Mandi Bean's Blog, page 24

On being woefully unprepared.

I’ve noticed that as I go through life, I truly take so many things for granted. I’m not just talking about the big ones, like that I’ll wake up in the morning and have breakfast and people who will love and support me, but the other things, the smaller things, too. When I walk through the heavy doors of the high school where I teach, glass framed by sturdy metal, I take for granted that the people I see every day will be there every day. I assume that just as I woke up, showered, dressed and arrived, so did everyone else. I fall into the comfort of complacency and a routine established back in September. I say hello to the principal’s secretary in the main office as I sign in and continue to the back and check my mailbox. Usually, a colleague representing the math department will be using the copier and we will exchange the polite and proper pleasantries as I silently and internally curse myself for not having arrived earlier to hog the copier, which may in fact be the only one working in the building at that given moment. Mailbox checked and copier in use, I proceed through the rear door, back down the hallway I came from, to my classroom to unlock the door and prepare for the day. The little things in that litany are things that could mean more than I’ve ever imagined.

For example, a beautiful, stylish and incredibly knowledgeable English teacher had a classroom across from mine. In between periods, as we both stood by our doors to greet students and ask students to remove their hats, we would roll our eyes in commiseration at the more difficult conglomeration of students we were charged with educating. I would ask about her children and her resulting hectic weekends. The conversations were pleasant, polite, and more often than not, I’d return to my classroom smiling and laughing because she had a wicked, witty sense of humor. Indeed, she went as far as to aid my father in essentially humiliating me during parent-teacher conferences because she thought it’d be funny to see me squirm. She was a real riot.

I wanted her to like me. I wanted her to accept me because I respected her so damn much. She was the kind of woman I’d be proud to be, had even hoped to be. Balancing a social life and a career with a beautiful family, being so well-dressed and knowledgeable without being pretentious or aloof – she was a wonder to behold, and I know I was blessed and privileged to share a department, let alone a hallway, with her.

I took for granted that I’d see her on Monday when we all returned from winter break, refreshed and perhaps already eagerly anticipating spring break. I took for granted she’d be there, just as I was there.

But this wonderful woman who meant so much to her family, friends, colleagues, students, and athletes passed away this morning. Those of us left behind are devastated by the tragedy and senselessness of losing someone so young and beautiful and brilliant, and we keep repeating statements like, “But I just saw her … but I just talked to her … but I was just saying” because we took for granted she’d be there and in doing so, were woefully unprepared for the day she is not there. According to Philip Roth, that’s the real human tragedy: being unprepared for tragedy. That is what we are; unprepared to say goodbye, and unprepared for how hard her absence has already and will continue to hit us.

Rest in peace, Tara Gardner. You were loved and will always be loved, just as you will always be missed.

On noises.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #8: “While relaxing on his porch swing, a pig farmer hears a tremendous crash in a nearby field.”

Bob Jones was a farmer who had seen and done many things in his less than extraordinary life.  None of his endeavors had been exactly noteworthy, nothing to write home about as they say, but he had one or two anecdotes that could be employed over beers, or to stave off the ever-lurking awkward silence, that were, at the very least, quite entertaining.  With his boot heels resting on the wooden railing of his rambling front porch, Bob looked out upon the burning, setting sun.  It had been a long, hard day, filled with menial maintenance and more extensive manual labor – fixing broken fences and unreliable machinery – that left his body sore in a special, fulfilling way.  He could feel heat coming from his face in waves and knew that it’d be nice and crisp come tomorrow.  Despite the aches and burns, Bob felt good, really good.  The embarrassingly antiquated radio on the floorboards beside him was crackling out some cover of Hank Williams, Jr.  It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t completely terrible, so Bob tolerated it and after a verse or two, actually began to believe the song added to the atmosphere perfectly.  He was at peace with everything and everyone around him and at this particular moment, that was enough.  He took a long, steady drink of beer from his favorite mug, which he had frosted all day for this very occasion.

All that he cherished of the day was shattered in one loud metallic crash that chilled Bob to his core.  It was big, it was bad, and it was loud – it was a cacophony that announced the arrival of something awful and unnatural, something like death.  In the impending, eerie silence, Bob got to his feet slowly and stood simply, straining his ears for more, for some kind of screams, some kind of sirens, some kind of logical continuation.  It did not seem possible for the displeasing and varied sounds of chaos to sound so suddenly without some rational conclusion.  The silence made it worse, left the ending open to be written any kind of way.  Bob waited a moment more before taking off, bounding down the steps to the soft dirt.  He pumped his arms and legs past the stables, past the barn, through the rows of corn, and damn near tore up the field of grain that marked the end of his property, along which lazily snaked a country road that led to a small town with a single stoplight.  It was all Americana and perfect and picturesque.  But the crash had been as mighty as a resounding tear in the fabric of reality itself.  His lungs burned from the effort, his chest heaved, and his already aching muscles were singing, but he ran and ran until he spotted what he assumed had caused the commotion.

What had once been a beautiful, jet black sports car was now nothing more than twisted hunk of metal.  The car had plowed into a post well beyond the shoulder and such an excess of speed that it had impossibly wrapped itself around it, been morphed and warped into fragments that could not possibly be combined into anything of use, let alone a vehicle.  Steam was billowing from where the engine would normally reside and Bob assumed the car was moments away from catching fire.  In a moment’s decision, he hurled himself forward to the driver’s side.  Had anyone survived, Bob would have to extract him or her and pull them to safety, far from the explosion waiting to happen.  Bob had underestimated his speed and could not gracefully slow to a halt at the window.  He collided against it, breathless and sweating and terrified.  He looked through the opening where the window should be.  It was open, not shattered, and had been securely rolled down and away.  As a result, there was nothing separating Bob from the horrific tragedy before him; only air.  Slumped against the wheel was the terribly young and beautiful face of a man.  It was smeared with blood, and his dark hair was matted with it, but his green eyes shone bright, sparkled and gleamed through the absolute carnage.  His rusted-orange tee-shirt hung loosely on his thin frame so that Bob could see his chest falling rapidly.  His breathing was rapid, but the rest of him was still, as if this young man had already resigned himself to a particular fate.  He was dying.

“Hang on, man,” Bob yelled.  Later on, he would wonder why he yelled.  He had no other noise to shout over.  “I’m going to call an ambulance, just stay with me!”

The young man did not stir and in no way acknowledge that Bob had spoken, let alone yelled.  He stared at a landscape Bob could not see; all Bob could ascertain that it was somewhere near the lower left side of the man’s vision.  He licked his lips and wheezed, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bob replied automatically and Bob was always glad he said that.  “I’ll be right back, I have to get to the phone.”  Bob reached in with every intention of squeezing the young man’s shoulder, of providing the poor guy with a human connection, the comfort of a human touch, but Bob thought better of it.  He would be horrified if he somehow further injured the already decimated body or, worse, inadvertently killed him.  Bob took off again, running as fast as he possibly could, when a second catastrophic noise filled the air.

It was the car exploding.  It burst into flames.  Bob turned slowly and dropped to his knees.

On life … and how titles can be vague.

Life is a fleeting, funny thing- I think we can all agree on that.  Last night, I enjoyed some drinks and some nostalgia with wonderful friends.  As the night ended at a diner, the way nights in Jersey so often do, a waitress who had seated herself at the table beside ours went into some kind of diabetic shock.  My friend Raina is a nurse, and without hesitation, she rushed to the woman’s side and did all she could to keep her alert and comfortable until the paramedics arrived.  I watched her with a serious sense of awe, of how cool, calm, collected, and confident she was.  I was amazed that such a wonderful and beautiful human being could friends with someone like me, who did contributed nothing to the situation other than stunned silence and stares.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #7: “A woman gets the opportunity of a lifetime when she gets hired to sing backup for a famous musician.”

Emily was ten years too old – was there really a logical reason for someone to roam this Earth for ninety years?  What could there possibly be left to see or hear or do?  She had laughed until she cried, cried until she had to laugh, been heartbroken, believed herself to be infinite and immortal, believed everything to be meaningless, and then believed everything to be poignantly meaningful.  She had run the gamut from wildly and recklessly passionate to dangerously and stubbornly apathetic.  Had she not lived through some serious shit?  Had she not also merrily sailed through years of calm?  What could possibly be left?  Emily was ready for death.

Ah, but that was horse shit and she knew it.  The thought of going to sleep and never waking up still terrified her in a way that was inexplicable.  It was a sweeping, overwhelming kind of horror that could not be sufficiently articulated.  So, Emily reasoned, if it could not be explained, then what good was there in thinking about it?  Emily looked for something else to occupy her mind and she settled on the weather.  The snow outside was falling steadily and despite feeling hellishly cranky, Emily thought it beautiful to look at.  She watched the weather silently and calmly with her head turned to the side on the large but thin pillow.  She allowed herself to wonder, but only for a moment, how many more snowfalls she’d see, but she shut her eyes against the thought of her inevitable and impending passing.  She prayed for some kind of relief, for some kind of distraction, and in walked the nurse.

