by E. Clay
“Clay, I think you have a new neighbor. I’ve only seen her once. She only leaves the house to get groceries. Her car didn’t move all weekend.”
“Hmm, does she have a family, any kids?” I inquired.
“I think she’s a spinster. Carl asked around and I think she’s a writer. I think you’ll get along with her.”
“Okay, why is that? Because she is a writer?”
“No, because she speaks your language, she’s a Yank.”
I’d lived in England for just over a decade and it always tickled me when Brits referred to every American as a Yank no matter what part of the States they come from. Whenever my Brit friends would try to imitate an American, invariably they defaulted to a thick southern accent.
I found myself checking my watch every now and then wondering what Monet was doing at that moment. The five-hour time difference was inconvenient but workable. I usually had to wait until midnight to Skype her.
Ring, Ring, Ring.
“Clay, I can see you but you are frozen. Can you see me?”
“Yeah, but there’s just one problem?”
“What? Am I pixelated?” Monet asked.
“No, just overdressed. Too much clothing.”
“Well, you will just have to use your imagination then. I hope you have a good memory,” Monet responded.
“Monet, I have to come clean. There’s another female in the picture and she lives with me.”
Monet didn’t say a word but her eyebrows were slightly raised. She crossed her arms.
I left the camera’s view and returned with the lady of the house on my lap.
“Monet, meet Missy,” I said, just before Missy sprung from my lap onto the floor.
“Clay, don’t make me come across the pond. Because you know I will,” Monet said, relieved.
My picture finally unfroze and Monet was glad to see my face again. We got disconnected a few times but it was worth the hassle to see her face and hear her voice. This would become the new norm.
Skyping with Monet really helped me take my mind off work.
While lying in bed I found myself thinking a lot about my strange encounter with Winnie at the Hypno Expo. Her conversation looped in my head and I tried to make meaning of it.
“You have the gift, yet you don’t believe.”
I needed to know what she meant by that. Then I remembered Monet’s comment about psychics. Maybe Winnie was the real deal. The rest of the night I kept asking myself, What gift? I also thought of the message from my dad, Hold up the light. I believed it was a message from my dad. I now had a better understanding of those people I once ridiculed as gullible.
1 British term meaning to wash the dishes after a meal
ELEVEN
* * *
Bumper to Bumper
I was pleased that I had a writer for a neighbor, especially an American. As a writer, I took that as a good omen. Maybe she could help me land a mainstream publisher. The only problem was I never saw her. She appeared to be a recluse. It would take three weeks for us to be formally introduced but it would be a less than desirable introduction.
One morning on my way to work I saw a note on my windshield.
Your car is hogging up the driveway, I can’t get past. That’s what garages are for!
I took the note off the windshield and looked over to her house. She was watching me from her living room window. She closed the curtains.
I normally would have knocked on her door and apologized but I really wasn’t in the mood for confrontation so early in the day. I balled up the note, put it in my pocket and drove to work with an attitude. Anyone who’s ever lived in Britain knows that garages aren’t for parking your car, they’re too small. To avoid any more nasty notices I decided to park my Range Rover on the street, against my better judgment.
Two Weeks Later
While feeding Missy before work, I heard a loud crash in front of my house. Cat food spilled all over the kitchen floor as I rushed outside to see what happened. It was ugly. My neighbor from hell hit my car from behind as she accelerated out of our drive. The force of the impact pushed my SUV halfway on the sidewalk. I was furious. She was standing by the point of impact.
“That’s just great. I just got this car a month ago. I hope you have insurance.” I argued with serious attitude.
I was expecting an apology.
“Well, if you wouldn’t have parked in my blind spot!”
“Blind spot? Blind spots are behind you.”
It takes a lot to get under my skin, but her attitude just made the situation insufferable. She had more to say.
“Excuse me, the hedge here obstructed my vision. That’s called a blind spot.”
“Whatever. We need to exchange insurance details. I’m gonna let my insurance handle this. I’m through with it.”
While exchanging information, a local police officer stopped to investigate.
I was happy to see a neutral third party who could put this right.
“Is anyone here hurt?” asked the police officer.
“No,” we both responded.
The officer ran our plates and inspected the damage to both cars.
While the officer took copious notes, I examined the insurance details of the offender.
Ironically we had the same surname but she spelled it Tompson, without the h. Her name was Joanne Tompson. Joanne was white, 50ish and the most unappealing woman I’d ever met. Not only did she have a bad attitude but she was as plain as they come. No makeup, straight, reddish hair and she was dressed like she was a ‘60s hippie . She looked absolutely ridiculous with her floppy denim hat. Underneath her jacket she wore a tie-dye shirt and stone-washed jeans.
The police officer then began writing a citation. I was happy; she deserved to be cited for hitting a parked car. Joanne and I took turns trading evil stares.
“Well, at least there are no injuries, but I’m afraid I have to issue a ticket,” the nice policeman stated.
I felt vindicated and smiled at Joanne sarcastically.
