Shrill, borderline hysterical female laughter followed.
I recognized the male voice as belonging to John M., one of four or five of the Johns in our office. I think his last name is Maverly, or something similar. He’s one of a growing number of people that I find completely generic. Average looking—so average in fact that I honestly could not tell him apart from two other similar looking fellows who started working here about the same. Then again, maybe I have more in common with him than I give him credit for.
The woman laughing so hard you’d think she was auditioning for a daytime Emmy is Veronica Lynch, a voluptuous, unnatural redhead, who is for some reason psychotically flirtatious. Once at our monthly oh-so-thrilling communal office birthday party, I was talking to my friend Simon when she actually bumped me out of the way with her hip—planting herself directly on top of him. After he’d pushed her off and finished picking up the piece of cake that flew from my hands, he rather curtly suggested she not wear such high heels if she doesn’t know how to walk in them.
Only after I’d read the same sentence 27 times did I realize the ruckus was robbing me of the ability to focus. No matter how pig-headed he is, I adore Gregorio and can’t stand to hear anyone disparaging him. With resignation, I rose and pulled a grim face on the way to the door. The two of them came into view as soon as I rounded my desk. Veronica, with her hand on John’s bicep, flashed me a wicked, I’m-better-than-you glance.
In response, I pulled a jaw-clenched smile. “Hey, John? Gregorio just called, said he could hear you all the way down to his office just now? I dunno what he’s talking about,” said I, giving my earbuds a twirl.
John’s face completely drained of color. Veronica looked similarly horrorstruck.
“He seemed a little upset—something about a late sales report? Just passing on the message.’’ I shrugged and retreated into my office.
I know, I know, the better person fails to be dragged down in these situations.
I never said I was better.
Disbelief rained down when I finally checked the time. Though it clearly said 5:30, I wasn’t any nearer to finishing. The tedium of being thorough often erodes my will to live. I wake myself up at night with worry about potentially humiliating mistakes I could’ve made. In my current delirium the eight’s were becoming indistinguishable from three’s in my research data, so sadly all the glamour and spectacle would have to be postponed until tomorrow.
I was so excited on the way home that I was actually salivating. I had new music saved for a day such as this. The discovery of new alternative music was about the only adventure I allowed myself these days, so it was an extraordinary delight, something to be savored whenever I’d had a particularly foul day.
As I pulled into my driveway, I noticed a commotion on my across-the-street neighbor’s lawn. Bruce Vaughn, my prematurely crotchety and grizzled neighbor, was shouting animatedly at someone or other I couldn’t see, with his back to me. I had never, ever seen the man leave his property—swear to God. He spends most of his time on his screened in front porch, waiting, spider-like, for prey to fall helpless in his trap. I immediately felt sorry for whoever he had cornered in his yard this time. Despite the sympathy I instinctively felt, however, I was spent and mentally exhausted.
Whoever Mr. Vaughn was unleashing himself on this time probably deserved what they were getting. Everyone should know well enough by now not to provoke or give him any excuse to make a fuss. Besides, it wasn’t my job to protect the entire neighborhood from him. So, though I heard him continue shouting as I got out of the car, I kept my head down and quickly ducked into the house. Maybe it was a bit childish, but I felt I deserved some rest today. It would be nice for once to come home to a peaceful neighborhood without some sort of chaos going down and not have to worry about making these decisions, but no. Every week is pretty much the same.
After briefly considering turning the TV on, just to check the channel guide to see if Ghost Chasers was on, I shook my head. No. That’s the problem with having an addiction—it never stops calling to you. Luckily for me, I’ve never seen anything on Ghost Chasers to convince me of the existence of the supernatural, or I would never be able to resist. Don’t they realize that I can’t feel anything when they claim to have been brushed by the paranormal? Without exception on each and every episode, I just don’t see whatever it is they are all excited about—to me it looks like only a shadow or speck of dust. My brother Chris swears he saw an actual specter on some lighthouse episode—I still have no idea what he was talking about. And don’t even get me started on Ghost Explorers. Nevertheless, my compulsion forces me to keep checking from time to time, fearful that something more—or less—concrete may appear.