The nurse had spent many nights with Emily, perhaps pulling the short straw and getting stuck with the cranky old woman through horrendous hours, hours where the human body was meant to be soundly sleeping.  The nurse was always obnoxiously cheerful and pleasant, which annoyed Emily who only pretended to be crotchety enough to pray for death.  Emily was also annoyed because the nurse was a young man.  Men, in Emily’s learned and wise and venerable opinion, were meant for manual labor and hard work, not for soothing and caring and all that womanly business.  Emily never exchanged more than a few words with the young man, and she only relented and did so because of his eyes.

The young man had absolutely phenomenal eyes.  There were a unique shade of emerald that a human being is blessed to see only once in a lifetime.  They shone brightly, as if chips of a broken Heineken bottle were stuck in the orbs to catch and reflect light.  Emily knew it was a piss poor analogy, and a disturbing rather than beautiful image, but she was dying.  She could do as she pleased.  She gave him a sneer that was slightly less repellent than usual as he came in, and then turned to continue to watch the accumulating powder.  He smiled merrily at her.  “Good evening, Emily.  How are you feeling?”

She grunted.

“Emily, my favorite part of our time together is the scintillating conversations we share.  Honestly, I’ve never been so emotionally and intellectually engrossed before.”  He was being scathingly sarcastic, but he gave her a quick wink to show it was all in fun.  Emily did her best to hide her grin in her hands as she pretended to cough.  The young man had traversed over to the machines that beeped endlessly and flashed all kinds of numbers and statistics that meant nothing to Emily.  She watched him and had the urge to ask him a question.  Despite it being completely out of character, Emily asked, “Did you always want to be a nurse, son?”

The young man was taken aback, clearly not anticipating any kind of conversation other than the usual nods and unintelligible moans and groans.  “What?” he responded, his decorum completely leaving him in favor of shock.

“Men usually aren’t nurses.  What brought you to this line of work?”

He laughed softly.  “You know, you’re right, but no one’s ever actually asked me that before.”  With the grin lingering about his lips, he took a few moments to give the question some serious thought.  Then he said, “I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

Emily was disappointed.  Writing was not work by any stretch of the imagination.  She had wanted him to say rancher, or laborer, or soldier, something exceedingly masculine and handsome and wonderful she could think about later.  In essence, he had given her nothing to work with, and so she became bored with the conversation and turned her face away, back to the snow.

“What about you, Emily?  What was your dream?”

There was no thinking; her response was instinctual, as effortless as breathing.  “I wanted to be a singer.”

“Really?” the young man was amused by the answer.  “I’ve got to be honest; you don’t strike me as a singer, Emily.”

She turned to him with cold eyes.  “And why not?  What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?  I could sing as good as any of them!  I could move and put on one hell of a show, I’ll have you know!”

The young man crossed his arms over his chest and gazed upon Emily with real interest.  “So what happened?  Why are you here instead of up on the stage?”

“Because I’m ninety years old and knocking on death’s door.”

He smiled ruefully.  “You know what I mean, Emily.  Why didn’t you ever become a singer?”

She sighed.  “Well, I was making a name for myself at the local dive bars.  I was packing places to capacity, causing fire hazards and whatnot.  A couple of stories ran in the papers and this big shot from Los Angeles came to see me.  He was impressed by what he saw and offered me a shot.  I was to go to Los Angeles and become a backup singer for Frank Sinatra for a gig or two.”

“Frank Sinatra, really?” the young man asked.  She had his full attention now as he sat on the edge of her bed, open-mouthed.

“Oh, sure,” she smiled.  “I didn’t get to meet him or nothin’, because during my audition, I was nervous as hell.  So I downed some whiskey to calm the nerves and pull it together.  I must have overdone it, though, because I moseyed on up there and soon as I opened my pie hole, I vomited all over the mic.”  Emily started chuckling.  “Everyone was so disgusted.  I was escorted out by these burley guys who didn’t even want to touch me.  I didn’t even get a chance to collect my things.”  Her chuckles had turned into hearty guffaws.  She brought her wrinkled hands up to her wrinkled cheeks as her eyes wrinkled with merriment.  She was genuinely laughing, something she hadn’t done since Lord knows how long.  It was an infectious, melodious and beautiful sound and for a fleeting moment, the young man heard how Emily must have sounded when she sang and it was tremendous.  His smile stretched wider and he joined in the laughter.

On personally defining success and nostalgia.

This week was exciting as far as my blossoming writing career goes.  I had an author event on Thursday, November 14th at Ocean County College in Toms River, New Jersey.  The event was sponsored and essentially put together by the Literature Club, specifically because of Sara Pease, who is a former student of mine and a simply wonderful human being.  There were about twenty people in attendance, most of whom were attentive and asked the best questions I have had the privilege of answering.  I was able to sell seven books and talk to some truly interesting and supportive young adults.  It was a wonderful experience and it made returning to work on Friday SO HARD.

Last night, which was Saturday, November 16th, I was able to occupy a vendor table at Ladies’ Night Out at the Manchester Firehouse in Manchester, New Jersey.  I sold five books and was able to engage in highly entertaining conversations with fellow vendors.  I shared my table with D.O.V.E., which is an organization that helps to empower female victims of violence.  It was a serendipitous pairing, considering the content of Her Beautiful Monster.  It was a great evening, and I was truly humbled by my friends Heather, Ali, Kasey, Melanie, Marie and Jenna who showed up and have done so at every available opportunity.  Though I only sold a total of twelve books and minimally increased my audience, everyone has to start somewhere and these experiences helped to confirm for me that I need to be a writer.  It is a goal I need to work harder towards, because it helps to me to feel fulfilled, complete, and just plain happy.  In the following months, my goal is to be interviewed by a newspaper that serves a large population (like the Asbury Park Press) and send queries to agents, who would also help in marketing.  Speaking of marketing, my friend Kalie invited me to attend an event with her on Wednesday that provides ideas for marketing in viral markets and on social media sites (I believe).  She brought up the important point that networking is key.

Wish me luck, and enjoy this week’s writing prompt. 

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #6: “I rubbed my thumb across her cheek and, buddy, I thought I was going to cry.”

I am a sad, silly and lonely girl.  I imagine a woman would be wiser and stronger, and refrain from indulging in simple fantasies she plans on forcing to be recurrent.  The latest is this: graduation night will be a beautiful night near the latter part of June.  The moon will be full and bright and hanging high in the sky.  Its beauty will be lost on me, unfortunately, because I’ll be inside the high school, dutifully stationed at my classroom door.  I’ll be stuck handing out official, important-looking, white, large envelopes to the robed miscreants, academics, athletes, everyone in between.  The envelopes will contain various certificates and documents that become so much useless paper in lieu of graduation itself, and of all the accompanying promises and freedom and optimism intangibly included therein.  As such, students will not be rushing to obtain the envelopes and will have to be reminded and redirected several times by the faculty members in attendance.  Blue and gold robes will whip and ripple around sneakers and outrageous heels, slapping and clicking respectively through the hallways as sloppy hugs, final goodbyes, and well-wishes are doled out.  As it grows late, the number of students whirling about in flurries of excitement lessens considerably and the building borders on being empty and desolate and lonely.

 

I will sigh and fall back against the classroom door, keeping the door open while lazily allowing the door made of composite wood to support my weight rather than my understandably aching feet.  I pray I will have lost the weight and that my skin will be clear, or at the very least, clearer than it is now.  I’ll be observing the few remaining students and faculty members milling about, a mere observer whose mind is one million miles away, on to the next silly fantasy as the last thousand never ever came to fruition.  Someone will approach from behind, out of my view, to unintentionally capitalize upon the element of surprise.  He will gently clear his throat and simultaneously become unexpectedly and wildly unsure of himself.  To release the building nervous energy, he will shove his hands deep into the front pockets of his worn jeans, covered in orange-colored dust from fascinating roads less traveled in America, so that his calloused fingertips (worked to the bone, strumming guitars and banjos, gripping the wheel too tightly) bend against the fabric of the lining.  He’ll gently clear his throat, embellishing the strong and solid muscles of his masculine neck and jaw, and say, “Hey Andrea.”

