As more police officers began to arrive on the scene to make sure the situation was under control, Norm looked for the purse and quickly found it laying just to the left of the lone access door. He scooped it up and asked one of the officers if anyone knew where the old lady was because he wanted to return the purse to her personally.
One of the officers volunteered to walk Norm back to the woman, who was being escorted toward the scene by two other area beat cops. But Norm didn’t make it more than 25 yards from the scene of his soon-to-be legendary YouTube beat down when a young woman approached him.
“Hi, I’m Allison Moyer from 7 News and I was wondering if I could speak with you on camera for a moment,” she said.
Norm was caught off guard and feigned humility.
“Aww, you don’t want to interview me,” Norm said. “I just did what anyone would do to help out an elderly woman on Christmas Eve.”
Well, obviously isn’t not what anyone would do since nobody else joined me, Norm thought. Maybe I do deserve my 15 minutes of fame. Norm paused and then asked, “Where’s your camera?”
Allison was a striking beauty, a leggy young blond with sparkling green eyes and an infectious smile. It was evident she had a promising future in the world of television if she was intent on being in front of the camera.
“Oh, I’m just using this,” Allison said, revealing a small HD digital video recorder in her hand. “I was just doing some last-minute shopping and saw the commotion and followed you. I captured it all on this recorder.”
“You have footage of me apprehending that punk?” Norm asked incredulously. “I’ve gotta see this.” He began moving toward her, simultaneously cranking his neck to look at the digital video recorder’s small screen.
“Not so fast,” Allison said, playfully hiding the camera. “I’ll let you see it after I interview you.”
Norm quickly complied, answering her questions and resisting the urge to embellish. After all, if she captured what he did on camera, there was no need to add titillating details. His work spoke for itself. A thief was in custody.
She thanked him for the interview and showed him the clip of him catching the assailant so he could relive the brief encounter that resulted in a woman getting her purse back.
“Here’s my card,” Allison said, as the clip ended and she prepared to leave. “Give me a call sometime.” With that she strode away.
Norm was having a hard time believing what just happened. Chasing down a fleet-footed thief and using his martial arts training to render him immobile was one thing. But having a beautiful woman hand him her card and suggest he call her? Norm was beginning to wonder just how low the temperature had dropped in hell.
Finally, Norm regained his composure and realized he was still holding the woman’s purse. Norm looked up to see the police officer accompanying him motion to join him. He picked up his pace and quickly caught up to the officer.
After reaching the street level deck of the parking garage, Norm walked toward the exit and saw two police officers standing near an elderly lady. He knew the gaudy golden purse in his hand belonged to her.
“Thank you so much, young man,” the woman said. “Can I write you a check for your troubles?”
“Oh no, ma’am,” Norm quickly fired back, secretly hoping that she would still give him something. “I can’t take any money from you. I’m just doing what anybody would’ve done.”
Norm’s humility line had worked once. He figured he might as well try it again.
“What’s your name, son?” she asked.
“Norm,” he replied.
“Well, Norm, you might have done what everybody should have done – but they didn’t,” she said. “You were the only one. Now, what’s your last name? I’ve got a check to give you. Besides, you’ll need something to replace your backpack.”
Norm gave her his last name and then started to panic.
The backpack! Norm had almost forgotten about it. He paced nervously as the elderly lady wrote out a check to him for $40. It wasn’t much, but Norm wasn’t picky. His 15 seconds of fame on the evening news – with footage of his victory – would be reward enough.
“Why do I need to replace my backpack?” Norm finally questioned.
“Well, I saw some businessman pick it up, look inside and then he flung it over his shoulder,” she said. “I was hoping he knew you.”
Norm shook his head, immediately realizing that the businessman wasn’t someone he knew. He began to wonder why any executive-type would be interested in his ratty old backpack.
The lady thanked Norm again. Less than two seconds later, Norm was walking away and retracing his steps, hoping to see the backpack lying on the Jackson Boulevard sidewalk. But it was nowhere to be found.
***
Ever since Norm’s friend, William Daniel Brown, went on to pursue bigger and better things in the literary world, Norm wondered if his friend was right. Maybe I am too lazy and too unmotivated to ever write a book. Was Norm really that lacking of skill and talent … of anything?
Norm sulked about it for a while and had almost forgotten about his foray into the world of writing until he walked by a bookstore on his way home from work one afternoon only to see a giant poster of the cover of Bill’s book hanging in a bookstore window. That could’ve been me, Norm lamented over his loss of what would’ve been certain fame. Sure, Norm knew it was just a poster made by a local bookstore – and the only one of its kind in existence – but the pain from that experience still lingered. My name could have been on that book! he thought again.
But it wasn’t. Norm wondered if he ever had the guts to put himself out there and write a book worthy of print. He mulled starting a new writing project but hesitated over the fact that he wasn’t sure he could deal with any more rejection in his life at the moment. Six months went by and Norm decided it couldn’t hurt. When you’ve been burned that many times by that many people, your numbness becomes a close ally.
