In-Between

Cottage 215 along the west beach transformed from no-vacancy to available in as little as forty five minutes.  The layout was familiar, but the accent pillows on the sofa along with the floral design on the draperies had been changed to a complimentary hue of green.   When the door opened, I could tell in a glance that my stay had been terminated.

Two weeks.  I had been away from the rental for nearly two weeks.   Even though I had paid in advance and was a half vacuum bag late for check out, someone in housekeeping decided to make way for the next round of guests.  So they did.

A teenaged girl with a mouthful of braces smirked from the doorway.  Granted I was a sight with my hair windblown and askew, however, that did not excuse her lack of manners.  The fashionable sarong, the leather flip-flops that cost double than the pair she was wearing should have combated the “I’m better than you because I’m young and you’re not” attitude, but it didn’t.  The girl had “rude” down to a science with the hand she kept resting on her hip as she shifted her weight from side to side to the lift of her right eyebrow that she maintained.  This all complimented her pasted expression of annoyance with the hint of a pinched nose and all.

If I were her age or even her size, I probably would have decked her one.  Little Miss Snoot was the last thing I needed especially after the challenges I’d faced along the way.  I imagined her snobbishness transforming to shock on impact as she slid across the tile floor.  She’d land in a heap as I reclaimed the space that had been mine a few hours previous.  If this was a story, it would have happened that way, but in real life I couldn’t use my fists to teach anyone a lesson in etiquette.  Instead, I opted to hum a few bars to calm my nerves.

“They collected your junk and tossed it into a dumpster,” Miss Snoot hissed.

If I had my brain working at full capacity, I’d have given her a verbal lashing.  She had an air about her, a recipe of sour laced with an arrogant poison.  It was obvious she took great pleasure from breaking the news that my things had been thrown away and the accompaniment of the door slamming in my face empowered her even further.  How anyone could raise such a spawn from hell was beyond my understanding.

You may be wondering what on earth happened that would render such an irresponsible act so that I’d lose all of my belongings in such a way?  Well, that’s a good question.  The truth is I had been unforeseeably detained.  If one were to tie a string from beginning to end…the in-between was all about the story and the creative way I surrendered to a challenge so as to gather realistic information.  Research.  Yes, that’s exactly what happened, research…or was it stupidity…or a dash of both? 

A few days into my trip, I carried my laptop to the café as I did every morning while traveling on location to write.  I needed a mocha double espresso grand with a half stick of cinnamon for good measure.  Did I say I needed it?  Well there was a bit more to it than that…I was addicted and craved the rush.  It was the fuel that fed my words.  Caffeine buzz…locomotion...full steam ahead. 

 

I glanced up as travelers came and went.  I used them for random descriptions as needed.  The chance appearances offered me a variety of clothes, demeanors, stances, accents and hair styles.  I often took snapshots of truth for a descriptive smorgasbord and then leaned into the plot.  I borrowed from others what I lacked in ability to create.  I selected pieces and bits from those around me.

As I gazed towards the customer waiting at the counter, I typed:  “Lena Mansfield was a sturdy woman.  Her biceps resembled ironwood, thick and bulging from heaving packages.  She worked overtime in the shipping department of the local meat packing plant and was awarded employee of the year for a decade running.  During her youth she was considered beautiful but that was before the realities of misfortune had taken a toll creasing her unwavering optimism into a constant frown.”   

I was working on character development all right, but it seemed to be moving in a painful “hit or miss” fashion since business that morning was slow.  As my attention waivered to the obvious mistake in grammar, reality tugged at my sleeve.

“Are you a writer?”  Miss Reality asked.

I gazed up, startled by the imposition, but at the same time intrigued by the curiosity lining her ordinary face.  Actual conversation since my arrival had been limited to choosing food, checking in with my literary agent and the occasional pleasantries exchanged in passing… so to have someone break through the protective wall mortared with words threw me into a tailspin.

I smiled and nodded yes politely.

“Have I read any of your books?”  She wondered.

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I write under the pen name of Bernadette Pillbox.” 

“The Pillbox Author?”

I nodded.

“Wow,” she replied grinning from ear to ear.  “I’ve read many of your tales except, I must admit, I haven’t actually bought them…the library’s about all I can afford at this point in my life.”

“That’s okay,” I replied.  “They buy my books and you read them so…I still benefit from your support.”

The woman smiled in slight so as to acknowledge my appreciation.    

She slid her dark rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she mentioned, “I didn’t care much for Cassie in your last story.  She was a bit too much of a know-it-all…and always correcting those around her was off putting.”

I chuckled.  “I based her personality from one of my sisters or actually a combination of all three intermingled.”

“Do they know you do that?  You know…use their personalities for the characters you create?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I’m sure they see elements of each other but I believe there’s a hesitation to admit their personal flaws, so I’m safe.”

The woman nodded.  “By the way, I’m Erma Leigh Jacobs.  My friends call me Jake.”

“Glad to meet you.  My name in the real world is Hester Sue.  I go by Sue for obvious reasons.”

“Why Bernadette Pillbox…it doesn’t do you justice, it fact, it’s ridiculous…”

“That’s exactly why my agent insisted.  People remember unusual and if a person has their own unique style when writing, it all equals book sales…or so I’m told.”