 

Startled from my reverie, my closest and most constant companion, I’ll turn quickly but it’ll feel like slow motion, like trying to move fast in a dream, once my eyes take in his image and my brain comprehends who is standing there.  I am certain I will feel fifteen.  Breathless and deliciously confused, I’ll smile and lamely offer, “Hey.”  In a moment or so, I’ll (hopefully) come back to myself and break out with a radiant (well, as radiant as a smile can be when it’s caged by braces) smile and ask how he’s been.  I’ll already have some idea courtesy of creeping on Facebook and the gossip of mutual acquaintances.  I’ll know he’s been living a bohemian life I’ve always dreamed of, that he’s braver and more wonderful than my adolescent self had ever even dreamed of, even though he had been my schoolgirl obsession for years.  He won’t go into all of that, though.  He’ll keep it politely simple and appropriately simple and only say that he’s been good and doing well.  He’ll ask me how I’ve been and I’ll answer in an extremely similar fashion, lifting my upturned palms as a sort of half-hearted shrug and to indicate how absolutely bizarre it can be to work in the same high school we graduated from.  He’ll smile and let his gaze fall to the floor beneath us, seemingly perfectly content to stew in the impending awkward silence.

I, on the other hand, have never been so suave or comfortable in my own skin, nor will I ever be.  I’ll need to smash it, to break it, so I’ll do what I never wanted to and bring up the past in all its embarrassing nostalgia.  How could I not, given the present company, our history, and current setting?  I believe he’ll only laugh and shrug it off.  His cheeks will color slightly, resulting from excessive, juvenile flattery and perhaps guilt stemming from the playground torture and adolescent cruelty he inflicted upon me.  Indeed, his grin will ultimately fade and his eyes will rise to meet mine.  His face, so uniquely handsome and so simultaneously beautiful in its stoic sorrow from many troubles and burdens I only ever guessed at among whispering girlfriends, will be set.  He’ll ask, “Do you remember what I wrote in your yearbook?”

 

Shock and nausea will be my immediate response.  My mouth will go dry and I’ll choke and sputter when I ask, “Do you?”

 

He’ll smile, but it will be so muted that I will doubt its authenticity.  “Of course I do!  I didn’t write it lightly.”  There will be a gut-wrenching pause to allow the tears to gather and prick at my eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he’ll say.  “And I didn’t ignore the e-mail you sent me, either.  I’ve just been busy and then I thought –“

 

“Stop,” I’ll command and demand.  “You don’t have to, you really don’t have to.  It’s whatever; I mean, it is what it is, and I don’t know why I sent that message.  Did it completely creep you out?  I’m sorry.”

 

Kindly, he will smile and say, “No, it didn’t creep me out, not at all.”  Another awkward silence will descend and though I will positively squirm, screaming inner, secret prayers for it to end or for me to just die, he will be graceful and effortless in his charm when he says, “You look good.”

 

My face will flush and I will find a spot on the floor incredibly interesting suddenly, and concentrate my gaze there.  It will be in an attempt at being coy and feminine and flirty, but I will be too chicken shit to meet his gaze, so I will be unable to determine its effectiveness.  The lack of eye contact will by no means be a lack of attention.  He will undoubtedly captivate me and rob me of my breath, the way he always did and, most likely, always will.  Grinning, I’ll thank him for the compliment and eagerly return it in a fashion more embarrassing than charming or even sincere.  He’ll nod his head in a charming, gentleman’s way.  “Thank you,” he will say with a slight Southern drawl he never had before that I will suspect him of faking for the moment.  After all, I won’t feel so guilty or so lame if him and I are nothing more than a couple of liars.

The inability to know what to say next will become unbearable for the both of us.  He’ll hurriedly mumble that it was good seeing me, that it was good to catch up, and he’ll hope to see me around, and then he’ll be gone.  Nothing ever really changes, not even within my precious illusions and foolish fantasies.  But, I’ll shut my eyes tight and envision him somewhere down the line, embellishing the encounter more so than I’ve done in creating it.  He’ll tell of an imagined conversation which lasts and lasts until we’re actually asked to leave by the custodial staff.  He’ll say I suggested moving the conversation to a local, popular restaurant where we stay until we are again asked to leave.  We’ll say our goodbyes beneath unforgiving fluorescent lights in an empty parking lot.  I smile when I think of how he’ll lie and tell his attentive listener that he reached out to touch my face and I yielded completely to the touch, a victim of parting and sweet sorrow and all that ancient, literary jazz.  He’ll say, “I rubbed my thumb across her cheek and, buddy, I thought I was going to cry.”

On being bold and priorities.

I freely admit that as of late, I have been something of a “Stranger Danger” when it comes to this blog, and to my writing career at large.  Teaching seems to be taking up every spare moment of my time, leaving me exhausted and uninspired.  I have always desired for teaching to be my career, but I never intended for it to become my life, to consume me.  I must then be bold, and align my priorities to my dreams.  No writer ever became successful by whining and making excuses.

That being said, I have an author event scheduled for Thursday, November 14th at Ocean County College in Toms River, New Jersey at 12:30PM.  The event is only open to students, faculty and staff, so if you are on campus that day, stop on by!  I will also have a table set up at the Ladies’ Night at Manchester Firehouse on Saturday, November 16th.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #5: “A man traveling overseas meets the woman of his dreams, but they don’t speak a common language.”

     Michael had never been outside of the continental United States of America.  He had never even ventured to Alaska or Hawaii, let alone a country that was an ocean away.  He reasoned that most of it was because he was absolutely terrified of flying, and part of it was because of his never promising financial situation; he always seemed to be struggling, to register just a step behind.  Even in college, when he had wanted to study abroad in England, when he had access to financial aid, scholarships, and student loans, he had not been able to swing it.  As a matter of fact, the only reason Michael was seated by the window of a 757 airplane was because his father had died.  At the ripe old age of 57, John Sullivan had dropped dead of a heart attack.  Just about a month ago, just a few short months before he was due to retire; Mr. Sullivan had been in the break room of the warehouse at the seaport in Elizabeth, New Jersey.  He had been pouring himself a crappy cup of coffee into a Styrofoam cup when everything just suddenly seized up and stopped.  He couldn’t breathe or think, and so he simply collapsed and died.  There had been no goodbye for his youngest child, his only son; no words of wisdom, no teachable moment as he lay dying about life and love and what is really important.

There had been a horrendously depressing funeral where Michael had to practically carry his mother from one uncomfortable folding chair to another.  She wept and fell, popped another Xanax, called for her husband who was six feet in the ground, held her two daughters (Michael’s older sisters), popped a Xanax, stared off into space, crumbled, popped a Xanax, withered, and slept.  She had been more of a presentable widow, though she would be forever heartbroken, at the reading of the will.  John Sullivan, in death as he always had been in life, took great care of his loved ones.  Each child received $15,000 and a personal, sentimental memento (Michael had inherited his father’s varsity letter jacket).  His mother inherited everything else, aside from unremarkable amounts of money left to John’s one sister and six brothers.  Michael sat alone in his childhood bedroom sometime later, turning the check over in his shaking hands again and again.  His mother advised him to invest it.  His oldest sister encouraged him to save it, to simply put it away.  His other sister hugged him tightly and told him to do whatever he wanted because that is what their Dad would have wanted.  So he had kissed her, packed his bag, and here he was, flying across the Atlantic.

Michael had decided on France; he could not explain why he had chosen France, but it felt right.  Then again, maybe it was the valium and glass of vodka he had ingested and imbibed shortly after takeoff.  When he landed, there was a substantial terrifying amount of time where Michael panicked over changing currency, renting a car, and struggling to understand and be understood.  But despite initial terror and uncertainty, events had unfolded smoothly and before long, Michael had located his hotel, unpacked his bags, and hit the town.  Night had descended upon Paris as a familiar love, and Michael had trouble articulating the myriad of exciting feelings which were enveloping his saner, more rational self.  Sitting outside a populated bar, sipping from a glass of merlot, Michael felt smarter, stronger, sexier, and more alive than he ever had before.  Possibilities were endless and seemed more like guarantees than anything else.  He could be the life of a party- any party.  He released a short, anticipatory breath and leaned back against the faux wicker chair he was sitting in.  The emerald, checkered tablecloth created a desirable ambiance, but the outside of the bar was deserted and Michael did not want to be alone or lonely or anything of the sort.  He downed the rest of his merlot and hurried back inside.

The music was loud, but lacked the thumping bass so common to American nightclubs and as a result, was classier and more elegant.  Michael liked that; he liked that the interior was dimly lit but the lights reflected warmly against the mahogany, and Michael felt comfy, cozy, and right at home.  He slid against packed bodies that were not grinding mindlessly and sweating profusely, but talking – discussing lively topics.  This was where Michael was supposed to be – he was sure of it – and he bellied up to the bar, ready to order another glass.  His finger was poised in the air and his mouth was open, ready to call “Garcon!” but an intoxicating beauty cut him in line, speaking rapidly in French with a remarkable smile.  She had long, wavy, dark hair that fell past her shoulders.  Her eyes were dark and round, and caught the light in a similar fashion to the way that the mahogany did.  Michael’s mouth stayed open as he watched her, in her scarlet cocktail dress, move like liquid, in rolling waves of self-confidence and beauty.  He knew that he needed to know her.  He leaned closer to her, tapped her on the shoulder so that she turned towards him.  He extended his hand and said, “Hey, I’m Michael.”

