“Oof!” Jenn turned
from slipping the letter into the slot in the post office and slammed straight
into someone. Sturdy and relatively agile, she stayed upright, but the other
person was not so lucky. He met the tile floor in a tangle of lanky limbs. A
pen and a notebook went flying.
The man (boy? He couldn’t have been older than 20) scrambled
upright before Jenn could offer him a hand. He towered over her, the definition
of a beanpole, and she tilted her head back to offer him a sincere apology.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.” He blinked nervously down at her, opened his mouth as if about to say something and clapped it back shut. He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose self-consciously and began to pick
at his cuticles.
When no reply was forthcoming, Jenn shrugged, stepped around
the jittery kid, and headed out into the sunlight on her way to work. It was
unusually busy on Carrier Ave. Streams of people flowed north toward
Duffy St., her neighbors among them, looking almost… panicked. If she
didn’t know better, she would say that they were running away from something.
Weird.
Jenn was crossing Canal Street when she noticed she had a
tail. Sending that letter had already frayed her nerves, even if there was no
return address, and her temper was on a short leash. Fed up, she stopped short
and whirled on her shadow, itching for a fight. “What the HE- what are YOU doing
here?” Jenn went from furious to bewildered in a second flat.
It was that same weird kid from the post office. He
startled, a deer in the headlights, then seemed to recover himself. Waving his
pen and notebook as if they would protect him from any forthcoming wrath, he
said, “I’mworkingforSouthernLivingandIneedyoutotellmeyourstory.” There was an
expectant pause, as he waited for her answer. Jenn stared at him,
uncomprehending. “What?” He colored. “I’m here to interview you. It’ll be
published in Southern Living.”
Jenn’s heart rate skyrocketed, and she jerked instinctively
backward. Her nerves frayed further. She’d be damned if this kid was gonna get
a word out of her. Not when she’d
worked so hard to leave all that behind. “No!” she snarled. “Leave me the hell
alone.”
“Hey!” he protested. “It’s just a couple questions about
where you come from!” He’d materialized some cahones from somewhere,
apparently. But that was the last straw. Jenn grabbed his wrist in a bruising
grip. “Sweetie, apparently you don’t understand the meaning of the word no.”
She talked slowly, as if to a small child. “You cannot interview me. Do not try
and follow me. Do not try and get anyone else to interview me. If you do try, I
will call the police. And wouldn’t it look great for Southern Living to be
fighting charges of harassment?” He stared at her, shocked speechless. “Good.
I’m glad we understand each other. Now run along.” She released his wrist and
gave him a little shove in the opposite direction.
When she looked back, he was still standing in the middle of
the road, rubbing his wrist.
Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Meditation 17, John Donne.
ReplyDeleteHis small transistor radio sat next to him on the park bench. It played 50s, 60s and 70s tunes mixed in with car sales and pawn shop ads. Harvey sat absently listening and watching the leaves drift and swirl to the ground. He felt like those leaves. For the first time, he couldn't write a love poem. He really couldn't write anything.
So he sat with his small notebook on his lap. Finally, he closed his eyes and thought of when met her. He was applying for the maintenance position...
"Harvey, right?" She stood over him, partially blocking the sun.
"Yes, yes, that's right. I'm Harvey." He replied.
"I thought so. I saw you a few times around the building, mostly fixing the damage from that lunatic concierge." She said.
"Well, sometimes matters need to be settled quickly. At least that's what Ms. Davis says." He replied.
Jenn chuckled. "I'd say that was true. Jenn, my name is Jenn," and she reached out a hand.
Harvey was a bit startled at the firmness of her grip. "Hello" is all he could manage.
"You trying to get away from everyone complaining about the water situation?"
"Actually, I'm suffering from writer's block."
Jenn sits down on the bench next to him. "Well, now that's a first."
"I can't seem to get the words out that have always been there. It's like this city, they've dried-up."
"What do are you trying to write?"
"Poems."
"Poems? To someone?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
He hesitates, looks out into the park and the changing colors and says, "Ms. Davis."
Jenn sits back, chuckles again. "Well, that's another first."
She leans over in his direction and says, "Have you got anything yet?"