“Do you ever get tired of it?  The writing stories…the inventing life instead of really living it?”

I fought the urge to express outrage at the suggestion that I didn’t have a life but instead needed to invent one.  I took a deep breath, counted to four then let her insult roll away.

“I see myself as an entertainer.  My stage is the computer screen before me and the possibilities for plot are free fall for imagining.” 

“But some of the things that you’ve come up with in your series…as if…I mean have you ever tested if a person could cut through a zip tie using the sharp point of an earring?”

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Hasn’t anyone ever called you out on the far-fetched aspects of your stories?  I mean even your action scenes are a bit well…unbelievable.”

“It’s just fiction; it doesn’t have to be accurate, just intriguing.”

“The book “Ham Sandwich Alley” comes to mind.”  “Really?  It was well...”  Erma began a fake cough while grinning sheepishly.

“Oh?”

“To be blunt, I think you’ve underestimated the intelligence of your audience.  I mean, forgive my disrespect here but there’s no way someone could possibly live to tell about half the things you pose.  …and then there was the box tucked into the rafters with the broken pickle jar filled with money and the glass that was used to cut through the rope.  Why would anyone move from that house and leave a jar full of cash behind?  I mean in real life that would be the first thing anyone with an ounce of common sense would pack.”

“Well,” I said feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment at her unarguable point.  I forced a smile.  “I think I could use someone like you on my “malarkey” team to point out such inconsistencies.  My editor never mentioned…  Though most everyone who follows my stories claim they are highly enjoyable and my books keep selling…so why fix what isn’t broken?”

“While that’s true, I think you’ve lost touch with what is possible versus what is implausible.”

I closed my laptop for I suddenly lost my appetite for the written word.  All want suddenly became deflated, all because of the logical argument that Miss Reality pointed out.

“What are you working on now?”

“I’d rather not say.  It sort of jinxes the process and if I lose momentum, I’ll find myself rolling curlers onto a bald head.”

Erma Leigh nodded as if it took her a moment for my superstition to register. 

“I can see that I’ve upset you.  I didn’t mean to…really.  I adore your writing and I look forward to the next book.”

“Thank you.”  I said wondering if her “looking forward to” had more to do with finding things to nitpick rather than enjoying the intended escape.

“Let me buy you another coffee.  It’s the least I can do.”

“No need, really.  It’s getting late.  I should probably be on my way.”

Erma Leigh stood and headed to the counter.  From the distance of three tables over, she turned to face me then smiled as if she was saying something without actually saying it.  “I insist.”  “You drink a double espresso mocha grand with a half stick of cinnamon, right?”

I nodded while wondering if this woman was who she appeared to be...and if our meeting was simply by chance.  All I could think of was Annie Wilkes.  It was as if Stephen King had predicted the eventual crossing of paths with a fan that all writers should fear.

 

Erma handed me the beverage.  I thanked her graciously, faked a sip then headed on my way. 

It was an hour after dinner as I sat on the front porch of the cottage typing away that Miss Reality appeared once again.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting...”

I glanced at my cell phone wondering who I could call for help on the island.  The truth was; the only place that had enough reception to make a call was at the center of the bathroom which didn’t help my predicament.

I wondered if I could use my laptop as a weapon.  I could close the screen and in an instant, pelt her across the head.  The blow probably wouldn’t kill her but it may just startle her enough for a clean escape.

Erma cleared her throat as she began, “you see, I had an idea this morning when I read in the “gossip” blog on the Internet that you were visiting the island.” 

I held my breath to conceal the apprehension that was building within me.  She had orchestrated a meeting. 

“Yes, I’ve read everything I could find about you and your routines.  I knew you’d be at one of the coffee shops on the island.  I just had to find the right one and then I was sure we’d meet.  You see, I’ve had this crazy notion ever since I read your first novel.”

“Oh?”  I released my breath not realizing that I had been holding it far too long. 

Fast forward. 

As fate would have it, I ended up forty five minutes late to check out from the resort, two weeks later and everything that I had carried with me onto the island was lost forever…everything that is, with the exception of the string of events that rested along the in-between. 

My laptop, twenty eight chapters of a well written action adventure, my clothes, toiletries, purse, cell phone, cash…all of it, gone.  I imagined the middle section of string that was slowly unraveling.  Those delicate strands that Miss Reality methodically severed, eventually snapped, transforming my perspective and my life forever.

So, you’re probably wondering what she said to convince me to abandon my cottage and follow her like I did.  Just imagine for a moment…just imagine.

All day, everyday, the same routine played over and over again.  Schedule this, tick-tock, laundry in, write, write, write, laundry out, fold.  I arrived on the island.  The tide rolled in, the tide eased out, and life was passing me by while the keyboard moved beneath my fingertips.  Erma Leah or as I’ve knick named her “Miss Reality” offered me a chance to live what I write and then to write what I know.  Admittedly, I barely escaped all in one piece…but I did. 

Just imagine…  Now, use the comment section beneath this blog to help me figure out what happened. I know I made it through, but I don’t remember how.  Miss Reality kept saying, “plausible versus impossible…” 

I suspect the “Pillbox Series” shall never be the same again.  Please help me tie together the in-between?  My future depends on it….or rather my sanity depends on it.

Thank you,

Hester Sue aka Bernadette Pillbox, author.