Hi friends,
thanks for responding last week to my return intro.
I have actually debated long and hard these past few days if I really could pull it off again and I also debated with which story of the couple I'm working on I would come back.
I am coming back with a story that I had posted a first chapter of about two years ago. Back then it was just an idea that had jumped in my head and I jotted it down very quickly but at that time I had nothing else written on the story. It was only an idea. I had named it "Happy Birthday", maybe some of you remember. I deleted that single chapter from here and rewrote it over the last couple of months and of course added on to the story. It is written in third person.
I also renamed it. "Will Love Prevail" is what I came up with just these last few days. This is kind of a tragic story and also somewhat dramatic. There is violence, sexual content, and bad language, just a heads up. It's still a boy meets girl story and I'm sure you will find similarities to my other stories but I can't help that. I don't know anything about other disabilities besides paraplegia and personally it is my preferred disability so we are meeting another paraplegic main character, Mark.
Mark is an ex Infantry soldier who got injured in Afghanistan. He is living his life as a paraplegic to his best abilities, still dealing with his demons but managing okay. For his 30th birthday his friends get him a special present, a hooker named Chiara. Meeting Chiara turns his world upside down but also gives him a purpose again and awakens feelings in him. With Chiara coming into his life though he is literally rolling into dangerous territory.
I'm nervous giving you this story because I am not sure how it will be received. My hope is that some of you are going to like it and for you I will post. Thanks for your support! Happy reading!
Here is Chapter 1 (unfortunately I had problems linking tonight, couldn't really get it and don't remember how I used to do it, so you may actually get nothing with this link....would you please let me know if that is the case)
Thanks, Hugs, Dani
Monday, October 29, 2018
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Update to The Grinch
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
New Devo Diary
Hi everyone, it's time for a new chapter of Devo Diary! The last chapter ended with me vowing to only date disabled guys from now on, and now in this chapter I'm making good on that promise by going on a date with a deaf guy.
This chapter is kind of a stand-alone, so even if you haven't read the previous chapters, it will still make sense by itself. It was really hard to write this one, and it ended up being much longer than usual, but I think it was important to keep it all in one entry. It brings up a lot of major issues in dev/dis relationships.
Devo Diary Chapter 47: Seymour the Cyborg
As always thank you for reading and commenting!
This chapter is kind of a stand-alone, so even if you haven't read the previous chapters, it will still make sense by itself. It was really hard to write this one, and it ended up being much longer than usual, but I think it was important to keep it all in one entry. It brings up a lot of major issues in dev/dis relationships.
Devo Diary Chapter 47: Seymour the Cyborg
As always thank you for reading and commenting!
Monday, October 22, 2018
Hi there
Hey
everyone,
it's me,
Dani. How is everyone? I missed being here.
I can't
believe it's been 2 years since I last posted.
There are
a few reasons for this - 2017 my oldest left the nest and it was super
stressful and emotionally draining with lots of planning, some travelling and
heart strings getting pulled into all directions.
On top of
it I actually dealt with some health issues and had to start on getting all
that sorted out. 2018 continued in the same fashion with a breast biopsy
(everything was good), a brain MRI (everything was good), panic attacks (got
that taken care of with the help of a counselor and am now a gym rat..lol),
training for a new department in my job, and recently my mom who is possibly in
the early stages of dementia visiting me for a few weeks.
Honestly
I also felt somewhat insecure about coming back because I'm only an amateur
writer, Englisch is not my native language, I don't have any formal education
in writing, and it seemed the Blog had enough submissions that were a lot more
professional including published work, than what I have to offer. I still enjoy
writing and I hope some of you who read some of my previous stuff on here are
still around. I have been working on and off on several stories and I think I'm
ready to share something again.
It looks
like Monday is a day up for the taking and I'm thinking about posting
again. I write on the side because work, kids, house, pets, husband, friends and life in general is a lot sometimes.
I'm
actually nervous posting this here because it will establish a commitment to
fulfill on my end, regularly posting for the people who care to read it, taking
the time to keep writing and working on all my stories to finish them. I am determined to come back and being here with you will push me in my writing efforts again.