Norm had always heard that if you want to make it as a writer, write about what you know. So he did. He wrote about rejection and pain and heartache, all neatly wrapped around the story of a kid in New England boarding school. Though Norm had never been to boarding school, he figured the real heart of the story – the part that made the characters spring to life – was what mattered the most. A little bit of research on boarding school life was sufficient as he correctly assumed that only a scant part of the population would know whether he was accurate or not.
For five months, Norm worked on his novel. Every waking moment before and after his mindless job at the call center, Norm wrote effortless prose in an attempt to paint a vivid picture of life as a reject. When it was finished, Norm’s deficiencies as an editor emerged – he titled the book, The Life and Times of Jimmy P. Walker.
Then Norm locked it away in his desk.
All those fears about his own rejection welled up within him. What if no one likes my book? Norm thought. What if no publisher likes my book? What if I just wasted all this time because I couldn’t get this book published?
Norm became frozen – as always – in a sea of what ifs that ultimately led to the reason why he remained mired in a mediocre life. His fear of taking a risk meant a safe existence of normality was better than a life of pain. Sure, there was a chance that it could change. But this was Norm he was talking about. Himself. A young man destined for anything but greatness. Norm? Catch a break? Just the thought of such a preposterous idea made Norm chuckle to himself. It wasn’t going to happen.
But his dream of getting published certainly wasn’t going to happen either if he kept his novel under lock and key.
So, one morning, Norm decided to throw the manuscript into his ratty old backpack and take it to work. Today, he was going to take a chance. Today, after work he was going to stop by E&P – Ellington & Prince, the premier literary agency in Chicago. He was going to meet with a senior agent and show him the manuscript.
When Norm called E&P upon arriving at hi
s office, he quickly learned that you can’t just put a call into an agent and set up an appointment that day. They were busy people. And he was another hack in an endless line of them trying to get someone to read his inspired prose.
In a matter of seconds after hanging up the phone, the once fearless Norm had returned to his hopeless state. And he remained that way – all throughout the office Christmas party, all throughout the Secret Santa gift exchange, all throughout the White Elephant Gift game (one in which he ended up with a Chia Pet).
Five o’clock finally came and Norm grabbed his ratty backpack, full of months of work and a lifetime of dreams, and trudged down the stairs to face the unforgiving Chicago wind on this Christmas Eve.
He tried to get over the fact that his book was never going to get published, but he snapped out of it quickly. Norm, you can’t live a mundane life forever. Snap out of it and do something you’ve never done on your way home! Norm told himself.
What would he do? Conquer his fear of heights and go to the top of the Sears Tower? Be brave enough to endure the legendary – and expected – rude service at Ed Debevic’s? Muster up the courage to ride the L-train? Norm had a near-endless list of possibilities.
Then it happened.
A young punk ripped the large gaudy pocketbook right off the arm of a helpless elderly woman – right in front of Norm. The guy had about a 30-yard head start on Norm before he started to do something he had never done before: catch a mugger and return the stolen goods to the rightful owner.
In a flash Norm had forgotten about his dreams to get published. And a few seconds later, he all but dashed them altogether when he threw his backpack aside to help him keep pace with the thief.
***
By the time Norm got home after filling out a statement for the police, the news had long since aired. He really wanted to see the beautiful reporter lady who had tracked him down and recorded his dramatic rescue and recovery mission for all the world to see. But it was too late, and Norm’s meager salary from the call center didn’t allow him to indulge in such technical amenities like cable, where he could have watched the report over and over for the next six hours on the news channel’s sister cable station.
What did it matter anyway? Norm thought. At least I’m not getting a lump of coal in my stocking tomorrow.
Norm ate a quick TV dinner, watched the end of a meaningless college bowl game, and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow was Christmas, but it was a day like any other for Norm. He had to work.
***
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A fist pounded loud and hard against Norm’s apartment door. Norm scrambled out of bed, half wondering if he had forgotten to pay his rent and half wondering if the punk he caught up with was coming back for revenge. He threw his robe on and shuffled toward the door.
Norm peeked into the eyehole in his door, shocked to see neither revenge-minded punk nor angry landlord. Instead, it was a businessman. And he was holding Norm’s backpack.
Norm opened the door.
“I believe this is yours,” the man said, holding out Norm’s backpack.
Norm took his backpack and said, “Thank you.” Immediately, Norm realized his backpack wasn’t as heavy as it was when he left the office. Without thinking, Norm unzipped the backpack and began rummaging through it in search of his prized manuscript.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” the man said, holding the manuscript in his other hand.
“Yes!” Norm answered angrily. “Did you look at that? That’s proprietary information! How dare you snoop through my stuff!”
“Well, I apologize,” the man answered. “It was the only piece of identification in the whole bag.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have gone through it or even read one page of it,” Norm scolded again.
“I am sorry,” the man said. “It was a necessary evil.”
Then he paused.
“But, Norm, I ended up reading a few chapters and before I knew it, I was enthralled with the book. I was wondering if you could come by my office next week to talk about signing you to a book deal.”
Stunned, Norm stared slack-jawed at the still-nameless businessman in front of him.
“My name is Jacob Donaldson, and I’m a senior agent at Ellington & Prince,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
“Well, of course,” Norm said as his demeanor quickly changed. “You really think this is a good book.”