Just as I finished changing into my baby tee and lounging pants, preparing to nestle onto my couch and unwind by enjoying my new album and a cup of tea, I heard Bruce Vaughn shouting, clearly this time, from across the street.
“... not going anywhere kids until you’ve made this right. I don’t buy this foolish little story about falling off your bikes and accidentally crashing into my yard.” Mr. Vaughn was employing his most timeworn, bitter-old-man voice today. My entire body tensed. As the sound of the word “kids” repeated over and over in my head, I was drawn, against my will, to the window for a better look.
Mr. Vaughn had worked himself into a quasi-maniacal frenzy. “My prize gardenia is completely destroyed. Gone. Annihilated. Look there—not even a scrap of it left. Don’t think I don’t know this was a deliberate attack on my garden. You really are a couple of little jack-asses, aren’t you? You obviously don’t care about anyone but yourselves. Well, guess what? I don’t give a crap about you jerks, either. So tell you what—I’m gonna sit here, read my paper, and relax while you two restore my garden to its pre-kid cyclone state. Believe me, I got all night.”
I hung my head and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. This goes against my guidelines, which I very seldom adhere to these days. The first guideline: Don’t reveal your true self to anyone. This is the biggest, single most important rule of all, hence it being number one on my list. If my philosophy is correct, all of the other guidelines are superfluous, really, and can actually be boiled down to just this one. But my life would be all the more meaningless if I didn’t have these rules, my fragile facade to keep up with.
After a lifetime of trial and error, stumbling around repelling those around me or... worse, I deduced a set of rules to keep from drawing undue attention to myself, and keep my secrets. Who am I kidding? I thought it sounded more impressive to say I had actually created complex rules by which I lived, but I’m just not into anything so complicated. I opted instead on a broader, more flexible life philosophy. My way of living is to just keep my head down and avoid making eye contact with the world. Maybe then things will be okay. Maybe, just maybe, I can keep the shadows in my past, both distant and recent, from casting any more darkness than they already have.
The problem with that philosophy tonight is my natural instinct is to help those in need, especially kids. But I have to remind myself that this, of course, is all wrong. Going out of one’s way to help anyone, believe it or not, eventually leads to people wanting to be friends, or other sorts of nosing about. Not an appealing idea for me. So, despite the pain in my heart for those boys and the swift justice Bruce Vaughn so achingly deserved, I planned to sit on my couch stubbornly, listen to my music, and soak up this admittedly less than exquisite, now guilt-tinged and sad excuse for relaxation, no matter what.
I went to close the window, all the better to shut out the rest of the world, when I heard it, the final nail in my coffin. “Wow, you little creeps really have no idea how to garden, do you?” Mr. Vaughn laughed wickedly. He was usually at his most vicious when talking to kids. I had a feeling because they were the least likely to stand up to him—or maybe it just bothered me more when he was bullying kids. Though admittedly I never spent much time dwelling on the subject—I’d always kind of assumed I’d be a mothe
r by the time I was 34. I must now accept it’ll never happen.
“Ah, boys,” Mr. Vaughn boasted, “This is really going to be a very long night.”
So much for relaxation. I gulped down the rest of my tea and went to change clothes again.
“I don’t care how late you are for your wittle sup-per,” I heard him exaggerating the word patronizingly, “you’re not going anywhere until my border has been resurrected, so start fluffin’, kid.”
Mr. Vaughn was just pulling out his lawn chair when I walked out my front door.
“Oh no. No, NO, NO,” Mr. Vaughn apparently caught sight of me as soon as I stepped off my porch. A little sooner than I’d intended, but no matter.
“NOT today. Every time I try to teach these little creeps a lesson you magically appear with some ridiculous excuse. Well, I’m not putting up with any of your nonsense today. So let me just stop you right there.” He put one hand to his temple and feigned a look of concentration. “Because I already know what you’re going to say.”
