All right, I’m home safe, Jack sent form his apartment. And I miss you even more than before.
I know, Marshall replied. I miss you too.
One month, two weeks, and six days, Jack texted him back. Until I see you again.
It was another hour or so until Marshall replied. All Jack had until then was his memories of their relationship, a few bad mix tapes, and his countdown spinning inside his head. He dug through his bag and pulled out his clothing for the laundry and his ticket fell out. At least he had that—an insurance policy, almost. There would always be Christmas.
There was no real discussion about Thanksgiving. It was just “impossible” according to Marshall, one of the busiest times in the ER, aside from maybe Halloween or natural disasters. With all the family reunions and fights that happen over the first gathering since the summer vacation, heads were going to roll. When Jack got roped into Black Friday, their plans for any impromptu Thanksgiving meal over Skype were cancelled right away.
We can reschedule, Marshall replied the last time they talked over video chat. We’ll find time somewhere, you know we will.
Jack had nodded and said nothing else. Marshall’s voice was stoic and serious again. He was back in work mode—and his true self wasn’t going to come back for what felt like a long, long time.
Chapter 3
“Thank you valued customers,” the PA system inside Target announces. The deadpan voice spooks Jack a bit from where he stands. “We understand that Black Friday is a great way to shop and think ahead for the holiday season. But please, be kind to those around you. That is the real meaning of the holiday season.”
“Hey, Olmstead,” Tony calls out to Jack, making him jump again.
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
Jack looks down at the display he’s parked himself in front of. Nothing appears to be broken or disheveled. Jack shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing, sir.”
“Exactly,” Tony says with a snide smile. “Get back to work.”
Jack makes a face towards Tony’s back as he turns around and stomps down an aisle. An elderly woman holding her grandson spots him and smirks. Jack turns his back on her, too, and pretends to be utterly consumed by picking up some candy bar wrappers from the floor. When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he tries to sneak a peek.
“Now, Olmstead,” Tony’s voice snaps at him out of nowhere.
Muttering under his breath, Jack moves down the aisle and picks up some toys at the end. When he does, he leans over to see a message from Patrice. My kid is sick, apparently. Dad’s got it right now, but can you take my shift on Monday?
Though Jack knows he will regret this, he starts typing, Sure. Not like I have anything else better to do.
It’s only after he hits send that he remembers. It may no longer be Black Friday, but it will still be a holiday shopping day. Cyber Monday.
“Fuck,” Jack says aloud. The elderly woman from before lets out a small tsk-tsk under her breath. Jack ignores her. He buries himself inside the toy section and tries to blend into the walls.
* * * *
Jack and Marshall met when Jack was still working his admin assistant job. Most of his tasks required him to send company emails to the right people in the department and handle claims forms when they came in. Occasionally, he would be asked to answer the phones with a simple “Stanley Insurance Company” and then feed the appropriate call to the right person. One afternoon, he answered the phone and was shocked when he was met with a rather young voice on the other end one day.
“Hello?”
“Stanley Insurance Company. Who is your call for?”
“Oh,” the man on the other end answered. “Never mind. I think I have the wrong number.”
“No problem,” Jack said, still mechanically going through his prompt script without emotion or reaction. “Have a nice day, sir.”
“Wait, wait,” the voice on the other line said. “You sound familiar. Do I know you?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. He took his eyes off the computer screen and tapped his fingers against the desk. The voice on the other end kept sounding better and better than the old men with hacking coughs he usually dealt with. “What’s your name?”
“Marshall. Marshall Duncan. And yours?”
“Jackson Olmstead.”
“Oh, I don’t know that name.”
But even after that, Jack didn’t want to hang up the phone. He liked the way the Marshall’s voice sounded, thick and strong. He had been listening to a lot of audiobooks around that time period since he couldn’t always read physical books on the bus. The guy on the other end could have been a voice actor or narrator. Almost of Scott Brick quality, who seemed to be a part of absolutely everything from Michael Pollan to the Art of War. Jack was beginning to think that Scott Brick, the actor, had written most of the novels and nonfiction accounts he had been reading.
