The cats sit there, unmoved, their eyes taunting me. I wish I knew something insulting in the cat world. I would totally use it right now. Instead, I stalk off toward the YMCA. If I had cat ears, they’d be flat.
In the pouring rain with no umbrella, I walk. The day is as gray as Stonehenge and if you could see me, you’d think me pathetic. And I am. I’m slouched, trying to protect myself from the rain. I’m wet. Angry. Fed up. I just want to get home . . . or wherever it is I’m staying. I want dry clothes and I want that stupid Murphy bed. This rain reminds me of my wedding day and so yes, my heart is a soggy mess of sorrow at the moment. It is, dare I say, a bleeding one.
I arrive at the YMCA. I stand under the small stoop, letting myself drip-dry a little bit. I don’t want to track water all the way to my room. Some old person might slip and fall. I listen to the rain and decide it’s rather soothing if I’m not standing in it. I try to think of a plan to get Jake to notice my cards. What can I do to wake this guy out of his creative coma?
Finally, I stop dripping. I head to my room. I pass the old lady janitor, who never seems to acknowledge I exist. Sitting on top of one of her buckets, though, is a tabby cat, who stares me down as we pass each other. I stare it down too. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.
I reach for my key but before I get to it, I notice a note stuck to my door. It simply says “Rent overdue” and my gaze drops to the door knob. There is a padlock on it.
A minute later, I’m sitting across from Morris, the guy I met the first day I arrived. I figure Morris has seen plenty of people on hard times in his line of work, but I must look like a culmination of them all. He isn’t meaning to, but his head is tilted to the side like I’m quite the spectacle.
I slap a credit card onto the desk in front of him. It is my last resort. I vowed I wouldn’t go into debt making my dream come true, but at this point, I’m just trying to find dry clothes and a bed, so I figure this would be considered an emergency.
“Can you put the next couple of weeks on my credit card?”
“I already tried. Wouldn’t go through.”
This is the kind of desperation you don’t really expect in life. This and being left at the altar. I’m sitting in this chair, across from a guy with no neck, and I’m realizing I’m homeless. For real, homeless.
Homeless. Spouse-less. And also dead. I might as well jump feet first into the fiery furnace of hopelessness, because I’m not seeing a way out of this.
“I’ll get cash from my boss tomorrow.” I know Jake will do this for me. He hands ten bucks out to homeless people. And I’m his assistant. I’m sure the loan will come with a card encouraging me through my homelessness, but at this point, I’m desperate enough to take it and read the thing. I look at Morris. “Will that work?”
“Yep. And as soon as I see that cash, I’ll let you back in. Tomorrow.”
An hour or so passes. Maybe five. I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m against the wall next to my padlocked door, still wet. I’m cold. I’m hungry. And I’m the kind of person that takes my hunger out on other people. When my blood sugar drops, you better get me a carb and fast.
I rest my head between my knees, trying to keep a headache at bay. I realize I’m about as low as I can go. I mean, probably to encourage me you’d say, “Well at least you’re alive.” But technically, according to the government, I’m really not. I wonder what kind of card Jake would send to someone like me? How do you comfort someone by greeting card who doesn’t have a postal address? What serene nature picture is going to keep me from jumping off the proverbial cliff?
I hear a sound and look up. On the other side of my closed door, sitting against the wall just like me, is Mikaela. When she slipped into the picture, I don’t know. But she’s beginning to grow on me.
I get up off the ground. I’m vaguely aware there’s a prominent wet spot on my rear.
“How was your date?”
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Does your mother know you sneak out and harass me all the time?”
“I’m too charming to fall under the harassment category.”
“Right. What room are you in again?”
“You never asked me the first time.”
“Does it have floor space I can borrow?”
Mikaela also stands and she produces a padlock key from her pocket and hands it to me. “I’m in tight with the janitor lady. Room Eleven, can I ask you something?”
“Don’t you always?”
I’ve known Mikaela only for a short time, but I’ve never seen her face cloud over until now. She is pondering something deeply.
“How do I get a boy to like me?”
Oh brother. I do not want to deal with this question. My advice would be to stay away from boys for the majority of life, until you are both about seventy and they’re finally tame enough to enjoy and nearly dead enough to collect Social Security benefits.
As I stand there trying to figure out a way to explain all this to Mikaela, there is an overwhelming antiseptic smell, like the girl bathed in it. It’s not going to attract any boys, that’s for sure, although I suspect she’s totally safe from the West Nile virus.
“Take a shower, first of all. You smell like antiseptic.”
“I was hoping for something a little more existential.”
What eleven-year-old uses that word? “Well, sorry to disappoint you. I’m of the philosophy that a good shower is never going to fail you. After that, you’re on your own.”
I unlock the padlock and throw my stuff on the bed, then dig through my bag looking for dry clothes. When I turn around, Mikaela is already digging through my other bag, holding up the soggy cards one by one.
“What are these for?”