Hugs, Dani
Sunday, October 21, 2018
NEW STORY: How the Grinch Stole My Heart
Hi all! This is my latest Christmas story. I was going to wait until November to post, but it's SO QUIET here, I decided to go ahead and start posting now. It's a cute Christmas story with an enemies to lovers theme. It's a work in progress and you guys have been soooo helpful with your suggestions, so would love to hear them or just if you like/dislike! In the meantime, please enjoy.....
How the Grinch Stole My Heart
How the Grinch Stole My Heart
Jeremy
Thump.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out
the sound of a ball hitting the wall just outside my apartment. It’s the second time in two days. The second goddamn time.
Thump. Thump.
I feel a seedling of a headache
starting in my left temple. I open my
eyes and stare at the computer screen in front of me, filled with code. If I get a migraine, there’s no way I’ll be
able to get any work done. I’ll be lucky
if I can get out of bed.
Thump. Thump.
Thump.
I grit my teeth. I know it’s a lot to expect absolute silence
at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Sunday, but there’s something about that
sound that gets me. The fact that it’s
not quite rhythmic. The way sometimes
there’s a gap in the thumps and I think it’s finally stopped, but nope, there
it is again.
I know who’s doing it. It’s that
kid. That goddamn kid. I don’t know his name, but his family moved here a
couple of months ago, and ever since winter hit for real, he’s been playing out
in the hall with his rubber ball. He
throws it against the wall as hard as he can, then he catches it. You’d think he’d get bored of it eventually,
but he never does. He never. Fucking. Does.
Thump.
Thump.
I don’t want to be the asshole who
yells at a little kid for tossing a ball around in the hallway. I don’t want to be that guy. Nobody likes that guy. Remember Dennis the Menace and his grouchy
old neighbor, Mr. Wilson? Dennis the
Menace was always messing up Mr. Wilson’s lawn or knocking down half his house
or pulling down his pants to reveal polka dot boxers, but somehow Dennis was still the hero. Did anyone root for Mr. Wilson? No, nobody did.
I don’t want to be Mr. Wilson. I don’t.
I’m just really sick of the sound of that goddamn ball. I’m not going to be able to pay my rent if
the kid keeps it up.
Thump! Thump!
To hell with it. I’m going to say something. Maybe the kid can go throw a ball on the
floor above or below. Or anywhere else
besides right outside my fucking door.
I take a breath, steeling myself for
the effort it will take to stand up. I
reach with my left hand for the forearm crutch I always keep leaning against my
desk when I work. I lace my left arm
through the metal loops, then slowly haul myself to my feet like I have
hundreds of times before. I have a false
start, where it seems like I’ll fall right back into my chair, but I
don’t.
I’ve gotten good at this over the
last several years. I barely remember a
time when standing up from a chair didn’t involve any effort at all. It feels like that was a whole other
life.
I guess it sort of was.
Thursday, October 18, 2018
Update to The Consolation Prize
Hi everyone!
Please enjoy this week's update. It ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, unfortunately, and there's a good chance I won't be able to post next week because of work travel with limited access to internet. I will try my best, but if not, I'll see you guys two weeks from today. I'm sorry!
Can't wait to hear what you think though on this week's installment—please comment and let me know!
Have a great weekend!
Chapter 20
Table of Contents
Please enjoy this week's update. It ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, unfortunately, and there's a good chance I won't be able to post next week because of work travel with limited access to internet. I will try my best, but if not, I'll see you guys two weeks from today. I'm sorry!
Can't wait to hear what you think though on this week's installment—please comment and let me know!
Have a great weekend!
Chapter 20
Table of Contents
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Update to The Consolation Prize
Hi everyone—
Happy Thursday! This week's chapter uncovers a bit more about what happened last week, and gives us some Scottie and Will 1:1 time.
Hope ya'll enjoy—please comment and let me know what you think!
Chapter 19
Table of Contents
Happy Thursday! This week's chapter uncovers a bit more about what happened last week, and gives us some Scottie and Will 1:1 time.
Hope ya'll enjoy—please comment and let me know what you think!
Chapter 19
Table of Contents
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Update to The Consolation Prize
Hi guys!
Here's this week's update of The Consolation Prize where things start to unravel a bit. Hope you enjoy and can't wait to hear your thoughts.