“I don’t think I know your name either,” Jack added. “But maybe I do. You have a local area code, so we could have crossed paths at—”
“School?”
Jack laughed. “I was going to suggest something else, but sure, school may work. I used to deliver pizzas to campus before I got this job so who knows? Maybe we crossed paths that way.”
“Where are you from, then?”
“Athens, close to this office, actually. Just around—”
“The bridge?” Marshall jumped in, his tone excited.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack said. He laughed a bit. “You from that area too?”
“Just the other side. I would take the bus a lot across the bridge to get to campus and then to my parents’ offices.”
“Well,” Jack said with a smile. “Then I guess we’ve probably met before, but just didn’t realize it.”
More small talk about similar Ohio hangouts, the college campus where Jack had worked, and Marshall had gone to school, were exchanged before they suddenly realized that fifteen minutes had passed. Jack had been watching the other lines light up in red, though he was sad to go, knew he had a lot more to get through. But before hanging up, Jack got enough confidence to ask for Marshall’s number.
“Well, to keep it for later, really. I already know what it is from the call display. But maybe next time I can call you accidentally. If you want me to get it right, that is,” Jack had said, trying so hard to be suave on the phone and completely unsure if he had pulled it off. But Marshall had been delighted by the suggestion, so Jack must have been doing something right.
“And this time,” Marshall added. “I’ll wait for you to call.”
“It won’t be very long,” Jack said. He scribbled the number down from the call display pad onto a green post-it note with a smile. “Trust me.”
They made their first date after a few more phone calls. Marshall was pretty busy with school, but he was still in the classroom so everything was hypothetical. He could relax for a dinner date at a diner across town, without worrying about the real lives he was putting into danger. Jack had been really nervous meeting a stranger from the phone—it seemed almost worse than a blind date, since there was no one to vouch for Marshall. But if this man is as handsome as his voice, Jack thought, I will take my chances.
Thankfully, Marshall was even better looking than he could have imagined. Jack had showed up fifteen minutes late because he had taken the bus and walked into the diner to see a skinny guy with glasses sitting at the corner booth. His brown hair was in need of a haircut, but Jack could tell he had tried to style it in some way. He wore a simple collared shirt with a blazer and dark jeans. He bounced one leg nervously as he talked to a waitress, ordering what looked to be water and coffee, before his eyes glanced up and spotted Jack by the doorway.
“Hi,” Jack had said when he walked over. He introduced himself quickly as Marshall stood as well. Up close, he was a lot taller than Jack had anticipated—and much thinner.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jack said, sitting down into the booth. “The busses are a mess duri
ng this time of day.”
“It’s fine,” Marshall said. “But I’ve ordered already. Hope that’s okay? The waitress will be back soon, and we can share the appetizer.”
Jack had nodded. He felt as if he would agree to whatever Marshall said that night, as long as he got to hear his voice. As they got to know one another over a plate of nachos, Jack soon realized that Marshall’s slightly disheveled appearance wasn’t because he was trying to look casual—or even like a hipster. Marshall’s tendency to stay up late studying or finishing projects often made him forget to eat altogether. The first dinner they shared together had been his first real meal aside from ramen noodles in days.
“Days?”
“Yes,” Marshall said. “I was studying for a final.”
“What do you do?”
“I want to be a doctor,” he said. “I figure I may as well get used to not eating whenever I want then.”
“Nice. That must be fulfilling.”
“It will be, when I get there. What do you want to do?”
“Don’t even worry about me,” Jack had told him with a laugh. He grabbed Marshall’s hand to distract him. “My jobs are rather boring an unimportant. Nothing like saving lives. Tell me more about medicine. Surgery or GP?”