After only a slight hesitation, she took Michael’s hand in hers.  Her grip was somehow feminine and firm, somehow perfect.  “Bon soir,” she greeted.  She liked his darker features and she liked his smile.  He was an American, a tourist, but there were worse things a man could be, she reasoned.  All of this assessment was hopelessly lost on Michael, who assumed she was providing her name, Dawn Soar.  He beamed and jerked his head backwards, towards the dance floor.  He asked her if she would like to dance and made a childish and endearing sort of pantomime.  She laughed at his innocence and brazen nature, but nodded and allowed herself to be led onto the floor.  There was a wizened veteran of the bar scene seated before the ivory keys, crooning beautifully.  Fearsome of awkward silence, Michael began talking and did not stop.  He told her everything, how much he missed his father, how much he worried about his mother, what this trip meant, how beautiful she was and how thankful he was that he had met her.  She listened patiently, a small, sad, concentrated smile on her pretty face.  She rested her head on his broad, masculine shoulder, which Michael assumed was a good sign.  They stayed that way for an eternity, swaying until the lights came up – the international signal that it was time to head home.  She looked up at him with sleepy, romantic eyes and explained, in her best French, that she could understand English but could not speak it, but would be thrilled to see as much of him as possible during his stay.  She also told him that her name was Antoinette, and Michael blanched because he had been calling her Dawn the entire time.  She wrote her number on a napkin and disappeared into the crowded Paris streets.

Michael woke with the dawn the following morning and purchased a translation book from the lobby of his hotel.

On trusting … and letting go.

This weekend, I slept and slept and slept.  I feel guilty for being so wildly unproductive, but I rationalize the guilt away by consoling myself with the fact that I’ll be supremely busy next weekend.  Still, I feel sheepish because I should be writing.  That being said, I did finish this week’s writing prompt, so that is something to be proud of.

Tuesday, October 15th, at 7:00PM at Manchester Branch of Ocean County Library is my first author event.  I am nervous and honestly terrified no one will show up and I’ll be laughed at.  That may not be a rational fear, exactly, but I’m sure it’s common for young authors.  Wish me luck.

 

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #4: “Let go.  You can trust me.”

Were Jayme ever asked how she came to be in the current position she was in, she did not believe that she would ever have an answer.  Jayme was fully convinced that life has an increasingly bizarre way of leaving one stranded, that the cosmos would arrange themselves to simply screw with unsuspecting human beings.  At this very moment, she was just such a victim as she was unable to pinpoint or adequately describe what had led her to the rooftop of an impressive building in the heart of Manhattan, cold concrete scratching at the back of her bare calves as she was backed up against the ultimate age.  The wind whipped viciously, strands of hair stinging the sensitive skin it lashed, and she was bent at an outrageously uncomfortable angle, nearly a perfect ninety degrees backwards, so that her back was not guarded by anything and would meet the sidewalk with a sickening sort of splat if (when?) she fell.  The only reason she had not met her demise via the concrete and asphalt and impact was because she was clinging in a clichéd, desperate manner to the rough and calloused hands of a man.

 

The man was not someone she knew or had even seen before.  All Jayme remembered was that she had been returning from lunch, from some trendy restaurant just a few blocks away, and had been doing her utmost to return to the office on time.  She had her elbows discreetly perpendicular to her sides, creating space among the masses to walk a clearer path and thereby proceed faster.  She had been only a door or two away from the impressive building which housed the publishing firm she worked tirelessly for when the man had stopped her.  He had a winning, charming smile and no pamphlet to hand over, which Jayme thought confirmed his credibility of being sane, normal, and rational.  Upon reflection, however, Jayme did note that his hair had been messy and askew, which should have been a sign that something was off.  And, the more she thought about it, the intense lines should have been a sign as well because although the features of his face were clearly defined with bold lines, everything inside was something sort of fuzzy because it was ever changing.  It was possibly indicative of his inability to complete a thought, or to be anything other than clinically insane.  But Jayme had not had these misgivings when it mattered, so when the man asked her why she was in such a rush, she had stopped long enough to smile and explain her lunch hour was rapidly drawing to a close and she did not want to be late.

 

His eyebrows shifted slightly to display his confusion.  “You’re rushing to get back to work?”

 

Jayme had laughed to display her own confusing at his confusion.  “It’s not that uncommon; conscientious workers often do their best not to be late.”  No longer intrigued or entertained, she made to step around him and continue on, chalking up the encounter to nothing more than a crazy New York story that happened so often, really, that crazy became a misnomer; it was normal.

 

He had stopped her with a strong and steadying hand on her arm.  It had not been a threatening gesture, but it certainly was not what she had been expecting.  She looked up at him with squinted eyes and parted lips, anxious to ask many questions.  He said, “Don’t you think you should be rushing towards something else, something worthwhile and everlasting?”

 

Jayme knew she should resist any desire whatsoever to engage him in conversation because she knew he was only spouting so much existential hoopla.  She could not help herself, though.  Maybe it was something is his eyes, dark and wild and free, or maybe it truly was what he was talking about, the opportunity to do something out of the ordinary which could be incredibly meaningful and life-altering.  So Jayme asked, “Like what?”

 

“Come with me and I’ll show you,” he said.  He took her hand in his and began to lead her.  Jayme could have planted her feet, could have resisted and been dragged, could have screamed for help.  But she was helpless against the romanticism of it all; a handsome stranger urging her to make her day count.  What if there was some invaluable lesson to be learned, something beautifully optimistic that she could then pass on?  What if this truly was one of those moments that mark the end of the mundane and the beginning of fulfillment?  So Jayme willingly followed him into the building they had stopped in front of.  She went with him onto the elevator and had been slightly disappointed when they rode it all the way to the stop.  There was something predictable and cheesy about it.  Was this some kind of lame, extended metaphor?  Because if it was, she truly did not have time for such anti-climactic antics.  When the soft ding sounded their arrival, and the metallic doors slid open, the strange man led her out into the hallway and to their immediate left.  Her curiosity was turning to impatience, and that quickly transformed into apprehension when she realized they were about to burst through the door clearly labeled roof access.  Her steps started to stutter and she began to verbally express her doubt and her fear.

 

“Hey now, wait a minute; where are we going?”  He did not answer and Jayme was not surprised but she was not deterred, either.  She continued her chain of questions, her self-soothing rambling.  “I do not want to go up on the roof.  Let me go now, seriously.  I’ll start screaming if you don’t stop and then you’ll be in a world of trouble.  The cops will be here so fast, your head will spin, I promise.”

 

Jayme’s questions were unheeded and the progress was not impeded.  When he met the door, he kicked it in.  Was he terribly strong, or was the door terribly old, with rusted hinges and weak joints and whatnot?  She hoped the latter proved to be true.  They stepped through the doorway into the dazzling, blinding sunlight and he abruptly turned to face her.  He took her by the shoulders, firm but not threatening, and pushed her backwards.  Jayme was now terrified and she was screaming, twisting her head left and right to try and see where he wanted her final destination to be.  She tried to resist, tried to move against him, but he was so strong and she was so scared that coordinating her weak and trembling muscles with any kind of directive thought proved exceedingly difficult.  He pushed her until he had backed her up against the edge, until there was literally nowhere else to go but over, and then hurtle towards death.

 

He grabbed her hands in his in a painful grip and pushed against her until she had no other option but to lean back.  Jayme was leaning back over the busy, city street below, freely screaming and crying and waiting for the inevitable end.  The wind whipped and the traffic sounded farther than it actually was.  Her ears felt as if they were filled with cotton and her mouth had gone dry, despite the streaming tears and snot slowly beginning to leak out of her nose.  There was nothing pretty or glamorous about facing death.  She was snotty and sweaty and pleading just like anyone else would be.  Jayme closed her eyes and shut her mouth, realizing that reasoning was futile because one could not talk to a lunatic like a normal human being.  Moments that stretched forever passed.

 

Then Jayme felt hot breath against her ear.  “Let go.  You can trust me.”

 

Jayme’s eyes shot open.  The shock had sobered her up and brought her back into the actual moment rather than the fear of the future.  He was smiling so kindly, but clearly his intentions were not good.  If she let go, she would die, plummet to her death and become nothing more than smashed and splattered guts and bones and blood on the sidewalk.  How could he ask this of her with so gentle a smile?  What was this madness?

 

But seeing no other alternative, Jayme let go.