Chapter 18
Table of Contents
Here's this week's update of The Consolation Prize where things start to unravel a bit. Hope you enjoy and can't wait to hear your thoughts.
Chapter 18
Table of Contents
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
More Devo Diary
As promised, I'm back with another bi-weekly chapter of Devo Diary. In this chapter, I tell another friend about being a devotee, and try to date another AB guy. Plus lots more Mantis!
Devo Diary Chapter 46: The Mantis, Coda
Thank you all for reading and commenting! It's good to be back.
Devo Diary Chapter 46: The Mantis, Coda
Thank you all for reading and commenting! It's good to be back.
Monday, October 1, 2018
How the Grinch Stole My Heart, Chapter 2
Jeremy
I never would have opened the door
if I had any clue what would be behind it.
But I’ve been expecting a delivery. Band-Aids, courtesy of Amazon. I don’t even recall using any Band-Aids in
the last several months, but yesterday I needed one when I slipped with the
knife while trying to pry a bagel open, and they were all gone. Whenever I think I’ve finally got the hang of
cutting things one-handed, I end up with a nice gash on my hand to prove me
wrong. So I ordered Band-Aids. And also, a bagel guillotine.
Most people’s deliveries are left
with the doorman, who keeps them stashed in a closet behind his desk. Lucky for me, Luis the super is nice enough
to bring packages directly to my door. He
does that favor for me and four other people in the building. All of the other tenants who get their
packages hand-delivered are over the age of seventy. Certainly none of them are in their early
thirties like yours truly.
I’d tell him I’d get the damn
packages myself, but who am I kidding? I
can’t carry a box while I’m walking.
After six years of this, I’ve learned not to let my stupid pride get in
the way.
Most of the time.
So when I hear the doorbell ring, I
assume it’s Luis. I throw open the door without even checking the
peephole. Big mistake. One I will soon pay big time for.
Standing before me are three grade-school-aged
girls. Three girls, somewhere between
kindergarten and puberty, who look as surprised to see me as I am to see them. I assume these girls are my neighbors from
somewhere within the building, but damned if I’ve ever seen them before. That’s the problem with essentially being a
shut-in—I don’t know my neighbors.
Actually, it’s less of a problem and more of a fringe benefit.
The girls are dressed
identically. Identically and
impractically. It’s below freezing out
today, yet they’re each wearing green velvet dresses with short sleeves and red
trim. The girls each have their hair tied into identical pigtail braids with
the same red satin bows that trim their dresses. The middle girl is the tallest and blondest
of the three. She’s the prettiest too. I can almost see this girl ten years from
now, striking down any poor schmuck who dares to approach her. When she sees
me, she shoots a look at a tall woman in her early forties standing to the
side. The meaning of the look is
obvious:
Do
we have to do this?
The woman plasters a smile on her
face and thrusts a hand in my direction. “Hello!” she says in a fake cheerful
voice that grates on my nerves. “My name
is Luann Williamson and I live in 8F!”
Shaking hands. So easy for most people. You stick out your right hand, clasp the
other hand in front of you, and then it’s over.
Bada bing, bada bang. Most people
don’t even think about it.
My right arm doesn’t move. At all.
Not my hand, not my elbow, not my shoulder. When my right hip started moving again, the
doctors were hopeful for my arm, but nothing ever happened. Six months after an aneurysm burst in my
brain on Christmas Day, I was told the chances of ever regaining any movement
at all in my right arm were “slim to none.”
My right arm is useless. Completely and utterly useless.
I’ve gotten good at doing most
things one-handed, albeit with occasional injury. For the first year, I was seething with
resentment, but I’ve mellowed since then.
So I can’t cut a bagel without nicking a vein. So I can’t tie my shoelaces anymore. Eventually, you get over it and move on.
The truth is, I could deal just fine
with my right arm not being around to help me if the goddamn thing weren’t such
a liability. That’s what kills me.
For example, at the moment, instead
of lying quietly at my side, my right hand is clenched into a tight fist
pressed firmly against my chest, my elbow bent as far as it can go, at the
mercy of muscles I can’t control. It’s
hard to even put a shirt on when my arm is this tight. It looks painful, and trust me—it is.