I braced myself for his wrath, determined, as always, not to betray even the faintest flicker of fear. Here we go.
“Let me guess… did their mothers just happen to call you again about needing to take them to mandatory Lord of the Flies survival lessons? Maybe they both forgot their perishable science projects made of pigs feet again? Or, my personal favorite, maybe they need to help poor old grandma find her dentures because she dropped them skydiving? Maybe you need help because that stupid dog of yours swallowed an iPod again and is playing What’s Love Got to Do With It every time his tail wags, is that it? Wait, I have it... you need help locating personal items from all of the neighbors to make dolls for your suburban voodoo class again? Am I getting warmer?? How ‘bout it, Little Miss Johnson?” His voice seared with deadly sarcasm.
I stared back at him, unflinching. “I can’t help that the neighborhood trusts me to take care of its problems.”
Mr. Vaughn pulled a wicked grin, apparently ready for whatever I might throw at him tonight.
“Right now, though, I’m just going to the grocery store. You know, the sort of thing that us regular folks have to do from time to time?” (What can I say? It’s in my nature to defy expectations.)
I lifted my eyebrows and arranged my expression into the most innocent-looking possible before getting into my car and backing out into the street.
Stopping the car in front of Bruce Vaughn, I rolled down my window.
“My dog Rocky died six months ago, but thanks for bringing him up every time I see you,” I said dryly before I started driving away.
The two boys looked at me through drowning eyes. Mr. Vaughn plopped himself down in his lawn chair, looking smug and satisfied. His look suggested a belief that, possibly for the first time ever, he’d gotten the best of me.
I stopped mid window-roll, in the street, maybe a little too theatrically, and turned my attention once again to Mr. Bruce Vaughn. “I did promise their mothers I’d take them shopping for tomorrow’s Friends of Angry Technophobes bake sale, though, so... better hop in boys,” I called with a quick jerk of my thumb towards the back seat.
The boys did not wait for any witty banter from Mr. Vaughn. They had hopped in my beat up old Jeep, and the three of us were speeding away before old Bruce could even get out of his chair. I couldn’t help smiling as I saw him in the rearview mirror, stumbling and shouting obscenities at us from the middle of the street... in his bathrobe.
“Come on, kids,” I scolded as I drove the few short blocks toward Billy’s house, “Tromping around in Mr. Vaughn’s garden? Really? If you’re going to torture him, at least be a little more creative and discrete about it next time. Think outside the box. Walking on his lawn is wearing thin. I’m thinking—and this is totally off the top of my head with absolutely no prior planning—you know how he hates cats? You could hide one of those horrible cat noisemakers in my front yard.” I paused, smiling at the thought of Vaughn frantically combing his precious garden, horrified that a cat may be about to give birth. I could actually hear him yelling, “Wipe that smirk off your face, Ms. Johnson. I know you’ve got a cat around here just to piss me off. When I find it—and believe me, I will find it—you’ll find you’re in a hole far too deep to talk your way out of.”
The boys we’re anxiously awaiting more. “What was I saying? Oh yes, he also hates people. So maybe we could organize a neighborhood block party in the street in front of his house. Just an idea. Or, if all you want is to stomp around in someone’s yard, you’re welcome to stomp around mine any time you like.
“But getting caught stumbling around in his garden is just not working. And, while we’re talking about it, I would at least think about taking a different route to school. I don’t know what’s going to happen if I oversleep one of these mornings or actually get to take a nap one of these days after work,” I tried sounding stern, like a real adult, but of course I didn’t really mean it; it just seemed like the sort of grown-up thing one should say. In truth, I was proud of these boys for standing up to Mr. Vaughn, however passive-aggressively, in a way that few adults would.
I smiled at their cherubic reflections in the rearview mirror, and they shot two conspiratorial grins back.
By this time we had arrived at Billy’s house, and so the boys replied, “Thanks, Ms. Johnson,” in unison before scurrying out the door. Billy turned back and hesitated for a moment, before guiltily returning to my car.