AUTHOR EVENT

21 Colonial Drive

Manchester, NJ08759

Telephone:     732.657.7600

 www.theoceancountylibrary.org

Suzanne Scro,     Branch Manager

September 24, 2013

OCEAN COUNTY      LIBRARY
Connecting People … Building     Community

 

 

 

 

 

 

PRESS RELEASE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CONTACT: Maria Colon, 732.657.7600 Ext. 4524

mcolon@theoceancountylibrary.org

 

 

MANCHESTER BRANCH LIBRARY TO HOST
BOOK TALK BY LOCAL TEACHER/NOVELIST

 

MANCHESTER, NJ – Local author, Mandi Bean will be on hand at the Manchester Branch Library on Tuesday, October 15 starting at 7:00 pm to talk about her novel, Her Beautiful Monster, published last year. This author’s first book, a thriller, tells the story of a young woman who is obsessed with romance and finding the perfect man for her. After she meets him, he gets murdered. In the midst of the emotional tailspin that ensues, her world changes, and she enters into a struggle in which must discover the truth about herself and those around her in order to save her life, her heart and her sanity. Copies will be available at the event for purchase and signing. Mandi is an alumnus of Manchester Township High School where she now teaches English.

 

This program is open to teens and adults, free of charge. Please go online to www.theoceancountylibrary.org or call 732.657.7600 to register.

 

The Manchester Branch of the Ocean County Library is located at 21 Colonial Drive in Manchester Township.

On being rich.

The older I grow, the more I believe that life truly does have a rather funny way of helping one out.  I am fortunate enough to find myself in winning situations more often than not.  For example, my dad offered to take me to see a film and then out to eat on Friday night.  My little brother came along, and we saw “Runner Runner” with Justin Timberlake and Ben Affleck.  The movie was thoroughly entertaining (and I found Ben Affleck to be particularly engaging … and handsome) and as we were walking out of the theater, we were all intrigued by a small crowd outside.  They were all females; seven teenagers and two middle-aged women.  Dad, being the ultimate nosey body, asked what was up, and one of the women admitted they were in a bit of a pickle.  Apparently, the women had dinner plans and purchased tickets for the teenagers to see “Prisoners.”  However, because the movie was rated R, the employee who had sold the tickets insisted an adult over twenty-one years of age accompany the girls for the duration of the film and assured the women there would be a theater check conducted to prevent any kind of circumvention.  Dad started laughing because I had in fact argued for seeing “Prisoners,” even though he had already seen it with my little brother a week or so ago.  There I was, offered an opportunity to see a movie I was very anxious to see, for free.  It isn’t a cosmically epic moment that decides the fates of nations or anything as brilliant, but it is a moment nonetheless.  It is also the kind of moment that is readily and often attainable.  I wonder if I shouldn’t chase small smile moments such as those, rather than scenes from silver screens.

I know I’ll chase both.

 

WEEKLY PROMPT #3: “Four men decide to rob a bank.  Two of the men intend to take all of the money, even if it means killing their partners.”

THIEVES

Harvey sat at the end of the emptying bar, a tumbler of warming whiskey before him.  He held his face in his hands, calloused palms scratched by the thick, rough bristles of hair coating his jawline and chin.  It had been a while since the last time Harvey had shaved, most likely because it had been a while since the last time Harvey had identified any reason to shave.  Pride in personal appearance had a tendency to go by the wayside when one found himself unemployed and miserable.  It was that exact desperation that had led him here, to this seedy bar.  Jeff, a buddy from Harvey’s old job, had stopped by the apartment to see how Harvey was making out.  The accumulated trash and lack of even basic maintenance had concerned Jeff, and so he sat Harvey down and shared a detailed yet outrageous plan to rob the local bank.  Harvey had scoffed until her saw the serious lines of Jeff’s face pull together in an almost convincing display.  Inexplicably outraged, Harvey had leapt to his feet and roared about laws and safety and the improbability of making it out of there alive, let alone with the money.  Jeff had persistent, however, and calmed Harvey down and inspired him with a dangerous kind of optimism that only desperate and miserable men are capable of.  Thus, Harvey had followed Jeff to the Bar Miraculous to meet with the others, some guys named Ben and Matt that Harvey had never seen before.  Ben was big and brawny, an intimidating fellow who seemed to dutifully follow Matt wherever and whenever.  Matt was significantly smaller than his counterpart, and to see them seated beside one another at the bar would have made John Steinbeck nostalgic for his ranchers in Soledad.

The men had sat side by side at the bar, four in a row.  They rarely, if ever, made eye contact with one another, and they talked out of the sides of their mouths, although Harvey hadn’t said a word.  He had only nodded or grunted to show his approval and consent.  The plan had been developed mainly by Matt, with Jeff tweaking and augmenting here and there as he seemed to be more familiar with the area and even the employees.  The next course of action was to meet at Matt’s apartment in two nights, to case the bank the night before.  They would also discuss further details and tighten any and all loose ends; dot the Is and cross the Ts as it were.  Suddenly and simply, Matt and Ben had excused themselves and left.  Jeff clapped Harvey on the shoulder and headed to the restroom.  Thus, Harvey had been left to his own devices, to sit and drink and think.  He wasn’t sure how he felt, how truly on board he was.  Robbers never got away with it, not even in the movies, and they were not professionals by any stretch of the imagination.  They were bums, average Joes who had suffered no great tragedy, but only wanted more than what they had faster than they could acquire it.  Planning to rob a bank did not make them some antiheroes or anything as glamorous.  It did not make them intelligent or brave.  If anything, it defined them as lazy and cruel and dumb, dumb for taking such an absurd risk.  They were no Dillinger, seemingly stealing from the rich.  They were the poor so they would take and keep for themselves; where was the honor in that?  Amidst Harvey’s existential sort of crisis, Jeff returned.  There was the familiar clap on the shoulder and groan of the aged, wooden bar stool as Jeff reclaimed his seat.

“So what do you think?  How are you feeling?”

Harvey shrugged and took the tumbler before him in his hand.  Rather than sip from it, he moved his wrist to swirl the alcohol and he pensively watched the liquid lap against the sides.  “I don’t know, man.  It’s awfully risky.”

“It is,” Jeff conceded, “but look at us, man.  Look at our lives, for Christ’s sake.  We work too God damn hard to be this fucking poor.”  He drank deeply from the bottle before him.  “Shit, they kicked you to the curb.  How long do you figure you’ll kick around, practically begging for a job, any job, even if it’s below your pay grade and skill level?  What way is that for anyone to live?”

“I agree, you know I do, but –”

“Matt has everything figured out, Harvey.  He has it timed to the fucking second, I shit you not.  As long as we stick to the time table, we’ll be fine, just about untouchable.”  Jeff smiled.  “What have you got to lose?”

Harvey was not amused.  “Oh, I don’t know; my life?  My freedom?”  In fact, Harvey was only sarcastic and bitter.

“It’s a solution to a problem,” Jeff persisted.  “We need money, so we take money.  We’re talking enough to get the hell out of dodge and start over.  We can be whoever we want to be.  We don’t have to be losers who go home alone night after night in cars that barely start in clothes off the clearance rack.”  He looked down at the wooden grain of the countertop of the bar.  He lowered his voice.  “And if we knock off Matt and Ben, pin it on them and silence them, we can get away scot free.”

Harvey’s eyes went wide.  “What?”

“The only thing holding you back is getting caught, right?  Of course it is; that makes sense!  So let’s eliminate that and we are suddenly completely uninhibited!”

“Stealing is one thing, Jeff, but murder is another.  I can’t –”

“You’re going to go all noble on me, really?  Do I have to remind you about the office Christmas party?  Nancy was all sorts of messed up, but that didn’t stop you from –”

“Shut up,” Harvey said.  He had intended it to be a command, but it had been more of a desperate plea.  That’s all he was, was desperate.  Jeff knew it, and seized upon the opportunity.

“Come on, man.  They’re nothing to us.  We could be doing the universe a karmic favor.  What do you say?”

Harvey looked at himself for a long, long moment in the cracked mirror above the shelves of liquor.

On Boston.

One of the facets of my personality of which I am most proud is my predilection to travel, to throw caution to the wind and simply drive.  Last weekend, I traveled to Boston with Raina.  Originally, I was attending an author event for Stephen King and then Raina and I were going to meet up with Liz.  Unfortunately, traffic and random construction prevented me from spending the evening with Stephen King, my literary idol.  Fortunately, I was with amazing friends and we had a wonderful time.  I was captivated by our conversation, by the scenery and the understated beauty of Boston.  Our hotel room overlooked the harbor and I knew it was exactly where I was supposed to be at that moment.  If only I felt so certain more often in life.

WEEKLY PROMPT #2: “A young mother is told that her children have been killed in a drive-by shooting.”