It’s the cold weather that does it
to me. Not that the summer is any
picnic, but the winter is always especially awful for my muscles. Yet another reason to dread Christmas.
Since I opened the door, Luann Williamson
has been trying desperately to avoid staring at my arm. I could see it all over her face. Yet she
still stuck out her right hand for me to shake.
And now I have to deal with this situation.
I sigh and let go of the handle of
my crutch with my left hand to clasp her hand briefly, just so this awkward
moment can be over. Her cheeks color as
our hands make contact, and she’s quick to pull away. If I needed a reminder why I haven’t dated in
years, there it is.
Christ, why the hell are these
people at my door? Are they girl
scouts? Are they selling cookies? I don’t want cookies, but I’ll give them a
wad of cash to leave immediately.
“My daughter Katie and her friends
Liz and Brianna are singing carols for the holiday,” Luann Williamson explains
to me. She’s not meeting my eyes
anymore.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice.”
And then we stand there in
uncomfortable silence. It takes fifteen
minutes of silence before I get it.
These girls want to sing for
me. Christmas songs.
Is she kidding me?
“Luis suggested you might enjoy it,”
Luann Williamson adds.
Oh.
Okay, I get it now. Luis gave her
the names of me and the other building shut-ins who were likely to be home at
four in the afternoon on a Monday. He
didn’t do it to be a jerk. He probably
thought we all needed a bright spot in our day.
A little Christmas cheer.
Except I’m in the middle of working,
and I really really don’t have time
to listen to Christmas carols. I’m about
to explain that when the chubby little brunette on the end says to me, “What’s
your favorite Christmas song, Mister?”
I stare at her. “I don’t like Christmas songs.”
The dark-haired girl’s eyes
widen. “You don’t?”
She couldn’t have looked more
horrified if I admitted to her that I’m ninety-five percent sure the Santa at
the department store down the block is the homeless man I’ve seen sleeping on
our corner.
“No,”
I say in a voice that I hope does not invite further exploration of the topic. I glance at Luann Williamson. “I’m sure there are other people in the
building who would really enjoy this, but I’m working now. I’m very busy.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” the blond girl, Future Destroyer of Men, mutters under her
breath.
Go,
please go. I can’t stand here while
these three kids sing songs for me because they feel sorry for me. And about my
least favorite holiday.
Christmas. Taylor used to love Christmas.
That tree we had six years ago was
the last one that’s ever been in my home.
I wonder if Taylor’s got a new
tree. I wonder if she’s got presents
stacked under the tree for her new husband.
I wonder if they’re going to have sex on Christmas morning.
“My favorite is Rudolph the Red
Nosed Reindeer,” the dark-haired girl tells me.
“Ugh!” the blond girl huffs. “I hate that stupid song, Katie!”
“It’s funny,” the brunette, Katie,
insists. “You have to do it with the
funny lyrics.” She looks at me, her
brown eyes wide and earnest. Somehow she
reminds me of Taylor—what Taylor might have been like when she was a little
girl. “So after the lyrics, ‘Rudolph the
red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose,’ someone else would say—”
“Like a lightbulb,” I finish,
without meaning to. I spent a good year of my childhood singing that song. Rudolph
the red-nosed reindeer, you’ll go down in history—like George Washington!
When I was nine, that was the height of comedy.
I wish anything could make me
as happy now as that song made me when I was a kid.
Katie beams at me. “Yeah!
You know it?”
I didn’t mean to encourage her. But now it’s too late. This little girl is singing—singing her heart
out. She’s off-key but what she lacks in
pitch, she makes up in enthusiasm. She’s
belting out the most boisterous version of Rudolph I’ve ever heard while her
friends reluctantly sing along. It’s
cute—I’m not going to say it’s not cute.
But I’m not in the mood for this shit.
I’ve got a lot of work to do.
And even if I didn’t have anything
to do, I’m still not in the mood.
When they finish the song, Katie does
jazz hands. She looks really proud of
herself. The corners of my lips twitch,
almost smiling but not quite. It’s
possible I’ve forgotten how.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Okay, well, goodbye—”
“What song would you like next?”
Katie asks me.