“We don’t sign authors who write good books,” Mr. Donaldson replied. “We only sign authors who write exceptional books – and this book is exceptional.”
“Here’s my card,” Mr. Donaldson said, fishing a business card out of his wallet and handing it to Norm. “Give my secretary a call next week to set up an appointment and bring me a copy of your manuscript.”
“Will do,” Norm said, grinning ear to ear.
“And don’t come up with any goofy pen name,” Mr. Donaldson said as he turned to leave. “I love your real name, Norm Christmas. It’s elegant and befitting of an E&P author.”
Also by J.R. Chartrand:
Under Your Skin (coming Fall 2011)
The Fix (coming Spring 2012)
Follow J.R. on Twitter: @JRChartrand
Find him on Facebook at his fan page or at GooglePlus
Rebecca Carey Lyles
Becky Lyles has written and published articles and short stories plus two nonfiction books. She has also edited memoirs, newsletters, brochures, travel magazines, white papers, Web pages, educational material and various works of fiction. Her contemporary Christian romance novel, Winds of Wyoming, reached the semifinals in the ACFW 2011 Genesis contest for first-time novelists.
The Spirit of Christmas
“AH, CHRISTMAS EVE.” JACK Wymore loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes and settled into the couch cushions, his arm around his wife.
Carol laid her head against his chest. “The kids thought this night would never come.”
Eyes closed, he rubbed his day’s-end chin stubble across her soft, auburn hair. He loved the smell of her gingery shampoo. Mesmerized by the moment and the crackle of flames in the fireplace, he began to relax. Finally, his shoulder muscles could release the tension of managing a store full of last-minute shoppers, shoppers who’d apparently left their Christmas joy at home.
Seated on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, six-year-old Suzy began their family’s annual Christmas Eve reading from the Gospel of Luke, her words separate and distinct, her chubby finger moving from word to word. “In ... those ... days ...”
Bobby, Suzy’s older brother, pounded the carpet with his fist. “I can’t believe you’re letting her read, Mom. She’ll take all night. We’ll never get to open presents!”
Carol sat up.
Jack sighed.
Bobby folded his arms. “We just went to church. Isn’t that enough religion for one night?”
“Hush.” Carol leaned forward to lift two steaming mugs from the coffee table.
Jack took one and raised it to his lips, relishing the rich aroma of the spiced cider. Sipping slowly, he gazed beyond the glittering Christmas tree and through the picture window that framed it. The only movement he could see was that of snowflakes shimmering beneath the street lamp and the twinkle of the multi-colored lights that outlined the house across the street.
Like a scene from a Christmas card, knee-deep snow enveloped their home in silent solitude. How peaceful it was tonight. No phones, no cars. Even the neighbor’s yapper was quiet. And … He chuckled to himself. His motor-mouth mother-in-law’s plane was grounded in Chicago.
“Quir, Quir-in—”
Bobby’s freckles flared. “Just skip it and go to the next word.”
“Now, Bobby ...” Carol gave him as stern a look as her green eyes could muster on Christmas Eve.
Jack glanced around the living room. For the first time, he noticed the elaborate decorations. Holly, mistletoe, angels, bells and stars hung in every window and doorway. R
ed, green, gold and silver adorned the fireplace mantle, end tables and walls. When he spotted a nearby platter stacked with homemade goodies, he suddenly realized all the preparation their festivities had required.
He pulled Carol close again and whispered in her ear, “Nice work.”
She frowned. “Huh?”
He motioned with a sweep of his free hand. “The decorations.”
She sighed. “They’ve been up for a month.”
“Shhh!” demanded Suzy. “And everyone ...”
He set his mug down to reach for an obviously kid-decorated sugar cookie, mentally kicking himself. I should have kept my big mouth shut. He was fully aware of how much his wife hated the long hours he put in during the holidays and how he kept the store open as late as possible on Christmas Eve. He bit into the cookie. She was especially ticked he’d missed the candlelight service at church, again.
But … He raised an eyebrow. She doesn’t mind the money. It was her idea to buy Bobby that ridiculously expensive—
“Na-za-reth,” Suzy stammered in her high voice, her head bent in concentration and her blonde pigtails falling onto the Bible. Jack smiled at his determined little girl. She’d been so eager to read the Christmas story this year, despite Bobby’s objections.
“Cut it out, Bobby,” Carol had chided. “I think it’s sweet she wants to take a turn at such a young age.”
In response, Bobby had stuck his finger in his mouth and made gagging noises.
Jack smirked as he watched his stocky son inch his largest gift from behind the tree, ready to rip as soon as they sang the last note of “Silent Night.” He had always chafed at the delay in opening gifts, no matter who read the Scripture. Jack shook his head. Christmas—nothin’ like it. He picked up his cider again, savoring the sweet, warm liquid as it washed down the dry cookie.
Bobby helped Suzy pronounce Bethlehem then added, “Come on, Suz. Please don’t go so slow—”
“Bobby.” Carol shook a finger at him. “This story is what Christmas is all about. You get your greedy little paws off that package and listen.”
Intrigue (Stories of Suspense) Page 11
