by Lisa Smartt
Doug & Carlie
By Lisa Smartt
To Philip,
Your daily acts of kindness speak louder than words.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE: My First Thirty-Two Years Condensed Into A Few Pages ‘Cause Really…It Hasn’t Been That Exciting
CHAPTER TWO: I Know It’s Gonna Get Better (Probably)
CHAPTER THREE: Uh-Oh, This Relationship Is Getting Too Close To Real Life
CHAPTER FOUR: Face To Face…Egads!
CHAPTER FIVE: When Tragedy Strikes
CHAPTER SIX: Living Through Drama…I Mean, Trauma
CHAPTER SEVEN: To A Funeral We Must Go
CHAPTER EIGHT: Along Comes Sandra
CHAPTER NINE: Floating Through The Air
CHAPTER TEN: The More Things Change… The More They Stay The Same
CHAPTER ELEVEN: The More Things Change…The More They Stay The…Uh-Oh, This Time They’re Really Changin’
CHAPTER TWELVE: Thank God I’m A Country Boy…With A Woman In New York City. Yeah, That Doesn’t Sound Right.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Things, They Are A Changin’ (For Real)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Paying the Piper
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Little Fish In A Big Pond
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Life Without Carlie
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Big Girl In The Big Apple
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Lookin’ For A Country Girl…And A Country Ham
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Starting Over…Again
CHAPTER TWENTY: Lonely Days Of Winter
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Winter Showers Bring Spring Flowers…Or Somethin’ Like That
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Turning A Corner
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: God Watches Over Fools And Insecure Women
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Rainbow After The Rain
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Building An Eagle’s Nest
Doug and Carlie’s Love Conspiracy, Available March 2013
CHAPTER ONE: Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Doug and Carlie Discussion Questions
CHAPTER ONE: My First Thirty-Two Years Condensed Into A Few Pages ‘Cause Really…It Hasn’t Been That Exciting
CARLIE
September 15, 2010
I ate a whole lemon meringue pie on May 12 of this year. I walked out of the Kroger in Athens, Georgia, sat in my ‘99 silver Camry, pulled a plastic spoon from my purse, and started in the middle and worked my way to the outside crust. It was good too. Well, good and terrible at the same time. The way a drunk feels after slugging back a half bottle of Jack Daniels. He doesn’t know whether he’s happy or sad. He’s too intoxicated. I was sugar intoxicated the day I ate the whole lemon meringue pie. But thankfully, today I’m completely sober.
I’ll graduate from the University of Georgia this December at the age of thirty-two. I first went to college when I was eighteen but I thought I was too brilliant to study and I made a mockery of the whole process. That’s what my major professor, Dr. Sanders, told me. “Carlie Ann Davidson, you have made a mockery out of the scholarships that were entrusted to you because you were an honor student in high school. People had faith in you. They wanted you to succeed. They believed in you and this is how you have paid them back…with failure.” You may not know this or maybe you do. Failure feels, well, like a bad case of food poisoning. You promise yourself you’ll do everything possible to never experience it again.
I don’t know why I failed out of college. That’s a lie. I do know. I didn’t do the work. I hated going to biology lab because it stunk so bad and I hated actually doing experiments or lab work with my hands. I’m not a doer. I’m a thinker. Or that’s what I told Dr. Billings when he asked me to carve up a dead rat. I calmly explained, “I just wrote a moving story about a rat who fell victim to America’s prejudice against members of the rodent family. You certainly can’t ask me to be a part of this rat’s ultimate undoing. I have a moral obligation to opt out.” Yeah, when an eighteen-year-old thinks she’s brilliant she says really stupid things like that. I thought I could opt out of the work part of going to college. But it just made people believe I was too immature to be there. They were right. I loved going to English classes because I got to write. They made me write. Someone has to make me write because I’m not a disciplined person at all. Hence, the pie episode above.
