Nanowrimo part 2

MORE THINGS YAY!

Callahan was sick of proofreading. He had done so much of it in his introductory creative writing class that past fall, which was where he had met Froid and Samuel. Every time he proofread he hated something new and disliked the changes more than the original draft. By the time he had finished his edits an hour later the poem he had written about Froid was not even the same poem. Instead of five lines of ranting about her smoking, he made the poem rhyme. He talked about her eyes, lips gray from ash. He kept going back to her smoking and it drove him crazy. It was like all he could see. He couldn’t see Froid. He could only see smoke.

In exasperated but unavoidable defeat, he jumped into his bed face first and sandwiched his head between two pillows. He wanted to take a nap and forget that that poem ever happened. He was ashamed of it. Part of that was probably my fault, but I like to think I have good taste. That poem was awful, and his decision to scrap it completely was definitely for the best. He didn’t even bother crumpling it up and throwing it away. He just left it on his desk as if it weren’t there.

In his pillow parfait he dreamed, somehow. He dreamed about the first time he went to the English Department there at Murkvein. It was all, more or less, still vivid in his memory, vivid as the fake potted plants in the corners that tried to give the stale room more life. Or the mass-produced watercolor paintings that hung anonymously on every wall, with familiar but nondescript scenes like pale toddlers chasing seagulls on the beach, or a log cabin covered with moss and wildflowers with children playing in the tall grasses, or an old bleached boat marooned on the beach during low tide, or just a still-life. The room reminded Callahan of a nursing home, and it should have.

Among the commercial paintings and plants there were photos, many of them, many of them taken recently. The most recent was the entire English Department faculty surrounding Samuel, who was gingerly holding some literary prize that he had won but clearly didn’t care about. Their faces were bright and their smiles were painfully wide, and they looked so fixatedly at the camera that Callahan thought they were threatened with death if they didn’t. Samuel was there, not smiling, not making any expression, not even looking at the camera. His eyes were dim and distracted and off somewhere else. I figure he was in his mind writing another poem. Where else would he go? Reality holds no interest to him.

Callahan continued waiting in the bland room, waiting to meet a bland professor, waiting to take a bland class and be just a bland human being. The head of the English department that he was so fixated on meeting was Professor Doanday. He hated Shakespeare and slant rhymes and thought that twelve-tone Schoenberg was the only music worth listening to. He was boring. I met him when he was trying to kiss Samuel’s feet. Samuel disliked him almost as much as I did. It was one of the few things we ever agreed upon.

Professor Doanday was not in the mood to go to work that day, and with his tenure thick with ages of service, he decided that he would rather spend the morning walking around his house with a chipped mug filled with Folgers and his socks drooping halfway off his feet. His appearance changed little when he went to work. All he did was put on a sports coat. I was glad he skipped. I had expected it.

Quentin the publisher did not. He could not. If he did he would have to explain to his insurance company how and why his brand new Prius spontaneously burst into flames in the parking lot. Samuel never came into the office, but Quentin the publisher was so justifiably terrified of him that he worked as diligently as if Samuel were really there and actually cared about something that wasn’t his poetry.

Callahan was sitting at the chair when Quentin the publisher rushed around the corner with a precariously stacked volume of Samuel’s poetry in a giant Ziploc in a folder. Quentin the publisher looked nervously at Callahan and then back at the folder in his hands. Callahan stood up and approached Quentin the publisher.

Callahan opened up his mouth to ask Quentin the publisher a series of frequently asked questions, but I shut him up. I didn’t want to hear him ask the mundane to the abused publisher who was on the verge of nervous breakdown.

Quentin the publisher looked at Callahan again, certain that he did not know who he was and therefore was harmless. Callahan looked back at Quentin the publisher, dying to ask many questions, but I held his tongue. I hate it when they talk. Most of them just blurt things out in a stream of consciousness and it angers me. The less they talk, the less they interfere.

Quentin the publisher smiled and sat down meekly next to Callahan. Callahan was an ex-jock, six feet four inches of bulk that had sadly been converging to fat as he quit training for football and began writing and reading prose and poetry. He still possessed enough strength to strangle me, Samuel, or Quentin the publisher without a second thought, but he was so docile and hypersensitive of his size that I could do so much damage to him without fear of repercussions.