I look over at the blond girl, who
is twirling one of her braids around her finger, her blue eyes lifted
skyward. “God, Katie,” the girl says, “he doesn’t want any more songs. Let’s
just go.”
“But…” Katie juts out her little
chin. “We’re supposed to do three.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got work to do, so…”
“We’re supposed to do three,” Katie
insists.
“Look, I don’t—”
Her eyes brighten. “What about The Twelve Days of Christmas?”
No.
No. “I really don’t—”
“Katie, honey,” Luann says through
her teeth, “this man says he doesn’t want any more songs.”
“You said we’re bringing Christmas
cheer to people who don’t have friends and family,” Katie says pointedly. Well, she’s got my number. No friends, no family. Just me, my computer, a plant I keep
forgetting to water, and soon a bagel guillotine. “You said three songs, Mommy.”
Luann lets out a strangled
laugh. “Katie…”
“On the first day of Christmas,”
Katie begins, her clear voice ringing out through the hallway, “my true love
gave to me…”
Why is everything this week
straining the very limits of my patience?
I could have listened to one more quick song, but doesn’t this song have
like a million verses? Or at least… you
know, twelve verses? Which is a lot.
I don’t have time for this. And what’s more, my right leg is tightening
up to the point where I’m worried I won’t be able to stand much longer. I don’t want to face-plant in front of these
girls.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even as Katie is
still belting out the lyrics, “I really don’t have time to—”
“…a partridge in a pair tree…”
She’s not stopping. For Christ’s sake…
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
And then? I shut the door in her face.
Yes, I slam the door in the face of
a little girl. Who is trying to sing me
Christmas carols because I apparently have no friends or family. Two weeks before Christmas.
I’m worse than Mr. Wilson. I’m Scrooge.
But in my defense, “The Twelve Days
of Christmas” is a really fucking
long song.
Noelle
“Henry! Stop fiddling with your jacket!”
Walking home with my child from his
school five blocks away is an exercise in learning to control my temper. When I picked him up, he insisted he didn’t
want to wear his winter coat because it was “so hot.” After spending five minutes trying to
persuade him he couldn’t go out in a T-shirt in sub-freezing temperatures, I
decided to just go with it. I assumed
within one minute, Henry would crack and put the damn thing on.
After two blocks, Henry was still
happily walking along next to me in his T-shirt. My iPhone was reporting the temperature to be
twenty-nine degrees, but my child was somehow perfectly comfortable with no
coat or even sweater. Does he have some
problem with his temperature regulation?
Is his internal thermometer broken?
Is that a thing?
People were starting to give me some
serious dirty looks. One woman barked at
me that she was going to report me to Child Protective Services. Finally, I was the one who cracked. I shook Henry’s blue Cars-themed jacket in his face and barked, “You need to put this
on! It’s too cold!”
“I’m not cold!”
“I don’t care!”
Not my best parenting moment, that’s
for sure. And then once Henry put the
damn coat on, he couldn’t figure out the zipper. The cold wind slapped me in the face as I got
down on my knees to inspect the little zipper on Henry’s coat. I don’t understand why all the zippers on
children’s coats are dysfunctional. Is
that too much to ask for? A working
zipper?
Of course, two minutes after I got
it zipped, Henry had unzipped it because it was “so hot!”
By the time I get to our building,
I’m ready to climb into bed and hide under the covers for the next week. My job as the manager of a busy restaurant is
stressful enough, especially since one of the waitresses no-showed and I had to
sub in for her shift. I’m just lucky
they let me adjust my hours so I’d be able to leave early enough to pick up
Henry when his afterschool program ended.
At least the lobby is warm. The heat fills my cheeks and my fingers
tingle as the circulation starts back up.
Also, they’ve put up a Christmas tree in the lobby, which fills my chest
with a warm, good feeling. I love
Christmas. I mean, you pretty much have
to if you have a name like “Noelle.” We only have space in our tiny apartment
for a half-sized tree, but this one is full-sized or even plus-sized, lit with
multicolored bulbs and ornaments hanging off every branch. Unfortunately, they’ve pushed it all the way
to the side of the lobby so you can barely see it.