“Here you go Mr. Thompson, you have 7 days to prove you have insurance.”
“Wait, I do have insurance. I’m insured with Aviva and I have a monthly debit.”
The officer explained.
“Mr. Thompson, DVLA indicates your insurance is expired. Your car should not be on Her Majesty’s road. If your car were on private property this incident would not have happened.”
This was easily solved. I calmly excused myself to retrieve my latest insurance letter. I opened the letter.
Mr. Thompson, please electronically sign your renewal to extend coverage. You must respond within seven days.
Of course, if the accident would have occurred one day earlier I would have been covered. Shit!
I regretted ever parking my car on the street. I was just trying to be nice.
By noon, both Joanne and I were in our rentals.
It was Sunday and it was the day Monet and I had our longest Skype sessions.
“Monet, I can hear you, just can’t see you.”
“My camera is off. I’m not dressed yet. Hold on,” Monet replied.
“Babe, I have seen it all before. Last month even. C’mon, how about a little peek?”
Monet turned her camera on.
“You’re covered up. You really don’t need that robe,” I pleaded.
“Clay, you’re such a guy. I’m not gonna be your get-off girl.”
“Hmm, well spoken, from the girl who secretly videotape us having sex,” I replied.
“Touché, but I’m not getting naked. Anyway, I got the promotion at work babe! I’m a department head for Eastern Financial. My old office gave me a going away, and I just moved upstairs. Gonna miss my old office.”
“Congratulations, sweetheart. A girl with the three B’s, what more can a guy ask for?”
“Three B’s?”
“Yeah, beauty, brains and booty. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
After much reminiscing, Monet mentioned Barbara, a ne
ighbor of hers whom I got to know pretty well back in 1991.
“Clay, remember Barbara?”
“You mean the woman who shot her husband in the middle of the night claiming she thought he was an intruder. I never bought that story.”
“Yeah, but she said something that I never forgot. Marriage is like a long boring meal where dessert is served first. I don’t want us to be that boring meal.”
“Monet, everyday I’m with you is a special day. Anyway, we’re soulmates. That’s what Winnie said and I believe her.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I love you for ever.”
“And I love you back Mr. Thompson.”
It was Saturday morning and I did my early morning shopping at Tesco to avoid the rush.
“Morning, love. That will be eighty pounds and thirty pence.”
I opened my wallet and began frantically searching every crevice. My VISA wasn’t there. I gave it a shot with my American debit card.
The cashier examined my debit card both front and back.
“I’m so sorry, sir, we only accept chip and pin cards. Do you have a British credit or debit card?”
I looked at the long queue of shoppers behind me and I could tell they were losing patience.
“I have a Halifax debit card, but I think I left it at home,” I replied, frustrated.
“I’m sorry, I guess you will have to put your items back.”
I got some really nasty looks from shoppers behind me, especially the ones with only a couple of items in their basket.
I always say life is about timing and timing is everything. This morning would underscore that sentiment. A shopper emerged from the back of the line and presented his card for payment. It was Carl.
“Clay, I’ll sort you out. Eighty quid2 won’t break the bank,” Carl said, with a carton of Marlboro cigarettes in his basket.
I was surprised by Carl’s generosity, but £80 ($120) was a bit much to cover. But Carl insisted and added the carton of cigarettes to the bill. I thanked Carl profusely on the way to the car park and promised to settle the debt that day. Carl didn’t want money as payment he wanted Mountain Dew. While visiting Disneyland in Florida on holiday last year he got hooked on Mountain Dew. Mountain Dew wasn’t sold anywhere in our area except on the military base and you needed a military ID to get on. Since Carl was on foot I offered him a ride, straight to the base commissary. We had an interesting chat on the way.
“Carl, how much is a carton of cigarettes in England?”
“Prices keep going up, just over £70 ($100) now. Our neighbor Nigel quit smoking and saves enough money to pay his monthly car note and insurance. I’m spending over £300 ($450) a month on these bloody things. I really need to quit once and for all.”
I was tempted to offer my hypnosis services but Carl was well aware of my practice. I had several conversations about volunteering my hypnosis services for law enforcement for free. He always repeated the same old line.
“I’ll get back to you.”
After unloading the 11th case of Mountain Dew from my trunk, Carl surprised me.
“Clay, how much do you charge for a session? I really need to quit,” Carl said, panting from multiple trips from the car to the kitchen.
Finally! We had been neighbors since Gabby was an infant and I was delighted he reached out.
“Well, normally I suggest half of whatever you spend on cigarettes in a month,” I responded, while Carl made me a cup of tea.
Smokers who haggle over that fee send a strong message.
I’m not ready to quit.
Carl didn’t blink. He made an appointment for the following Wednesday.
It was a week since I hypnotized Carl and I was confident he quit when he left his cigarettes on my coffee table. I saw him almost twice a day and I was looking for some confirmation that he quit. He never mentioned it. I got confirmation from his wife Louise.
Ring, ring, ring.
“Hiya, love. This is Louise. You hypnotized Carl to stop smoking, yeah?”
