leigh in this preliminary meeting. I understand the importance of first impressions, and I don’t want her to regard me as an emotionally fragile weakling wi
th a short fuse.

  Outwardly calm and composed, I step out of the car and enter the restaurant, forcing a smile.

  The hostess greets me immediately. “Smoking or non?” she asks.

  I give the room a quick scan. Leigh is nowhere in sight. The first thought that pops into mind is I’ve been stood up. My fake smile fades. A no-show, now that would be the icing on the cake.

  “Umm . . . I think,” I stumble over my response, “I mean . . . I’m meeting someone here.”

  “Oh,” says the hostess. She turns and nods at a booth at the far end of the room. I hadn’t noticed the booth. The hostess asks, “Is this person you’re meeting a woman, and does she have long hair, and is your name James?”

  I squint at the backside of who I suspect might be Leigh sitting at the booth. “Yeah. Long hair, and a woman, and the name’s James. How’d you know?” I ask.

  “I’ve been informed.” She winks. “Right this way, please.” She motions me forward. Guides me to the booth, where she drops me off and says, “You two enjoy your meal. Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

  I’m taken aback by Leigh, and I forget to acknowledge the hostess. In person, Leigh encompasses all the beauty of her photograph and much more. Her brown hair flows like rippling waves down to her mid-back, her eyes welcoming and innocent.

  “Hey, James,” she says excitedly, standing.

  “Leigh, right?” I extend a hand toward her.

  She seizes it and shakes. “I hope you don’t mind; I wanted to get us a good seat.”

  “This is great,” I say. We sit in opposite ends of the booth.

  “So how was your ride?” she asks, her eyes examining me. “It wasn’t too long, was it? I kinda feel bad having you come all the way out here.”

  “Honestly,” I say, “it went by quickly. Just one big blur, really.” I forge a smile.

  She tilts her head. “Are you all right?”

  Oh, no. The feared question. “Umm . . . truthfully, I’ve been better. It’s nice finally meeting you, though. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “So why have you been better?” She leans in. “I’m a good listener. Try me.” She wears a concerned look.

  She’s gonna think I’m a loser. “Remember how I told you that I sent my book to a bunch of publishers and literary agents?”

  “Of course,” she says, nodding. “Hear back from any of them yet?”

  “Actually, yeah, I did, and that’s why I could be better.”

  “Bad news, huh?”

  “Today, one of the biggest publishing companies in the world rejected me. I was hoping they’d want to take my manuscript on, but I guess they didn’t think my novel was good enough.”

  “Bummer.” She frowns, then brightens. “But you have all those agents that could respond with good news, right? This is just one publisher . . .”

  “True.” She makes some sense here, but I remain depressed. Woe is me.

  “I bet you’re an awesome writer. I wouldn’t let this bring you down.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t feel like an awesome writer at the moment.” I shake my head. “Look at this, I’m bringing you down. . . . I’m sorry. Enough about me.”

  “No, no. You’re not bringing me down. I told you, I’m a good listener. This is obviously a big deal for you, and I respect that.”

  I smile. “Tell me about your day,” I say.

  “Mine certainly can’t compare to yours,” she says. “It was very uneventful. Did a lot of cleaning around the house.”

  I don’t intervene. I want her to keep talking, to take the spotlight off me and my situation.

  “I spent some time earlier studying the Bible,” she says.

  I fall into my own little world of misery. The best I can do is sit here and nod, fake involvement in this conversation. In reality, I only catch a few stray words here and there, like “End Times” and “Jesus.” I think this is her way of reiterating her faith. Or maybe she’s trying to make me feel better. Not sure what her intention is, to be honest. She may be trying to show me that life could be worse.

  I guess it could.

  * * *

  From what I remember, the rest of the meal was rather monotonous, although, I might feel that way because I was in a daze. I have the hardest time remembering, in detail, what we even discussed.

  Now we’re in Leigh’s car, a black Eclipse in pristine form, definitely an upgrade from my piece of junk on wheels. I’m relieved. I won’t have to expose her to the Decrepit Mobile. The opportunity won’t arise for her to laugh at my vehicle or wrinkle her nose. Not today.

  She glances at me. “Have you ever been to Weirs?”

  I pull away from my thoughts, turn to face her where she sits in the driver’s seat. “Once, I think, when I was little kid,” I say.