I put a towel down and sit on the bed, gazing at the sopping mess. “Tomorrow, Jake and I present to the team the next set of cards. Only Jake’s cards”—his face pops into my mind, as does the expression of complete fulfillment he had when we were at the park—“will sink us for sure. So I’m writing my own set. Except I’m going to have to start over, but I’ll have them done by tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Mikaela hands them to me one by one as I set them on the desk. “Jake doesn’t know about these?”
“Of course not. If he did, he wouldn’t let me present.”
I reach out for another card, but Mikaela pulls it to her chest, looking at me just like those cats do. “Wait a minute. I helped you get that job. And now you’re going to stab Jake in the back?”
“It’s not like that. I’m trying to help him save his company.”
She crosses her arms. “Is he going to see it that way?”
Now I don’t know about you, but I have some pet peeves. I don’t like when people younger than me call me honey or sweetheart. I also don’t like eleven-year-olds crossing their arms and lecturing me on ethical issues.
“Mikaela, give me the drawings.”
“Then give me back that key!” I’m surprised by this. She’s typically pretty calm . . . incorrigible, yes . . . but I’ve never seen her face red.
I cross my arms, holding the key in my hand. Oh yeah, it’s a standoff and I’m in the kind of mood where this is somehow making sense in the moment. I understand that you’re probably having second thoughts about me and an eleven-year-old throwing down, but you have to try to be in my perspective. See it through my eyes. See it through the day I’ve had. Remember that I was having to write down rhymes about deer bounding over prairie grass.
Suddenly, Mikaela throws all the cards at me. It’s like confetti popping from the ceiling. But there’s no big prize and no winner. I watch them float to the ground, then I look at Mikaela. Her hands are on her hips. She suddenly looks like the little girl she is.
“It’s not supposed to be like this! I’m changing my Christmas list!”
She storms off. I grab all my cards off the ground, tryi
ng to neatly stack them. I don’t know where Mikaela has gone, and frankly, I don’t have time to care.
I sit at my desk and pull out my pencils.
The next time I glance at the clock, it is 4:30 a.m.
* * * *
It’s morning. And by morning, I mean the time most people get up. I fell asleep somewhere around five and awoke around seven, still at my desk, drooling on a card that had half the punch line written.
I shower, trying to wake myself up. I look dreadful. Maybe I should present a line of zombie cards.
I decide I need some breakfast. But as I open the fridge in the community kitchen and dig around sacks, I realize almost immediately my food is gone. Someone has stolen it. I glance at my watch. I’m already late.
So I go.
Once in the office, I quickly type up everything Jake requested and have it on his desk by the time he arrives. He still has that bounce in his step . . . like a deer bounding over fields of optimism.
I see him in his office, reviewing the printout. He’s talking to himself, making mental notes, I guess. While he’s distracted, I take the cards I worked on all night and slide them into a folder. Jake walks out, looking at his watch.
“Okay, it’s time to go to the board roo—you okay? You look a little . . .”
“Just tired.” I stretch a grin so wide across my face that he leans back a little, like he’s afraid it might bite. I dial it back a notch. “Yeah, you know, just so much excitement about our big presentation and all that. Hard to sleep. This is what we live for, right? Greeting cards.” He smiles helplessly, if I had to describe it, and it kind of stings my heart. “This new love line will make those nursing home ladies swoon. Thanks for typing everything up this morning.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles at me in one of those moments where you feel like something is passing between the two of you but you don’t really know what. “I, um . . . I had a lot of fun yesterday.”
We walk together to the boardroom, my legs shaky underneath me. Jake seems as calm and cool as I’ve seen him. Pearl, Ruby, Everett, and a couple of the accountants file into the boardroom as we do. Everyone gets situated, a couple pour coffee. Everett checks his phone. I swallow. Guilt is kind of strangling me at the moment. But at the same time, I know what I must do . . . for Jake, for Everett, for greeting cards everywhere.
Everett calls the meeting to order and then says, “All right. What do we got?”
Jake’s face lights. He gives me a knowing look before he says, “Everett, this new line . . . I’m sure these cards will sell. Hope?” He gestures toward me and nods toward the computer where we’ve put all of his notes into a PowerPoint.
I stand, adjust my pants and my shirt and my hair. I adjust my watch. I adjust my pants again. And then, with resolve, I adjust my expression and head away from the computer toward the easel in the corner, where I’d put my cards earlier and draped a sheet to hide them.
I can see Jake out of the corner of my eye. He’s pointing to the computer, sort of frozen mid-gesture, watching me walk. Everyone is.
“Good morning,” I say very formally, but my voice shakes a little. “Today, I want to present to you a new idea.” I glance at Jake. Slowly, his arm is lowering. “People who are together, they don’t need our cards. They should be writing their own words to each other. So I propose we do a new thing this Valentine’s Day, something that’s never been done in the history of greeting card companies. For those who feel it’s time to end a relationship, or those who are grieving a lost love . . . let’s target them. They need us to say the right words for them. That’s why I propose we develop”—I can almost hear the drum roll. Almost—“a line of break-up cards.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Everett says and claps . . . all by himself.
“Hope,” Jake says, “what are you doing?”