“Surgical,” Marshall answered. Somehow, this wasn’t surprising at all to Jack. Though most surgeons seemed like arrogant jerks with God complexes, he was willing to hear Marshall out some more. And Jack knew how to deal with men with God complexes by now. Working in the service industry, he had seen frustrated managers treat the cashiers like Job from the Bible and promote them if they passed his tests.
“So, are you more like McDreamy or Doctor House?” Jack asked.
Marshall had laughed, and then sheepishly asked, “Who’s McDreamy?”
This was when Jack knew that he really liked Marshall. He could be so passionate about his chosen profession, and yet, still somehow miss the cultural references. That was impressive to Jack because it meant Marshall liked to actually do his job—rather than dream about it. Soon, that intense scrutiny and need to study was shifted onto Jack’s body, and he began to love Marshall even more. They had finished up their dinner of burger and fries with a slight make-out session in Marshall’s car, before he drove him back to Jack’s place.
“So you can avoid the late buses. Nothing sucks more than waiting for something that may or may not come,” Marshall had explained, a slight twinkle in his eye. Jack had wanted to invite him up to his apartment, make their eventual chemistry and attraction suddenly combust as they fell into bed together. But Jack had decided early on to play it slow with this guy, because he was someone worth keeping. His voice, his intelligence, and the prospect of a good career and the possibility of eventually leaving the Ohio state for something far better was too tempting. But it would need time.
Now that time was finally paying off, Jack thought he’d be happier. But it turns out missing Marshall was costing a lot more sleepless nights than Jack originally planned.
At least, Jack thinks, there are phone calls. Real ones—with voice and not text messages. Phones were the one thing that brought them together, and as soon as Marshall moved, the two of them fell into the pattern of late night calls just to hear one another’s voices. They kept the cells for the instant contact of texts and IMs, but installed landlines in both of their places to remind one another of how they had met and sealed their fate as a couple.
“You remember when it used to be a bunch of people connecting the lines together?” Jack once remarked. “One of those Bell women who would tap you through?”
“Not personally,” Marshall retorted, “but I can imagine it.”
“It must have felt more personal then. Less like you were talking into a machine.”
“I don’t know,” Marshall argued. “I think machines get a bad rap sometimes. They can keep people alive—or bring them together.”
“True,” Jack stated. As a child, he had always associated phone calls and red stamped mail as something bad, something to be avoided. His mother screened calls the way she should have screened men and avoided the ones with angry tones in their voices. They moved so often as kids, Jack was convinced, just to get away from those calls and eviction notices. Slowly through the help of Marshall, Jack was learning to love the sound of a phone ringing again.
* * * *
Anytime Jack’s phone buzzes during Black Friday, the same heart-stopping feeling he got from that first call of Marshall’s repeats itself again. Though he can’t hear Marshall’s voice, he remembers the sudden sonorous laugh and his careful whisper in his ear like a poem or a song. When Jack gets his phone after another buzz, and sees Marshall’s name again, he feels even luckier than before. Two chances to speak with Marshall? he thinks somewhat sardonically. Wow, it must be some kind of record. Jack soon hides again at the back of the store, inside one of the washroom stalls. Now there is no old man waiting for him to leave, so he feels as if the room is all his. Even if there are wads of toilet paper all around and random water everywhere.
I heard there was a fight at the local Walmart, Marshall texts him. They had to send out some ambulances and now I’m waiting for the casualties. Tell me, is Target just as violent?
Nah, Jack answers. Le Targé just has a bunch of middle aged woman who want to fight over socks. Or blenders. Jack goes on for a while, becoming verbose in a matter of minutes as he writes down the bathroom story and the old man.
Sounds like he wanted a quickie, Marshall responds.
Stop, Jack texts.
I’m teasing, Marshall writes. You know, you need to start a book of short stories with shit like this. I swear you tell me the best stuff.