 COLD

“Alright, you lazy piece of shit, have it your way!” Brenda screamed out into the absolutely frigid night air.  Her breath hung before her as puffy vapor, and she hoped her words hung there just the same, regardless of their vulgarity or of the volume at which they had been shouted.  As a matter of fact, Brenda was damn near ready to pray that her degradations echoed in the still winter air, bouncing back to her nightmare of an ex-boyfriend from any number of surfaces, all coated in snow and ice.  She muttered more slurs and curses as she worked to shut her window against the cold, revolving the crank as fast and as hard as she could to see the glass barely inch along.  Much like her ex-boyfriend, her car was total piece of shit and she focused on the lack of power windows to black out the frustrated and terrified wailings of the children only barely buckled in the backseat.  They were her daughters, ages two and five and both had been fathered by the piece of shit who wanted nothing to do with any of them, and who had just stormed back inside his trailer, evidenced by the screen door in extreme disrepair banging against an already battered frame.  “Fucking asshole,” Brenda screamed to release the fury, but with the window finally rolled up, the space seemed cramped and lethal and the words seemed especially cruel as they settled heavily onto the girls like ash from some great disaster, eruption, or explosion.  If Brenda really stopped to think about it, she would realize her daughters were constantly covered in such debris, but she didn’t want to do that because guilt was an ugly and messy thing.  Thinking was half the problem, anyway; Brenda spent most of her time pondering and contemplating, and what had it gotten her?  Where had it brought her?  Here, to this absolute train wreck of a life?  Well, fuck you very much; Brenda did not want to be here any longer, so she slammed the shifter into reverse and peeled out of the tiny drive, letting the gravel fly.  She was going to speed towards relief, towards her apartment and her couch and a large tumbler filled with vodka.

But what about the girls?  Easy; she’d drop them off at her mom’s place.  She never said no and besides, didn’t Ma owe Brenda a great deal for essentially dismantling her formative years by providing no central male figure, and being a hot mess of a role model?  Brenda thought so, or at least she thought she read something like that somewhere important.  With a plan in mind, Brenda felt calm and steady.  She took a deep breath in and let a deep breath out, not surprised by the accompanying smoke because it was freezing in the vehicle.  The heater only rattled to prove it was on but not necessarily that it was working, offering only superficial and minimal relief from the extreme temperatures.  Brenda shivered, but gave no thought whatsoever to the two darling girls in the back, clad only in thin, stained nightgowns with matching backpacks – soiled and practically empty – strewn across the floor of the vehicle.  The crying had slightly subsided, perhaps because the girls had realized, at even so young an age, that their parents were radically unstable and simply could not care for them.  Maybe they were finally becoming accustomed to shuttling between filthy, cheap apartments littered with bottles, syringes, pipes, and burns in the ugly, itchy carpets.  It was possible the girls quieted their sobs because the preternaturally knew it would all be over soon, either because one of their two sets of grandparents would finally adopt – rescue – them, or they would die.  Having no sort of concept whatsoever about the latter, the girls may have been consoling themselves with thoughts of their grandparents, but it is far more likely and certainly plausible that the girls were too physically exhausted – hungry, malnourished, and in desperate need of a bath – and mentally drained to even cry.

Brenda, on the other hand, was still simply pissed.  Not only did that douche bag not keep the kids like he was fucking supposed to – like he had agreed to – but she was out of cigarettes, too.  There was sincerely no way in hell she could survive the remainder of the ride to her mother’s home, let alone the lecture she’d certainly receive upon arrival, without some menthols.  Brenda also firmly believed that vodka is best served from embarrassingly cheap glassware, that is truly only thick plastic, alongside a nice, long drag of a cigarette.  And therein lay her plan for the evening, sitting her tired and frankly unappreciated ass on the couch, and drinking and smoking until both her vision and hearing were drastically impaired.  She owned the sofa and ignored its repulsive condition; she had plenty of vodka because she always made damn sure she would never run out.  All she needed were the smokes.

For the first time on the drive, Brenda seriously considered her surroundings (it was nothing short of a miracle that there hadn’t been an accident).  They were in an awfully shady and decidedly dangerous part of town.  She had only been this far east once, and that had been because the douche bag extraordinaire had needed a fix.  Brenda figured she now needed a fix herself, but her craving was not illegal nor did it incite theft or murder.  She certainly had her misgivings, but pulled into the essentially deserted parking lot of the Cumberland Farms on the corner.  It was well lit and practically empty, so Brenda assumed the chances of danger were lowered.  Or had her need for self-medication risen to an alarming new level?  Fuck it – she was tired of thinking.  She put the car in park and made to kill the engine and remove the key from the ignition, but she stopped.  She whipped her head back to the girls, who simply sat and stared stupidly back at their wrecked, crumbling mother.  Their eyes were red and swollen, as were their thin, tiny lips and the whole of their faces glistened from tears and spit and sweat.  They had finally gone quiet.  Brenda cleared her throat.  “Mama’s just got to run inside the store, okay?  Mama will leave the car running so you don’t freeze, alright?”

There was no response, not that Brenda thought there would be, and so she hurried from the car.  Her slipper-covered soles fell softly onto the sidewalk and scurried closer to the light and warmth of the interior of the convenience store.  Just to the left of the entrance were two formidable-looking men, hooded and avoiding any unnecessary and undue attention.  They were certainly suspicious and inexplicably made Brenda slow her pace, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.  Shrugging it off, Brenda slipped inside and strolled to the counter, doing her best to display a winning smile.  The clerk behind the counter was a male and attractive, so Brenda made a concerted effort to bat her eyelashes and laugh breathlessly for no apparent reason.  “Hey there,” she crooned.  “Do you have Pall Malls?”

There was the sound of screeching tires, but no one seemed to notice; not the two men dressed and ready for danger outside, or the two inside the store.

“Uh,” the clerk turned to face the massive wall of nicotine behind him.  His eyes roamed over the rows and rows of packs, all different colors.  He turned around after a moment.  “Yes, yes we do.”

“Do you have 100s in the orange pack?” Brenda asked, leaning over the counter so that her small breasts squished together to look bigger.  They were nearly falling out of her tank top, but her shame had departed with her pride and her figure some time ago.

Shots rang out; many, many shots, too many shots to count, just one pop after another.  The glass windows shattered and instinctively, Brenda dropped to her knees.  She couldn’t see anything, clapped her palms across her eyes and screamed.  She tried to curl up as small as she could to try and stay safe and alive.  The clerk had done much the same on the other side of the counter, and both stayed hidden until they heard tires peel away and could smell rubber burning against pavement.  They rose to face one another.  An odd, eerie silence followed immediately after the shots, where Brenda and the clerk were both frozen – rooted to the spot – and it had nothing to do with the weather.  Brenda locked eyes with the clerk, as if doing so made everything else go dark and become nonexistent.  She had a feeling, a horrible and inexplicable feeling that something terrible had happened, that the shots had been pointed pebbles carelessly launched at her fragile life and now it was shattering and splintering and cracking.  The clerk was the first to break the eye contact, turning away and leaning low and to the right to use the telephone.  He was calling 911.  Brenda didn’t know how she knew that, only that she did, because her ears were fuzzy, like they had been plugged with cotton.  She felt nauseous and overwhelmed and alone, so very alone.  She turned and thought she might stumble to the door, but to her surprise, she was running.  She burst through the door and found the two men dead at her feet, blood splashed and spattered this way and that.  Her eyes darted between them to her car.  The vehicle could only have been a few feet away, but Brenda believed the distance to be the greatest she had ever crossed in all her life.  She was screaming, trying to scream their names but she knew it was unintelligible and more guttural than anything else.  She collapsed against the rear passenger door and worked for a moment before she wrenched it open.

Both the girls were slumped over, bleeding steadily.

On shredding it all.

As of late, this blog has become less and less about me flexing my writing muscle and promoting my literary talent, and more and more about litanies of complaints about my life.  It has become embarrassingly juvenile and pointless.  This post is the first of many to remedy the issue.  Anecdotes and information about my writing process and career are clearly valid fodder for entries, but all of the other nonsense has been sound and fury, signifying nothing.  So, please enjoy this short story, as I am writing again.

DAILY PROMPT #1: “You inadvertently run an important paper through the shredder.”

The Shredder

The pulse of any office is the mechanical hum that constitutes the daily, incessant white noise.  The thrumming electricity of the air conditioning, an illicit and discreet mini fridge, any number of computers and copiers and scanners and shredders and telephones, is the background to one thousand and one inane conversations, small heart attacks, hurried and hushed exchanges of gossip, and angry and bitter disappointments.  Human society is merely comprised of many micro chasms of itself, linked intrinsically by human dramas resulting from the human condition; that is, a shared experience in which humans are defeated or victorious against a myriad of trials and tribulations and triumphs, all varying in degrees of difficulty and delight.