I look at him, hoping he sees the wisdom I’m offering. “Jake, just listen. It’s marketable. More people break up than make up, right? If we want to talk numbers, right?” I glance over at the two accountants, who don’t seem to speak “relationship” but whose eyes light up when I say numbers. With the flare of a magician, I pull the sheet off the easel and unveil my very first card. I pick the first one up and show the outside: “‘God never closes a door on a relationship without opening a window.’” I open the card. “‘Feel free to jump. I’ll wait for you at the bottom.’”
I still crack up at that one. I look around the room. Only Everett is smiling and nodding.
I clear my throat and unveil the second card. “‘It was God who said man is not meant to be alone.’” I open it. “‘I hope God wasn’t talking about your ex. That schmuck deserves to be alone for the rest of his life. You are too good for him.’”
Everett howls with laughter. But Jake stands and moves to the computer.
“Excuse me,” he says in a tone I’ve not heard him use before. “These are not the cards we prepared for today. I appreciate your efforts,” he says, casting me a look that says otherwise, “and I’m sure you worked hard, but—”
“I want to hear them,” Everett says. “Landon, go on.”
It’s tense in the room, which does not seem ripe for the receiving of punch lines, so I try to explain the vision. “We could also develop a set for that moment when you realize you’re with the wrong person . . . and who can’t relate to that, right?” I say with a kind of snorty, awkwardly whistling laugh. “Um, how about this one? ‘The Lord said seek and ye shall find . . . when I found you, I should’ve kept looking.’”
Everett is rolling. Pearl and Ruby look at each other as I unveil the fourth card.
“Where are we supposed to add the puppies?” Pearl asks.
“Do you have kitten jokes? We love kittens,” says Ruby.
“I’m working on that,” I say to them, “but let’s think about the woman whose man cheated on her. How about quoting Numbers 6:24: ‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee . . .’” I open the card. “‘Because I don’t want thee anymore, you cheater.”
Everett rubs his hands together. “Awesome.”
“We can’t use the Bible this way,” Jake says, throwing up his hands. “I know this is your dream and you think these are good ideas. But my father left me in charge for a reason.” His gaze is bouncing between Everett and me.
“Correction, Jake. You’re just the writer. I get to approve what goes to market.” Everett points to the next card I’d unveiled. “What’s this one?”
I look at it. It’s a drawing of a woman buried in wedding gifts. She’s not looking happy. I’m sure you can imagine.
“It’s a ‘No Thank You Card’ for right after a busted wedding.”
Ruby and Pearl look completely lost. “I’ve never heard of those,” Pearl whispers to Ruby.
“Me neither,” Ruby whispers back.
Few have, I assume. So I explain. “They come in handy when your betrothed”—I use this word to try to help Ruby and Pearl along in their understanding—“leaves you at the altar, feeling stupid, because you thought he’d stick around. And he was the only one you ever loved and you have all those gifts to return.”
I have to be honest, everyone looks confused and stumped. Even Everett.
I clear my throat. “Jake, if we mix the Bible with humor, maybe it will save your company!” I’m sure you can picture it—I’m frozen in excitement, waiting for him to come along beside me.
He doesn’t. “I have my own new cards,” he says to Everett, completely ignoring me.
“Lan, you got anything else?”
Lan . . . ugh. Why is he calling me that? It’s so . . . Sam. And I didn’t even like it that much when he called me that, but it was his pet name for me and it had a certain amount of charm to it because I thought he was in love with me.
I glance at Jake, suddenly convicted by my scheme. He stands there looking totally wounded. He
shrugs his shoulders, like I might as well continue.
“Well, um, I’m also working on some Anti-versary Cards, for those dates on the calendar that are painful. Or for divorcees, Newly Unwed cards.”
Admittedly, there is a certain dark cloud hanging over the conference room, but this is reality . . . this is what people go through. I try to brighten the mood. “Of course, we can’t ignore congratulations for those few who do find love.”
Pearl and Ruby sit up straighter, nodding and smiling. I unveil the final card. On the front is someone praying. “‘I know you’ve waited so long to find God’s best.’” I open the card. “‘I see you got impatient. Congratulations on your engagement.” Pearl and Ruby are back to looking confused, but Everett leaps from his seat.
The next thing I know, he’s grabbed my head, pulled me forward, kissed my forehead, and let me go. I stumble back, breathless and disoriented.
“You are just what we needed!” Everett says.
“We can’t print these.” Jake steps forward. His face is a shade of red that’s somewhere between ripe tomato and blood. “Sales are not that bad. Our inventory is moving . . .” His voice is high and thin and desperate.
“Because you give half of it away! Since these aren’t specific only to Valentine’s Day, let’s get them out there, see if they boost sales.”
I glance at the accountants, then at Ruby and Pearl. Everyone is watching this verbal Ping-Pong match with a lot of interest.
“These can’t be our last-chance cards.” He looks at me, but there is a wall so high and wide in his eyes that I’m not even sure if he’s seeing me. “I need our notes.”
Greetings from the Flipside Page 14