            The lumpy, ill-defined athlete shifted his weight in his chair, his feet falling asleep from sitting for so long. He stood up, towering over the slumping Quentin the publisher next to him and shook his legs out. He walked slowly over to the photos on the wall and examined them in unnecessary detail.

            Callahan then lucidly recalled this was a flashback. Good point there, Callahan. I guess I can let you two talk.

            “So… Are you a student here too?” Callahan began awkwardly.

            Quentin the publisher looked as offended as he was capable of. “Ha! Of course not! I am an alumnus who graduated three years ago. Right now I am an intern for the department and in charge of Samuel Tyler Coldridge’s works. We graduated together, him obviously with honors.”

            Quentin the publisher was good at not getting in people’s ways and blending in. He was so good at being so boring that the English department immediately requested that he be Samuel’s “publisher,” which only meant that he transported a scrappy yellow folder from Samuel’s apartment to the English department for almost immediate publication.

            As I said before I do like my brother’s work. It really is because he is good and proofreading and editing would simply destroy most of the marvel that is his poetry. It’s all stream of conscious and off the top of his head despite the syntax and orthography rendering English into a different language. Take for instance “hIre why’s(dumb),” the very first poem in his debut publication y(not)ou.

           

[sec(split)ond]: I fear

blue{yes, like oceans}

the books^and^foot

steps

fragrance t(s)h(or)e

break

everyth{I!}ng: {can do this

} [with thIs](can you?)

I don’t want you two(o)

your cycle [repetition, blue, yes like oceans]

at the edge of my

shore

a god like I.

There is nothing here to edit because this is not English poetry. This is Samuel’s poetry. And he is the only native speaker of his language.

Callahan then asked Quentin the publisher where Professor Doanday was. Quentin the publisher shrugged his shoulders and walked off with the folder hastily. Too hastily, since he left a manuscript dangling outside the bag that inevitably began fluttering out.

In a stroke of friendliness Callahan bolted up and snatched the paper before it hit the ground and called out to Quentin the publisher that he had dropped it. Callahan examined the paper. It was gray with speckles of blue and white and purple, clearly made from a flyer and a letter of recommendation; the address of the sender was still somewhat legible in the middle bottom of the page. And there, in charcoal and surrounded by delicate fingerprints, was Samuel’s poem, born into tangibility just minutes before. The charcoal still looked soft and the paper was still indented where he had written the final lines. Callahan reached out to caress the text.

            But Quentin the publisher let a shriek so hilariously dire that a startled Callahan dropped the paper on the ground. Quentin the publisher let out another shriek. If I could have shut him up, I would have. I feel a bit bad for Callahan for having to hear a sound like that twice.

            “DON’T TOUCH IT. DON’T-LET-ANYTHING-TOUCH-IT. BUT… IT TOUCHED! THE GROUND! YOU! The charcoal, ooooh the charcoal charcoal charcoal… Must check on the charcoal. If it’s smudged I will personally accept your withdrawal from this college!”

            Callahan put his hands up and backed away from the paper slowly. Quentin the publisher flinched every time a small gust of wind from Callahan’s slow perambulation made the paper fluttered.

            “NO! DON’T. STOP MOVING! Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t think, just… STOP!”

            Callahan stood still and glared down at Quentin the publisher. Quentin the publisher would have been terrified of Callahan had he not been thinking about the possibility of him finding his Prius set fire to… again.

            He thinks it’s Samuel that does it. It’s really me, though. I do it when he gets annoying and it just so happens that he’s most annoying around Samuel. I don’t even think Samuel knows how many cars Quentin the publisher has been through. He doesn’t know that Quentin the publisher thinks that he’s in charge of this frequent arson.

            Quentin the publisher took out a pair of tweezers and began to peel the paper off of the floor and put it back in the Ziploc to put into the folder. He alternatively eyed Callahan to make sure he didn’t move and the paper, examining to smudge marks.

            When the paper was back with the others and safe from Callahan and the rest of the world, Quentin the publisher briskly walked away. Callahan had spent a half hour waiting and the only response he got was of neurotic hostility. He had even forgotten why he came here in the first place.

            Dejectedly Callahan walked out of the waiting room and back to his dorm. He would not get any answers today. I’m glad I discouraged him enough to leave. Had he stuck around he would have met Samuel a week earlier than I had wanted.