I dropped out of college at twenty and that’s when I began my career as a cashier/stocker/finder of pork n beans at the Dollar General Store in Commerce, Georgia. I’m not all in love or anything. My parents are teachers and they’re still in love after thirty-seven years. Sometimes I wish my family were more dysfunctional as that would make a good excuse for all my failures. My two younger brothers, Sam and Bennett, are both married to beautiful women and wildly successful according to all-American standards. I think they succeeded because no one ever told them they were brilliant. They just worked hard and cut open the rat and did what they were told. Neither of them works at the Dollar General Store because they finished college and bought houses in suburban neighborhoods. All the normal stuff. Sam even got an MBA. No. I don’t know if they’re embarrassed by their brilliant sister who works at the Dollar General. I try not to think about it. I’m sure they say what everybody says, “Well, did you hear? She’s attending college now.” Like that makes me a real person again. Going to college doesn’t make someone a real person. Wiping an old lady’s rear end at a nursing home makes someone a person. That’s just my own opinion.
I love romantic movies and I pretend that someday I’ll be starring in my own romantic movie. Except it will be for real. I mean, it will happen in real space and time. A tall good lookin’ stranger will walk into the Dollar General Store and buy something really exotic. He won’t be buying Wonder bread or Pop-Tarts or motor oil. No. It will be something like…well, I don’t know. Something like a cheese grater or a cork screw. We don’t carry cork screws, but maybe he’ll buy a bread machine on sale for $39.99 because he wants to make his own wheat bread. I’ll picture him going home to his perfectly-kept condo where he’ll grate some kind of exotic cheese to put on a piece of fresh wheat bread because it’s so much healthier than grabbing a burger at Burger Shack. He’ll loosen his tie and sit down and have a drink out on his veranda. That’s what all successful men do in movies. And yes, they have verandas…not porches.
I usually pretend that I’m too smart to worry about love. When Mrs. Grissom comes through the line every Saturday morning (senior citizen discount before noon) she always asks, “Carlie Ann, are you dating anyone?”
I say things I don’t mean like, “Right now, I’m just concentrating on my studies.” or “Men are all pigs.” But I don’t mean it. I just don’t want to say what I really mean, “I desperately want a man to love me.” or “I’m not sure there’s a man who will love me.” That seems a lot scarier than just pretending to be concentrating on my studies.
I’m majoring in English because the one thing I can do (other than tell you that toilet paper is on Aisle 9) is read and write. I know. English majors don’t have any real job prospects. You think I don’t know that? Sheesh. I know. But I had to major in the only thing I could do successfully. I couldn’t risk another failure. According to the University of Georgia, in less than four months I will prove to the world that I’m brilliant again. Whew. I’m sure most people have totally forgotten my earlier brilliance at Commerce High School. After ringing up their Wonder bread and Pop-Tart purchases for the last ten years, I’ve become invisible. But I’ll be visible again soon. Just wait. My name and picture will be in the paper and everything. Commerce Woman Graduates from University of Georgia with Honors. Well, I won’t actually graduate with honors. Biology and hi
story and algebra and a few other classes stood in the way of that. I’m not sure I ever was brilliant. I was just really good at convincing people I was.
I weigh thirty-seven pounds more than the chart says I should weigh. I don’t like it but every time I think about weighing thirty-seven pounds more than the chart says I should weigh, I want to eat a whole pie. Vicious cycle, y’know. My cousin swears up and down that there are men out there who like their women chunky. I don’t see it. First of all, I think chunky is a ridiculous word to describe anything other than a chocolate bar. Secondly, the men that come through the check-out line never give me a second look. Is this because they think I’m a loser for working at the dollar store or because they would never look at a chunky woman? I’ll probably never know. I do know that the University of Georgia needs to hurry up with my diploma. My self-esteem is waning.
That brings you up to date on my first thirty-two years. I’m a chunky girl who comes from a nice Georgia family. I tend to be an under-achiever and a pie eater. I work at the Dollar General Store. I used to make excuses for that but I don’t anymore. I desperately want real love. I’m almost always hungry for sugar. I don’t like dissecting rats. Oh, and I live in an apartment with dingy cream-colored carpet and a roommate named Clara. I hold out a lot of hope for tomorrow…’cause the first thirty-two years haven’t been much to write home about.