Allison often congratulated herself on how profound she could be standing before one the aforementioned pieces of office machinery, completing menial task after menial task, and feeling her brain go numb and die one precious cell at a time.  If she was not constantly thinking of other things, thinking of things other than memos, customer complaints, returns, exchanges, and minimum wage, then she was sure to lose whatever intellectual prowess that had remained but was surely fading since college graduation.  She had graduated magna cum laude, which was impressive, but had done so with a B.A. in English, which now seemed foolish because it did little to no good as she dealt with petty customer complaints for an embarrassingly shady online retailer, who really only acted as a third party and had no warehouse of its own from which to ship goods.  Her passion for the English language was now limited to pretentiously polite e-mails to customers who ordered a 50-lb. bag of peanuts not intended for human consumption but for livestock, but ate some anyway and now demanded a full refund as compensation for any future illness.  She composed not for literary greatness or analysis, but for customers who sent along a strongly worded e-mail insisting an item description is wrong and that the Santa suit pictured is not actually flame retardant.  All her literary gifts and breathless wonder at the majesty of the written words lay dormant and spoiling within her.

Allison had understood as a freshman that earning a B.A. in English did not guarantee a glamorous occupation that garnered a six-figure paycheck, so she had done the responsible thing and received her teaching certificate.  The economy was so horrible upon the completion of her four years at an accredited university that even finding a job that would supposedly always be in demand, like teaching, proved difficult.  The wide-eyed and optimistic smile that had shone upon the newly conferred degree in May was now distinctly dimmed at the end of August, as aspiring author and academic analyst of literature Allison Wyke mindlessly made copies that had no consequence on the greater truths of the universe.

It was bad enough that she held a degree and was making just ten dollars per hour of work with no benefits to speak of at a dead end job she only found through a temp agency, but Allison was still living at home with no boyfriend and a car that only started on warmer days and if she whispered loving phrases against the dashboard as she turned the key in the ignition.  The car barely rolled along to the less than impressive office building in the middle of a dangerous eyesore of a neighborhood.  Coming for the interview, Allison had traveled with the windows rolled up and with the doors locked tight, even though the air conditioning did not work.  Deep down, Allison understood she was being somewhat ridiculous and buying into stereotypes proliferated by urban legends more than anything else.  Although, she certainly raised eyebrows when, in preparing for the interview, she had been advised to not be offended when her possible future employer refused to shake her hand as it was for a religious reason.  Allison was a Roman Catholic born and raised among many other Roman Catholics in a white bread community, so differing religious customs and practices greatly intrigued her, almost like instead of traversing a town or two, she was traipsing across continents.

When Allison left the stifling safety of her barely operational Ford Explorer, and found cover from the blazing August sun, and entered the cool, dark and somewhat barren and disappointing retail space, her sense of adventure vanished.  Seated at the reception desk was just another white girl.  While it was far from scintillating, it was familiar and did make the situation more comfortable, so Allison smiled politely, gave her name and the reason for her appearance, and she did as she was told and had a seat.

The office was an appreciated contrast to the summer heat, but it was also exceedingly simple and plain and bare.  Aside from the uncomfortable and unfashionable chair Allison was now seated in, there wasn’t much else to be entertained by.  Her chair was one of three, pushed against the far, wood paneled wall beside a massive copy machine.  To her left was a coffee table, upon which rested a cheap and dusty plastic plant in an equally cheap and dusty plastic vase.  Everything was a dark brown, even the carpet, so the room clearly strived for comfy but came off as antiquated.  Everything also seemed used and worn and long past its prime, other than the technology.  Allison’s eyes, bored and therefore remarkably observant, roamed over the large space, dubiously regarded the various certificates and accreditations hung crookedly on the walls in expensive frames.  There was nothing remarkable or personable about the room, not a single hint of personality.  Allison was thinking about cold consumerism and wondering about her future happiness when a door somewhere off to her right opened.  “Allison?” called a rather generic male voice.

Rising to stand, Allison smoothed her pencil skirt and turned.  She began walking towards the voice, which belonged to an equally generic-looking man.  He wore black trousers with black boots that offered no shine whatsoever.  His button down shirt was an immaculate shade of white and his sleeves were very neatly rolled just above his elbows.  His hair was an interesting shade of brown, looking as if it was flecked with rust and was probably more copper than it was brown.  His eyes were dark and round and boring but kind.  That being said, his features were utterly forgettable, other than the dark prayer sash hanging from his back pocket and his yarmulke.  Allison smiled, shading her surprise, and said, “Hello, how are you?”  She had to fight hard against her instinct to stretch her hand out towards her potential future employer.  Not being able to shake hands made an already nerve-wracking introduction even more frustrating.

The man stepped back and held the door open wide, clearing the threshold and inviting Allison in.  “Hello Allison; I’m Jacob.  Come on in and have a seat.”  Allison did as she was told and was decidedly unimpressed with the mundane office, with crooked and cheap frames, worn carpet, and distinct lack of any personality or human touch.  She did not particularly care for the way Jacob lounged in his fancy office chair during the interview, reclining as if he were completely disinterested and utterly bored.  But what could she do?  Times were hard and she desperately needed the job, so Allison plastered a smile upon her face and did her best to be as charming as possible.

It worked apparently, because here Allison was five months later, mindless and miserable.  She was now shredding useless documents, rapping her fingernails with their chipped polish in a surprisingly cheery rhythm.  It was 11:00AM on Wednesday; not quite halfway through the day, but at least it was halfway through the week.  A dreamy smile lit upon her face whenever she thought about 5:00PM or the weekend.  The reverie that was just beginning was mercilessly cut short, well before its prime, by Jacob’s voice.  “Allison, review this purchase order, have the sales office sign off on it, and then place it in my inbox by 2:30, okay?  Thanks,” Jacob said, not waiting for a reply, expecting and accepting only complete compliance, and practically throwing the sheet of paper at Allison.  Carefully, she placed the paper to the side of the others, not wanting to accidentally send it through the shredder.  She worried about Jacob’s wrath were that to happen.

With the interruption over, Allison resumed sliding sheets of paper into the machine to meet their sharp demise, and she was anxious to resume creating fantastical plans for the weekend, which was a source of comfort even if the plans never came to fruition.  What if she decided to join Melanie on a trip to that seaside bar where all those scruffy-looking guys in fashionable flannel shirts gathered?  Would she meet a handsome musician with gauged ears and many tattoos?  She wouldn’t know yet because her daydream was cut short for the second time that day.

But this interruption was welcomed.  “Hey Allison,” said Eli, the only good-looking male in the whole office.  More than that, he was the only friendly male in the whole office, not allowing his religious beliefs to completely segregate and alienate himself from the female gentiles.  His face was sweet and innocent with an enviable clear complexion.  He had dark hair and dark eyes and thin, pink lips.  He was thin but was not frail by any means.  Allison knew it must have been awkward and uncomfortable for Eli being eye candy for an office filled to the brim with women, so she always did her best to play it cool.  It wasn’t like there would ever be anything to build on anyway because she was not Jewish and Eli was married.  Still, it was the only mildly entertaining encounter with a male she would have all day.  So she smiled and slanted her eyes ever so slightly before returning the greeting.

Oh, Eli ….  Allison remembered the first time she had met him.  She had been in a different office, in a different part of the building, and the room had been incredibly small – no bigger than a glorified closet, really – but Eli had done his best to turn it into a comfortable, let alone decent office.  But the room was so small that if the door swung open, it would smack against Allison’s desk and most likely bruise her elbow.  It was definitely crowded, but Allison was lucky enough to share the close quarters with Shannon, who was incredibly kind and empathetic; she too was a single, young woman who had recently graduated and was now being taken advantage of by brutal bosses in a bruising economy.  They would often share harmless water cooler gossip in the tiny room, separated from the others and just across the narrow hall from the actual water cooler, and dissolve into girlish giggles at the thought of Eli and his good looks and his sweet manner, wondering if he would kiss Allison’s bruised elbow and make it all better.  They had gone silent when Eli had entered the room, following the installation of an air conditioner, to hook up a second computer – Allison’s computer – with all the necessary software to make the machine productive.  It was her second day and already, management had shoved her into cramped quarters.  Eli had wondered if the new environment made Allison nervous, and if she wondered if the move mad some menacing ulterior motive.  Allison had no such worries, and had been making idle and safe conversation with Shannon to pretend Eli’s proximity was not as titillating as it was.  She did not notice the quick glance Eli stole before bending over the desk to check the wires in the back of the tower.  As usually happened when among the women of the office, Eli felt eyes roaming over his behind and he surprised himself by hoping the eyes belonged to the new girl.  They did; Allison had indeed checked him out, but Eli had missed it by not turning around in time.  He had stayed still until the sudden heat that struck his cheeks had dissipated.  Eli could not remember the last time he had blushed.  He would never admit aloud or to anyone but himself that he found the new girl attractive.  It wouldn’t be right – he’d be shunned and ashamed because she wasn’t like them.  Straightening up, Eli turned to face Allison with blank eyes.