  “You’ll like it.” She smiles, as though she knows something I don’t.

  “I’m sure I will.” I go to smile in return but remember my teeth, so I offer a non-tooth-bearing smile.

  “What type of music do you enjoy?” She reaches her hand toward the radio and turns it on.

  “Sarah McLachlan’s good. So is James Blunt, Sting, and Howie Day.”

  Leigh nods in consent. “I just went to see Howie Day. He was great live.”

  My interest piques. “You went to that concert? Are you kidding? I was gonna go to that concert.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I just couldn’t find anyone to go with.” Can I sound any more pathetic?

  She grins, revealing her white, unstained teeth. “I went alone,” she says. “I couldn’t find anyone to go with me, either.”

  I chuckle. “Geez, too bad we didn’t meet sooner. We could’ve had a great time.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve been fun,” she agrees.

  “Do you think if I went alone, we would’ve bumped into each other?” I ask.

  Her face scrunches, thinking. “Do you believe in fate?”

  “If what you mean by fate is destiny, yeah, I believe in fate.”

  She checks her rearview mirror. “I think if two people are meant to meet, they will. Somehow, in one way or another, they will.”

  * * *

  I have no prior memories of this place called Weirs. As Leigh and I amble side by side, an arm’s length apart, I take in my surroundings for the first time. Gift shops, arcades, jewelry outlets, and eateries encase us. Dusk has arrived, so the lights from the arcade glow extra brightly. The moon peeks through the clouds, sending slivers of light over the road and the nearby buildings.

  Leigh and I cross the road and arrive on the boardwalk, wooden slabs adjacent to a railroad track, which appears to stretch over the full length of the beach. In the distance, the lake gleams beneath the moon. Beyond the water, outlines of numerous nondescript mountains poke the dimming sky.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Leigh waves a hand at the glistening lake.

  I nod. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  She pats my arm. “Are you doing okay?” Her tone shows her concern.

  “I’m here with a beautiful woman, walking along the boardwalk. I’m—”

  “Sad, aren’t you?” she asks. “I can feel it.”

  “How’d you—I mean—I’m not sad about being with you. I’m glad we met. It’s just the whole rejection thing.”

  “Follow me,” she says. “There’s some place I wanna take you.”

  I trail her to the middle of the boardwalk, to a set of wooden stairs. We walk down the steps, end on a small footbridge with built-in seats. Anchored boats line either side of the bridge.

  “Have a seat.” She signals to the wooden bleachers.

  I sit on a hard plank, as does she, across from me, and I say, “You’re a good person for trying to cheer me up.”

  She blushes and shrugs. “I do my best.”

  We sit in silence for a long minute. The breeze picks up and blows over us. Distant lights, with the addition of the moon, illuminate this space enough for me to se
e her smile.

  I finally break the silence. “I’m not sure what I’m gonna do next. Part of me thinks I should do another rewrite, but another part can’t fathom doing that. It’s times like this when I really doubt myself. Maybe I should give up on writing altogether, pick up some other hobby. Something that isn’t this arduous.”

  “And why would you do that?” Leigh asks. “You love writing. That’s obvious. You wouldn’t write an entire book if you didn’t love it.”

  I pause, get a little choked up. “I gave everything to this novel. Everything.” I look down at the wood, shaking my head. I want to explode into tears, to release the anguish within. I can’t, though. Not in front of Leigh. No emotionally fragile weakling here.

  Silence falls over us yet again. I imagine Leigh doesn’t know how to respond to my situation. Perhaps she can’t relate, can’t think of a time when she put every ounce of her soul into something, only to watch it fail.

  I lift my head and notice she’s walking toward me. She gives me a sweet smile and says, “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

  I shake my head. “Be my guest.”

  She fidgets in the seat until she finds a comfortable spot. Without warning, she subtly places a hand on my leg, right above the knee. I glance at the hand, pretending that this is normal, that I’m familiar with treatment like this, but internally I’m astonished.

  “Everything’s gonna be okay, James.” Her voice calms me.

  I look dazedly into her eyes, hypnotized, and something in them makes me believe, if even for a moment, that she’s right.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It’s been a day since Weirs. Last night, I couldn’t get myself to talk with anyone, not even Leigh. Her comforting line didn’t take long to wear off, and I spent the late hours lying in bed, feeling like a failure.