“Katie, honey, I’m sure he was just
really busy…”
I look over at the plush red couches
at the far end of the lobby, where there’s a little dark-haired girl in a
pretty green velvet dress, who is sobbing loudly while a woman attempts to
comfort her. Henry nudges me when he
sees them, “Mom, that’s Katie from school!”
He raises his hand at her. “Hi,
Katie!”
Before I can tell my son to leave
the poor girl alone, I’ve made eye contact with the woman comforting her. She shoots me a pained look, and I feel
obligated to go over there. After all, I
don’t know many people in the building yet.
I should probably try to make some friends. It seems like Greg got all our old friends in
the divorce.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Anything I can do to help?”
The woman rubs the little girl’s
back. “We had a caroling mishap.”
“I was just trying to do three
songs!” Katie bursts out.
The woman sighs and tucks her blond
hair behind her ear. “The girls were
trying to sing for this man on the fifth floor who… well, he was busy, I
guess. He shut the door in our face in
the middle of Katie singing.”
I gasp. “How awful!”
“We live on the fifth floor!” Henry
volunteers. He looks up at me, his eyes
widening. “Mom, I bet it was the mean
guy in 5B!”
“It was!” Katie exclaims, wiping
tears from her eyes. “It was 5B! He didn’t like our songs at all.”
“I hate that guy!” Henry exclaims.
“Henry,” I say sternly. “We don’t say ‘hate.’ That’s not a nice word.”
“Yeah, but he’s really mean!” My son
juts out his lower lip. “He slammed the
door on Katie while she was singing. That’s rude, right, Mom? And he was mean to me too!”
“Still,” I say.
The woman’s eyebrows are scrunched
together, so I tell her, “This guy heard Henry playing with his ball in the
hallway and threatened to take it away.”
“Oh wow!” She shakes her head. “That’s terrible. I’ve seen that guy around, and if I knew it
was his apartment… well, I certainly wouldn’t have knocked. He’s not
very friendly. I’ve shared an elevator
with him, and he doesn’t even say hello.
He just grunts if you talk to him.”
“Probably better to stay out of his
way.” I offer a smile. “By the way, I’m Noelle. My son and I just moved in to 5H.”
I reach out my hand and the woman
clasps it in her own as she smiles at me.
She seems nice. I want to make
some new friends. I don’t want to admit how desperately lonely I’ve been in the
last year.
“I’m Luann,” she says. “Katie is my youngest—I’ve got an older son
too. We live in 8F. Welcome to the building.” Her smile widens. “A few grouches aside, it’s a nice place to
live.”
“I love the Christmas tree.” My eyes
go back to the large tree at the far end of the lobby. It’s really beautiful. It reminds me of the trees we used to have
when I was growing up, before I was relegated to tiny apartments in the city. “Why does it have to be all tucked away back
there though?”
“I know!” Luann cries. “I was thinking the same thing!”
The doorman, Joe, is flipping
through a magazine at his desk. Joe is
always reading or fiddling with his phone or dozing off. I feel like at the price we’re paying to live
here, he should be constantly at attention like those guards in front of
Buckingham Palace. I stride over to the desk and clear my throat until he looks
up.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Moore,” he says. “What’s up?”
“That tree.” I point to it with my
embarrassingly bitten fingernails. My
bad habit is really getting out of control.
I hope Luann doesn’t see. “Is
there any way we could have it moved so that it’s where people can actually see it?”
“I
can see it,” Joe says.
Helpful. Very helpful.
Katie has stopped crying and joined
my son to admire the tree up close. Just
looking at that tree makes me tear up.
Honestly, this holiday has been rough for me—it’s the first Christmas
since my divorce. But it’s funny how
something simple like a beautiful Christmas tree could make me remember there
are still things I enjoy in life, even if my ex is a total wanker.
I’m going to enjoy this
holiday. In spite of Greg.
“You could move it right there,”
Luann suggests, pointing to a spot more central in the lobby. “That would be a much better spot.”
“There’s no outlet there.” Joe
shrugs. “Gotta plug the tree in, right?”
Luann raises her eyebrows. “You don’t have an extension cord?”
I have to hand it to Luann. She doesn’t let up until Joe digs out a huge extension
cord that traverses the length of the lobby and repositions the tree in a more
central location. Luann steps back to
admire it.
“That’s so much better!” she
exclaims.