CHAPTER TWO: I Know It’s Gonna Get Better (Probably)
CARLIE
September 22
Just got out of my sociology class. Dr. Crusoe said that all of us single guys and gals should be on a mission to find ourselves and not be bogged down with thinkin’ about wantin’ a woman or a man all the time. All I could think about was how cute that redheaded guy on the front row looked in his faded jeans and plaid flannel shirt. The light blue matched his eyes perfectly. Every time Dr. Crusoe told me to concentrate on finding myself it made me want to eat sugar or kiss a man. I didn’t even know which one I wanted more.
September 23
I ate no sugar yesterday. I feel proud and happy. Today is the nineteenth day of my last semester at the University of Georgia. So I’m ten years late. Who’s counting? Well, Mom and Dad have probably counted but the point is I got here. I’m writing from the park bench outside the University Commons. All the college kids are playing Frisbee or holding hands with their significant others while walking to class. I hate that term significant other. What does that even mean? Let’s be real. It’s boyfriend or husband. If this is my boyfriend it means that we’re not sure if we’re in love. We’re trying to find out. If this is my husband that means we both are pretty sure. Not that complicated.
September 26
I wish I hadn’t told Mom I would go to the college class at church. I felt ridiculous walking into a class full of people who were in kindergarten when I first told Dr. Billings I wouldn’t dissect a rat. I felt old, invisible, fat, hungry, tired. It didn’t help that my eye liner was crooked and my tan pants felt tight. And wouldn’t you know that a fabulous-looking twenty-something man sat down next to me. He never even glanced my direction. I knew the drill. I just turned red and wished I had a Hershey bar. The teacher had some encouraging things to say about love and singleness and priorities but I rushed out of the room as soon as it was over and sat in the sanctuary with my parents like a fourth grader. Egads! All I needed was some crayons and I would have drawn a picture on the church bulletin. At lunch, I wanted to say something to my parents but I didn’t know how. I wanted to say, “Mom, Dad, I’m a grownup now. I care about my future. I’m really good at my job. I’m friendly when Mr. Porter asks about whether the spray paint we carry is toxic. I look on the label and say, ‘Why Mr. Porter, looks like if you follow the directions you’ll live to see another day.’ I’m good with Mr. Porter…and people like him. I’m always on time. I got an A on my final paper last semester in English 309. I pay my rent two days early every month.” But I didn’t say it. I didn’t say any of it. I knew they still saw me as a fourth grader. A sad and lonely fourth grader. I was lonely, yes. But I was a full-grown woman.
September 30
I lost seven pounds and then I gained five. I think I was celebrating the lost weight by eating a half gallon of ice cream in forty-eight hours. That will only make sense to some people. If you read the pie incident and thought I should be hospitalized you will not be one of those people. I went to Lane Bryant today and bought a pair of jeans and a bejeweled denim jacket. The sales woman said it was sassy. I said that sassy was exactly what I was going for. She almost cheered, “Girl, you gonna look like somethin’ else when you hit the dance floor in this little number.”
I said, “How would it look in the frozen food aisle at Kroger?”
“Oh Hon, don’t even be messin’ with me. You got it goin’ on and you know it.”
I may have it goin’ on but I don’t know where it’s goin’ and I definitely don’t know where to take it.
That brings up a tired and over-used question that I have pondered almost every day for the last seven years. Where does a nice girl meet a nice guy? Every morning talk show has a panel to discuss such a question. The panel is usually made up of a bunch of doctored married people who are going to tell me, a chunky woman who works at the dollar store, that I should do some kind of exciting cultural extra-curricular thing that makes me seem intelligent. I don’t know if telling Mr. Porter that the spray paint won’t kill him counts. But if it does count, I’m good. I’m right where I need to be.