“Yes, is there something wrong?”
“No. He doesn’t smoke anymore but…”
“But, what?” I asked.
“Well, it’s personal. But I have to ask...”
“Fire away, Louise.”
“Well, every time we make love now he gulps down loads of orange juice immediately afterward. Why is that? He never did that before.”
I put Louise on hold and reviewed the notes from our session.
“Louise, I can explain. I asked Carl to choose an alternative for cigarettes while he was in trance. He chose orange juice.”
Louise was satisfied and she kept the fridge stocked. At the end of the day, Carl quit and that’s what mattered.
2 Slang for British Pound
TWELVE
* * *
Three Sheets and a Pen
Clay, adjust your camera. All I can see is the top of your head. That’s much better.”
“Hey, babe,” I replied, deflated.
“Why the long face? I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“I miss my old neighbors Jim and Gloria. They were so nice to me. I wish they could’ve stayed. My new neighbor. arrgh. She gets on my damn nerves. I just got my new car insurance policy and I lost my no claims bonus. And, of course, my premiums went up. I always thought if you got hit from the rear, it was the other person’s fault. I’m glad you called babe, I needed a pick-me-up.”
“Well, I have some news that might make your day. Ms. Deveraux our CEO flew in to present our department an award. After the presentation she treated a few of us to lunch. When she mentioned she was trying to quit smoking I mentioned you. She wants to know how much you charge.”
“That’s great, but I live seven thousand miles away. I’ve flown to Germany for a session but that was only an hour flight.”
“That’s too bad. She was really excited when I told her about your success rate with smokers. She asked me a million questions about my session with you. She’s minted in money. What if she flew you here? Then I could see you again.”
“I’m in the hole as it is. I’d have to take leave without pay.”
I was talking myself out of it and I realized I needed to stop making excuses. If I really wanted to do this how would I approach it?
“Mr. Thompson, I see those neurons firing. What are you thinking?” Monet asked.
“There is one way I could do this. I’ve never done it before but I feel confident I can pull it off,” I replied, stroking my mustache.
“Fill me in.”
“Skypenosis. Years ago I hypnotized someone over the phone but it took a while to induce trance. Email her my number and I will take it from there.”
“Okay, hun. But she will ask you for a guarantee before she commits. That’s just how she is.”
While a student at the hypnosis academy we were taught never to offer a guarantee. However, this was an opportunity I couldn’t pass.
One Week Later
“Clay Thompson, this is Crystal Deveraux. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, Monet Dawson.”
“Ms. Deveraux, I’m very glad you called. How can I help?”
“I’ve heard good things about you and I am very interested. I’m a bit anxious and edgy. I haven’t had a cigarette in four days and it’s pure hell. You can name your price, but I want a money-back guarantee. Is that acceptable?”
Against my better judgment and training I accepted.
“You have your guarantee. My fee is $300. You can make the check out to Monet Dawson. Do you have any cigarettes lying around?”
“Of course I have cigarettes lying around. I can hear them calling my name. Crystal, smoke me, please.”
“All right. If you are free we can do this today. Here is my Skype number xxx-xxxx. There is one thing I’d like you to do before we Skype.”
“I’m listening.”
“Smoke your cigarette before the session and enjoy.”
My instruction confused Ms. Deveraux. I explained the amount of nicotine in her system had no bearing on the success. However, her ability to relax had everything to do with a successful trance session. She understood my unorthodox approach and lit up. We skyped.
Every time I came home and saw Joanne’s car in her drive it put me in a foul mood. I needed a diversion, a way to vent my frustration. I decided to self-medicate, and I knew just what my vice would be, writing. Monet would not approve of me writing a novel about our relationship so I would write it just for my eyes only.
I mentally prepared myself to write by listening to YouTube videos of our favorite artists. It was the perfect escape because I could relive all of those beautiful memories in 3D and Technicolor in my mind’s eye. I blasted the music in my study and found myself typing to the beat. My passion for writing trumped my angst for Joanne.
I was rocking to Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative and my flow was interrupted by a knock at the door. I turned the music down and hustled downstairs to investigate. It was a community police officer.
“Mr. Thompson? There has been a complaint filed about the volume of your music. This citation is only a warning, please keep it down. Cheers.”
I poked my head out and I saw Joanne duck into her house.
My mother always told me never to use the word hate. But I hated Joanne. My anger triggered a conversation I had many years ago about coping with people that get under your skin.
“Clay, every time my boss gets on my nerves I go in the bathroom and I write his name on a few sheets of toilet paper.”
“Cynthia, how does that make you feel better?” I asked.
“Because, I drop the paper in the toilet and pee all over his name. When I flush the toilet I watch it swirl away with all my anger. It’s therapeutic, you should try it.”
“Cynthia, thanks for that visual but I think I’m good.”
If only it were that easy.
It had been a week since I hypnotized Ms. Deveraux and once again I had had no confirmation. This time confirmation would come from Monet but in a roundabout way.