Joe looks doubtfully at the tree,
then down at the extension cord.
“Someone could trip on this cord.”
Luann snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a tiny little extension cord.”
I’m not so sure. It does seem possible someone could trip on
that cord, but Joe finally shrugs and leaves it as it is. I suppose if he thinks it’s okay and so does
Luann, it’s probably fine.
How the Grinch Stole My Heart, Chapter 3
Jeremy
Will Noelle discover Jeremy is actually the neighbor she hates?
To be continued....
Every week, on Wednesday night, I
get groceries delivered from Peapod.
There’s a discount if I’m willing to accept the delivery any time during
a six-hour window, and since I never, ever leave my apartment, I always opt for
the longer window. The Peapod delivery
guy comes into my apartment, deposits my groceries on the kitchen counter, and
I tip him a tenner. If the delivery guy is running ahead of schedule, sometimes
after he sees the ten-dollar bill and gets a good look at me, he’ll offer to
help me put the groceries away. I never
say no.
Of course, I don’t cook most
nights. Make that, I don’t
cook—ever. The groceries are mostly
cereal and milk, bread, cold cuts. If I
want a hot meal, I get delivery. I live
in Manhattan, where the choices for takeout food are endless. There’s no shortage of able-bodied delivery
guys willing to bring food directly to my door, thus enabling my inevitable trajectory
toward being completely homebound.
Tonight, I feel like a burger.
A juicy cheeseburger, grilled to a
medium, slathered with cheese and bacon.
I don’t work up much of an appetite sitting around my apartment all day,
so I skipped lunch, and now I’m starving.
I might even get a side of French fries.
There used to be a diner five blocks
away that was my go-to for a good burger, but they shut down during the summer,
so I haven’t had a decent burger since then.
The only burger I’ve had recently came with the Number Five meal at
McDonald’s. Yes, even McDonald’s
delivers now. Really, there’s no reason
to ever venture outside.
I asked Luis about it, and he told
me that there’s a diner a few blocks away that makes a decent burger, so I look
up the number and give them a call. The
girl who answers the phone sounds very young, and I can hear her popping her
bubble gum on the other line.
“Uh, hi,” I say. “Do you deliver?”
The girl cracks her gum loudly. “Yup.
What do you want?”
“Bacon cheeseburger. Medium.
Side of fries.”
“Okay,” the girl says. “And how do you want that burger cooked?”
I grit my teeth. “Medium.”
“Oh.” She pauses to hopefully write it down. “And do you want any fries with that?”
My temple throbs. Maybe I should just hang up and get Thai
food. “Yes, I do.”
“Name?”
“Jeremy.”
“All right,” she says. “So it’ll be, like, fifteen minutes?”
I’m about to tell her my address but
then I realize I’m talking to a dead line.
What the hell? This is why it’s
better to order online—you don’t have to deal with a gum-popping idiot.
I call back the number, hoping to
get someone else, but not at all surprised when the same girl answers the
phone. My right arm tenses up against my
will, my fingers squeezing into a tight fist.
“Hey, I just put in an order for delivery,” I tell her. “But you never took my address.”
“Yeah,” the girl says, “that’s ‘cuz
we don’t deliver. You have to pick it
up.”
A vein throbs in my temple. I asked her if they deliver. I may not be as
sharp as I used to be Before, but I know I asked her that. It was the first
thing I said when I called. I want this
burger, but it might cost me my sanity.
“You told me you guys deliver.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I assure you, you did.”
I can almost hear her shrug. “Well,
we don’t. Do you want the order or not?”
Maybe I could try out Uber Eats,
which I’ve heard good things about.
They’ll bring the food right to my door for a nominal fee. If I set it up right now, I’m sure they could
get the burger and bring it back to me within the hour. If not, I could call another burger place
that does deliver.
As I’m weighing my options, I get a
sick feeling in my stomach. This diner
is two blocks away. Two blocks and there isn’t even snow on the
ground yet. But here I am, frantic to
find some way to have the food brought to me so I don’t have to get it
myself. If I can’t make it two blocks,
I’m in trouble.
I’m going to end up one of those
people who are scared to even leave the building. Sooner than I’d thought.