And you me, sweetheart, Jack states. Like those college kids who got vibrators stuck inside of them because they all happen to ‘fall on them’ at the same time. Yeah. Fall on them. Happens a lot with carrots and other items, too, if I remember correctly. People should put warnings about that.
Ah, yes, I remember those kids fondly. They are the future, Marshall types. I’ll tell you what, then. We’ll collaborate on this book. Half retail hell, and another half the ER stories.
Sounds good to me, Jack states.
So, jokes asides, Marshall texts next. How are you doing? Really now? Good. Good as I can be. Only a couple more hours.
And, and? Marshall teases. Jack feels his face go red even though Marshall isn’t around to see his embarrassment.
Another month until I see you again, Jack answers.
No hours or minutes countdown?
I could have that for you in a little bit.
Marshall is silent for some time before he answers, Yes, dear. I’m sure you could. An ambulance just got here, though. I have to go.
Jack stands up in the bathroom, as if he has suddenly been caught. He hears another crash from outside the Target’s alleys and wonders if they’ll need that ambulance, too.
Okay, take care of yourself, Marsh. I love you.
Jack hits send and waits on the balls of his feet, though he knows he will not get a response. At least, not until his emergency is over. He sometimes feels as if he has to skip between moments and days to talk to Marshall, whereas before he could just camp out on his couch and wait for him like he used to before. Marshall would always wake Jack up before he went to sleep after a shift or a late study break, always come to see him whenever he got home no matter what time of day that was. Now, Marshall doesn’t even always text when he gets off work. He can’t. So Jack is always left on the other side of a hanging question, an away message on Skype or unavailable sign on the messenger system. Jack has started to accept from his customer service days, or going into work with his mom, that he will always be waiting in some way.
Jack checks his watch after washing his hands. Two hours and fifty eight minutes. Okay, he tells himself as he looks in the mirror. You can do this.
Chapter 4
Jack has always liked words and languages. When he was a toddler, his m
other used to bring him to her cleaning job in an old hotel. All he remembers from this time period are the small blue soaps that she used to place in the hotel bathroom—and then smuggle home for their use—and a never-ending series of Spanish words. Some of the other employees spoke Spanish to prevent the managers from hearing, and Jack’s mother often participated. If she left Jack in the room with her as she cleaned, there was often some type of Spanish television show on the TV, often one for kids. He picked up the small words first. Naranjas and verte (colors and fruit) were easy to commit to memory, and the occasional question words like como estas? and como te llama? When he got older, he no longer had to hang out in hotel rooms, but he still continued to expand on his Spanish vocabulary.
If Jack was going to go to school for anything, it wouldn’t be for English, in spite of the pseudo-book deals he’s been making with Marshall or Maura. It would be for Spanish, probably, though he also has had a proficiency in French, too. His ideal job would be to translate some of the classics in both languages, going back and forth. He has always been so fascinated with the “small talk” in each language, (such as his first real sentence of como estas?) and other phrases that tourists use. When he worked at a library in high school, he would borrow all the travel dictionaries and plan his conversations with flight attendants and waitresses more than he would plan an actual vacation. When he got more in depth with a language that the jokes started to make sense, then Jack felt as if he was doing something right. On his days off at home, he often has the TV on as some type of background noise. Probably because of his first experiences as a child, he often preferred something with Spanish, but any foreign language would do. For a solid month after Marshall left, Jack became so enwrapped in the Spanish telenovelas that it was embarrassing.
Working in customer service has actually allowed him to explore some of his language fasciation. In many jobs, he’s been the only person on staff that could actually speak to the cleaning crew or night shift team. For Target, there aren’t too many employees with bilingual tendencies as there are customers. Though Jack sometimes feels bad about it, one of his favorite ways to pass the time at work is get too close to someone speaking another language and listen in. This action is more of a test of his own skills (since native speakers will often go much faster than television announcers or anything like that) than eavesdropping, but he’s gotten into trouble a few times. And learned a couple of really good jokes, too.
Impatience Is a Virtue Page 3