            Froid had very few belongings with her and she knew it. She was supposed to head home for a few days, pack up for good, and then head out to Seattle. She only had enough clothes and money on her for a couple days. She picked up her phone to text me. I smiled and texted her back before she even finished her message.

            “Don’t worry about bringing things. I’m definitely okay with helping you get completely situated, and that means getting you anything you need. Brand new.”

            Froid played off her surprise very well.

            “Thanks, Luke. I look forward to seeing you soon.”

            She didn’t even mention that she was coming almost a week early. It’s okay. I knew.

            Night has fallen here now. I change into a bathrobe and put on my glasses to read in bed. I choose an article of mine that had just been published in a science journal. I smile to myself until I see a word: “hydrocephalus.” I frown. I had forgotten I had written that article on a new pharmaceutical and how it creates a reaction that consumes the excess water in the brain and leaves behind a nutritious precipitate to fortify the brain. I barely remember writing this article, and that’s probably because I hated that word so much. I close my eyes and I’m transported to Christmas ten years ago. I don’t want to be transported there, but Samuel does that to me sometimes.

            I drop the journal like a hot plate on my lap. Hydrocephalus. Samuel. I wish I could forget both of them. I turn over under the covers, caressing the silk between my fingers. The magazine remains completely put and burns into my hips. I do not sleep well that night. I almost want Froid to be here now.

            Froid. Please move the journal. Burn it, do whatever you need to. Just promise me two things: first, get rid of this journal. And second, never go to Samuel.

            I wake the next morning unsatisfied. It takes me half an hour of my morning routine to realize that it’s a Saturday and that I’m not on call. I have the whole day. It’s only half past seven. I try to go back to sleep but I take a look at the magazine, still lying unfazed on my bed where I had been sleeping. My hip is bright red as if it really had burned me.

I wonder when Froid will get here. Right now she is sleeping on a plane, which is rather surprising given her insomnia. I would blame much of it on Samuel, but I must give some credit where it’s due. Froid is a monster to herself.

            I make myself some espresso and look through my mail from yesterday. I see bills, paychecks, invitations, and letters from patients. I pick one of that. It’s addressed to “Mr. Doctor Coldridge.” I smile at the grade school handwriting and open it up and read it.

            “Dear Mr. Doctor,

            Thank you for getting the lump out of my head. It hurt but now it doesn’t hurt so much. I can do lots of things now. I rode my bike yesterday with a helmet. It was fun. I can spell a lot better. My teacher says I’m smart now.

            Thank you very much.

            -Hugo, age 7

            PS. My baby sister is really dumb. Can you see her next?”

            The letter was cute but attached was an even bigger prize.

            “Dr. Coldridge,

            I’d like to give you my eternal gratitude for saving my son Hugo. I don’t know what we would have done without you. You were really the only one who could save him and cut out such an imbedded tumor, and for that I cannot thank you enough. I don’t think we could ever properly repay for all you have done, and every time my husband and I look at Hugo we will think of you, the doctor who saved his life.

            You truly are a gift from God.

            Forever yours,

            Daphne Albrecht”

              I smile and caress Daphne Albrecht’s handwriting. Forever yours. This is what I live for.

            Froid awoke from her nap with a start. The turbulence getting into Seattle was nearly unbearable, and she kept hitting her forehead on the window every time the plane jumped. She sighed. At least she had slept some. The flight had passed quickly thanks to her nap, and she wondered if her family was worried. She looked at her phone before realizing it was off. She put it back in her pocket. She’d forget them by the time she hit the tarmac anyway.

            The plane pulled into the gate and she turned on her phone. No missed calls or texts from anyone. She figured so much. She texted me though, and I immediately drop the letter down on the table and begin putting on my shoes. I take one last look at my empty apartment and smile. It will be empty no more.

            I pull over on the curb to see Froid with her backpack and a tiny suitcase of luggage. It’s probably mostly empty anyway. Froid is a minimalist. She was wearing that exact outfit the last time I saw her.

            She has her hands netted together, squeezing her fingers so hard her knuckles are white. She’s nervous to see me. I understand completely.

            I get out of the car and open my trunk. I flash her a quick smile before putting her suitcase in the trunk and opening the door for her. She looks up at me once. Her eyes are wide with something. I cup her cheek in my hand. Cold. I smile.

            “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” I say.

            Froid nods and smiles slowly. She’s only controlling herself. I can feel her relief instantly. She knows she’s safe with me, and she’s right.