He was definitely looking uncertain about something. Finally reaching some sort of decision, he slung his backpack off of his shoulder, and slowly said, “We got something for you. I pulled it out of Mr. Vaughn’s garden.” Billy reached into his backpack and handed me a small, somewhat squashed gardenia bush. “We wanted to plant it in your yard, but he caught us right after I pulled it up, so I had to stuff it in my backpack real quick. It’s not fair that Mr. Vaughn’s yard always looks so nice, and yours is, like, dead. We just thought your yard should be pretty, too.”
Sweet, but... apparently, even 9-year-old kids noticed my lack of gardening skills. Just the smell of the gardenia caused my broken heart to flutter a bit. I shook my head... back to the present. “Thanks, Billy, but just let me buy the plants next time, and I’ll... try...” I choked slightly from, well, I’d like to say it was the pungent gardenia fragrance, but the truth is I choked slightly on the little white lie I was about to tell, “to take care of them. Promise me you’ll be a little more careful around Mr. Vaughn from now on, though, okay?” I smiled weakly. “Better get going kiddo.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Johnson,” Billy replied before scampering off.
When I got back home, I noticed for the first time just how clearly my little house stands out from all the rest. I live in a historic neighborhood, where many of the homes are considered treasures, even priceless, with Vaughn’s house being possibly the grandest of all. In comparison, my home is literally a shack. The frame itself is rickety, the paint peeling. At least half the lawn is dead, and the other half has been taken back by its native jungle. In one corner of the yard is a pile of debris leftover from the roof replacement/termite fiasco. Unlike every other yard on the street, mine is utterly devoid of flowers.
Is it any wonder Vaughn always seems to have it in for me?
After the night’s adventure, I decide I don’t have the patience to devote to new music discovery. Instead, I go with the second album by one of two groups I adore (the other being Love and Rockets)—a certain modest British rock trio, who also seem to share an affinity for rebellion and the supernatural. The music of both bands got me through some really bad times. They reflect my spiritual yin and yang, seamlessly filling in the holes of my existence. Whenever I’m feeling down or unsure, or if I just start having the feeling of losing myself, I can count on their music to restore my soul. Though difficult to articulate, the enchanting styles of both are as close to—otherworldliness—I have ever, or will ever, encounter. It certainly transcends the common place.
&nbs
p; Seeing as it was only Thursday, I saved the new album for the weekend. Some new misery would present itself by then, and I’m sure to need help getting through it. With this thought and the lovely music caressing my soul, I curled up on the couch and was carried away by sleep.
2.
When morning arrived, I was actually feeling pretty great. One of the local stations devotes Friday morning airtime to old wave hits from the 80's. I dare you not to feel great and forget about your problems while listening to such music. By the time a group began singing their 80’s anthem, I was even beginning to think it was possible that one does rule the world, just for the time that that song is playing. The traffic lights even seemed to succumb to my power, strengthening my case. I decided to treat myself to a store bought cup of exotic tea and slice of pumpkin bread to prolong the euphoria before arriving at the downer that was my office.
Part of that happiness was due to the actual drive in to work. Gorgeous. I live in the southern most edge of the southside of Jacksonville, Florida. Most people don’t know it’s the largest city in the country by area, so I have quite a drive to get to downtown. I love Jacksonville, my childhood home, though quite a number of people would disagree with me. Speaking strictly of natural beauty, I feel that few other cities can compare. Not only do we have beaches, we also have the unique St. Johns River, one of the few rivers in the world to flow north. What loses many people on Jacksonville is the industrial feel of many parts of town and the city’s overall lack of identity. Other cities—take San Antonio, for example—don’t have a fraction of the natural beauty of Jacksonville or a river one tenth of the width of the St. Johns. However, working with what they have, they’ve created a truly lovely river walk and bustling downtown scene, creating a city identity to match its unique heritage.
Beloved Evangeline (A Dark Paranormal Urban Fantasy Trilogy for Grown-ups - Book 1) Page 2