Suddenly, he couldn’t remember name.  “Uh, um … ah …” he stuttered.

She smiled kindly.  “Allison,” she reminded him.  There was something like a hint of laughter in her voice.

“Right,” he breathed.  “Allison, you’re all set up with the e-mails, programs and everything.”  He leaned over her, careful not to touch her, to show her what he was talking about on the monitor.  “If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.  He smiled brightly and risked making direct eye contact.  Allison’s eyes were wide, dark and deep, and her lashes and brows framed them elegantly.  Feeling a few, tiny beads of sweat gather at the back of his neck, Eli knew he had to leave.

“Thanks,” said Allison.  She was still smiling.  “Thanks a lot.”

Eli had nodded and fled the room.

In setting up Allison’s e-mail, Eli had sent her a message to a) make sure it worked and b) to send her a username and password for one of the programs.  He had kept it short and professional.  Returning to his desk later that day, he saw he had a new e-mail.  Instinctively, he opened it and he read it without much thought.  The message was simple enough; “Thanks a lot!”  Upon checking who the message was from, Eli’s face flushed.  It was from Allison.

Still later that day, Allison’s second day, one of the ladies from accounting complained that the water cooler was out of water.  Sighing heavily, Eli wheeled his chair back from his desk and headed to retrieve a full water jug.  The jugs were kept neatly in rows of rounded cubbies beside the vending machine…and directly across from the office Allison shared with Shannon.  Eli did his best to ignore this fact, especially since none of it meant anything anyway.  However, as he slid the jug onto his shoulder from the cubby, Eli couldn’t help but notice the open door and saw Allison at her desk.  Eye contact was made, but it was fleeting; he wasn’t even sure if it really happened, but he smiled anyway, to be polite.  Allison smiled back, and the jug on Eli’s shoulder abruptly felt very heavy so he hurried back down the hall to the water cooler.

On Allison’s third day, Eli had walked into the lobby of the office and found her in front of the clock-in machine, anxiously bouncing from foot to foot.  Her eyes shifted from side to side, like she was discreetly pleading for help.  Cue the theme music for the conquering hero – he walked beside her.  “Are you having trouble?”

Allison shot him a muted smile; the worry lines etched on her face robbed it of its normal brilliance.  “Yeah, every time I try to use this thing,” indicating the electronic key clutched angrily in her hand, “the screen says, ‘Invalid Entry.’  Jacob just gave it to me yesterday before I left, but my ride was already here because my car crapped out on me.”  Most likely stressed from trying to make the perfect first impression, this simple problem had developed into something like a thorn in Allison’s side.

Eli’s face fell.  Sure, he was good with electronics and technology and whatever, but this was Jacob’s department; Jacob would be the conquering hero.  Eli heard his theme music end abruptly.  “Jacob will be in the office in an hour or so.  I’d talk to him.”

Allison tried smiling brightly again, but this second attempt was even more pathetic than the first.  “Okay, thanks.”

Eli gave her a small smile and slowly shuffled into his office.

For the next month or so, things had continued in the same vein for Allison and Eli.  They shared small and polite smiles, and only spoke to inquire about the weather and the mornings.  Eventually, Allison moved into a larger room with Shannon and other female employees and though she made friends, she felt unfulfilled and missed being intellectually challenged.  Eli spent the majority of his time in the office with Jacob, arguing about this and that and trying to make important decisions as a team, while Allison sent out her resume and looked for any other job.  Business was slow for Allison and Eli, and Jacob and everyone else, so many fell into the habit of checking for e-mail every five minutes or so to help pass the time and to create the illusion of appearing busy.  Nothing new or interesting ever seemed to show up, other than right before quitting time, so Eli was shocked to discover an e-mail from Shannon.  Quickly, his shock transformed into shock and awe when he realized the e-mail was about Allison.  It read, “Hey Eli.  Allison isn’t able to receive any e-mails.  Please consult when you get a chance.”  In the back of Eli’s mind, he could hear that theme music from long ago beginning again, and rising to a powerful crescendo.  His chance had finally arrived.  He did his absolute best to contain his nervous excitement and tentatively poked his head in the doorway (after sprinting down the hallway, of course).

If only Eli had known how long it had taken Shannon to compose the short, innocuous message.  Allison had insisted on reading it over and making it as platonic and professional as possible to best conceal the giddy excitement at the mere prospect of seeing Eli inside their office.  Allison was terrified all would be revealed the moment he walked in, but couldn’t keep from meeting his eyes almost instantly.  Allison smiled and released a breath.  “Hey.”

“Hi,” Eli squeaked.  Clearing his throat, he blushed for only a moment before asking, “Are you still having problems with your e-mail?”

“Yeah,” Allison answered.  She stood before him.  “I can send messages fine, but I don’t seem to be getting any.  Messages, I mean,” Allison said, blushing and laughing like a complete idiot.  Eli smiled.  They stayed still, exactly where they were, for just a moment before Allison stepped to the side, moving farther from the desk to allow Eli better access to the computer.  “I even tried sending myself an e-mail.”  Allison laughed and the adorable sound made the corners of Eli’s lips lift instantly.

“Alright,” Eli said and squatted in front of Allison’s desk where the chair would normally go.  It had been wheeled next to Shannon’s desk, most likely for training purposes.  Clicking around, Eli found the problem easily enough.  He rectified the issue fast and explained it to Allison.  “You’re good to go now,” he finished.

“Oh, thanks, thanks a lot.”  Eli wondered if she’d reach out and touch his arm and couldn’t readily decide if that would be catastrophic or not.

“Oh, also, I should have your phone ready either by the end of today, or first thing tomorrow.”

“I really, really appreciate all of this and all of your help.”  Every time Allison smiled, Eli smile – he couldn’t help it, but he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea.  As discreetly as he could, Eli left the room and shuffled back down the hallway.  He missed Allison share a look with Shannon and then dissolve into a fit of giggles.  He missed Allison check her e-mail and the expression that passed across her face when she read his e-mail from yesterday that simple said, “You’re welcome.”

Essentially, he missed everything.

Allison remembered a Friday some time later.  It was the much beloved end of the work week.  As an added bonus, everyone got to go home an hour earlier since the vast majority of the office had to be home before the sun fell below the horizon.  Eli had been early that day – maybe because he was anxious to end the work week – so he hadn’t seen Allison come in.  He confirmed her presence in other ways, like when he had to exchange the empty water jug on the water cooler for a new one and shot her a friendly smile from just outside the door.  On the pretense of making sure her phone was installed properly, Eli found himself brazen enough to also linger in her doorway and exchange incredibly brief pleasantries.  Eli knew damn well that what he was doing was dangerous, that he was most assuredly playing with fire, but in the secret, intimate recesses of his beating heart, he didn’t care – at least, not on such a glorious Friday.  Allison did her part by always allowing him to use the sink in the kitchen first, by feigning complete and utter ignorance whenever her computer malfunctioned (and pretended to be impressed when Eli simply restarted the machine, which she always knew would solve the issue), and by always requesting to be shown how to use any program or complete any troubleshooting.  In fact, whenever one wanted to be sure to crack the other up, Shannon and Allison would say “Can you show me” in a breathy whisper.

One day, Allison was gushing about how attractive Eli was without realizing he had been behind the opened door, fussing with a water jug, the entire time.  After that, conversation between the two had become easier and more genuine, as if refraining from simply admitting the mutual attraction had been insulting.  So here they were, five months later, discussing their weekends like old friends.

“Are you still looking for a new job?” Eli asked.

“Absolutely,” Allison answered without even the pretense of a thoughtful hesitation.  “I’ve been looking at publishing companies in the city.”

Eli grinned.  “What about teaching?  You have your certificate, don’t you?”

Allison sucked in air between her teeth.  “Eli, please; I’m much too glamorous and passionate and wildly romantic for that.”  She laughed softly to show she had only been kidding.

Eli had continued to grin, but his tone was serious when he said, “You’re right.  You’re all of those things.”

Allison’s jaw dropped.  Urges to say things and to do things to Eli and with Eli all came rushing upward and nearly outward.  She needed to do something with her bothersome and troublesome hands, which now felt enlarged and tingly, but she had run out of paper to shred, meaning that she had shredded that incredibly important purchase order for Jacob.  “Shit,” she said.

The color fled from Eli’s face.  “Allison, what’s wrong?”

Allison covered her face with her hands.  “I’m not going to have to quit, Eli.”

“Well, that makes me happy,” Eli admitted with a fairly troubled countenance.

“I’m going to get fired,” Allison groaned.