I had a big crush on someone last year. But I know now that he wasn’t my type. Every time a girl is handily rejected by a man she says, “He wasn’t my type.” That’s code speech for: He didn’t like me. I wanted him to like me but he didn’t. Jim Flanders liked to flirt and pretend that he hung on my every word. But I realize now that what he really liked was knowing that I liked him. It didn’t matter that he was never gonna ask me out. He was gonna spend his time making me think he was gonna ask me out just so I would keep volunteering to bring spinach dip to his office. One time he asked my opinion of his tie. “Does this lavender look too girly? I don’t want to look like a girly man. You’d never go for someone like that, would you, Carlie?” He knew I would go for him…lavender tie or not. He was yankin’ my chain and I’ve decided I don’t like that anymore. Jim is the assistant principal at the primary school and he flirts with every single woman in town. Someday he’s gonna flirt with someone who refuses to make spinach dip and who doesn’t think the dimple on his right cheek combined with a receding hairline is slightly adorable. I wish I didn’t think Jim was slightly adorable. I’m trying not to, every single day.
October 2
Today I did something I hadn’t done in a while. I prayed for a man to come into the store. Even if he weren’t my future husband, it would still be fun if a man came in the store who paid me some attention, acted interested, maybe bought a corkscrew or a bread machine. God surely cares about things like that, right? And wouldn’t ya know…an interesting man did come in the store tonight. It was at 8:50 on the dot. I looked at the big clock because we always hope no one comes in after 8:45 so we can close right at 9:00. But I didn’t mind. I’d known Mr. Rockford my whole entire life. He was in his late seventies or maybe even early eighties and everyone in town loved him and I’d never heard any weird rumors about him. He’d always carry Mrs. Rockford’s purse if she was busy in the store lookin’ at wrappin’ paper or pickin’ out greeting cards. You gotta love a man who loves a woman enough to carry her purse.
“Carlie Ann, I’m sorry I’m so late comin’ in. The Mrs. needs some paper towels and two cake mixes. She’s got some kind of early mornin’ bakin’ project planned. First Methodist is having a lunch for the new preacher and they asked her to make two of her famous strawberry cakes. She’s got the strawberries, just needs two white cake mixes. She thought she had some in the pantry but then she realized she’d used ‘em for Jimmy Moore’s eightieth birthday celebration down at the community center. It’ll only t
ake me a minute to get ‘em.”
“No rush, Mr. Rockford. I don’t have any big exciting plans for the night. Why, you’re the best lookin’ man I’ll see all day!”
He laughed and he hurried, out of respect for our time. It only took him five minutes to be at the check-out counter with two Duncan Hines cake mixes and a roll of generic paper towels. He was fast for an old guy.
“Carlie Ann, I have a great nephew in Tennessee that you should meet. Mrs. Rockford said the other day, ‘Doug needs to meet a good woman, Stanley. That’s what he needs.’ The way I see it you’re a good woman so maybe you’d be willing to meet up with him. Now all the young people seem to be able to do that with the computer, right? Write to him or don’t write to him, Carlie. It’s all the same to me but it’ll sure make Mrs. Rockford happy when I tell her I gave you his card. I’ve got it here somewhere, let’s see, yeah…right here. It has his computer stuff there somewhere. I’ll have the Mrs. call him tonight and just let him know he might be hearin’ from a woman in Georgia who we think a whole lot of. And we do, Carlie. We’ve always thought a lot of ya. You know that. He’s a good man too. Hard worker. Solid. It’d be worth your while to contact him. What could it hurt, right?”
“Well, I just might do that, Mr. Rockford. I just might. Thanks so much.”
Of course, I knew I wouldn’t. Calling a man solid was like saying a woman has a great personality. I knew what that meant but I took the card happily from Mr. Rockford’s wrinkled hand because he was a wonderful old man who wasn’t embarrassed to do errands for his wife or weep during the National Anthem or make conversation with someone who failed out of college. And I respected him for all of that and a lot more. I even acted like I might send Doug a message. Was that a form of lying? I hope not.