I’m too young to let that happen to
me. My lifestyle is becoming unhealthy. Two blocks shouldn’t be an insurmountable
obstacle for me.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll come get it.”
Noelle
Luann is a godsend. I have to work late today at the restaurant,
and she agreed to pick up Henry while she was getting Katie. Apparently, Henry and Katie are getting
tight. I believe my son may have his
first crush. It’s adorable.
But other than that, my day at the
restaurant is horrible with a capital H.
It’s not even the end of the lunch rush, and it seems like every
customer had a ridiculous complaint we can’t figure out how to address. Right now, I’m standing in front of the table
of a man wearing a suit jacket and bowtie, with Harry Potter spectacles resting
on his nose, and I’m having the stupidest argument I’ve ever had in my life.
“I can’t eat egg yolks,” the man is
saying. “It’s a health issue. I’m surprised in this day and age you can’t accommodate
such a simple request.”
“We have an egg white omelet,” I
explain patiently. “But we can’t make
you a sunny side up egg with only egg whites.”
“Well, why not?” the man demands to
know.
This is literally the eighth or
ninth time I’ve explained it to him during this conversation, but for the tenth
time, I say, “Because the ‘sun’ in a sunny side up egg is made from the yolk.”
“You’re telling me you can’t make it
from the egg white though?” The man seems astonished. “You’re not able to fulfill that simple
request?”
“I…”
I don’t know what to say. We
could make him an egg white omelet and call it sunny side up, but he could say
we didn’t give him what he ordered, which would technically be true, since
there’s no way to give him what he ordered.
“No, we can’t. But I’d be happy
to get you an egg white omelet, or if you’d like—”
“I’m not going to debate this with
you,” the man barks at me. “If you can’t
make me what I want, I’ll go somewhere else.”
Right around now, I want to snap
back at him, “Good luck with that, dumbass!”
But I don’t. If there’s one thing
I learned in the service industry, it’s to take the crap with a smile like it’s
a joy to have it shoveled on me. I keep
the smile plastered on my face as I say, “I’m so sorry to hear that, sir.”
And I don’t even give him the finger
when he leaves. I’ve really matured in
the last decade.
A few customers have been watching
our little interaction, including a man who is standing at the empty register
at the front. The manager’s daughter,
Ashlee, is supposed to be manning the register and taking phone orders, but
she’s inexplicably disappeared—again. If
it were possible to fire that girl, I would definitely do it, especially since
when she returns after her frequent disappearances, she frequently stinks of
marijuana. In any case, since Ashlee is
MIA and the waitresses are all busy, I rush over to help the man at the
register. He looks up when I arrive and…
Oh my.
Gosh, he’s nice-looking. My breath catches in my throat at the sight
of his startling blue-green eyes. He’s
wearing glasses with simple black frames, but even his lenses can’t hide them—it’s
a little hard to look away. Short dirty
blond hair, slight mussed from the hat he’d been wearing. A day’s stubble on his chin. And he’s got the absolute sexiest one-inch
white scar above his left eyebrow.
An adorable smile spreads across his
face as he lays his eyes on me. Wow,
that smile. I don’t know if I’ve ever
had anyone look at me quite that way—not even Greg.
And then we’re just staring at each
other like a couple of idiots. I’m
staring at his lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss him. I’m wondering what it would be like to run my
hand through his dark blond hair. Or
better yet, down his bare chest.
I can’t remember falling quite so
instantly in lust with a guy… ever. My
heart won’t stop thudding in my chest.
Oh my God, is it getting hot in
here?
“I, uh…,” he starts to say, but then
he seems to lose his train of thought.
It seems impossible, but he looks like he’s just as into me as I am into
him.
I swallow hard. I have to remember I’m at work. Can’t start ripping my clothes off now. Be
professional, Noelle. “Can… can I
help you?”
“Oh.” He blinks a few times, as if
remembering where he is. His smile is
adorably embarrassed. “I… uh, I got a
to-go order.”
“Right.”
He lifts his left hand to rub his
forehead, touching that sexy scar of his.
I wonder how he got that scar—he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who
would be in a fistfight, but the thought of him slugging a guy in the back
alley of a bar sends another tingle through me.
I notice one other detail: no ring.
He’s not married.
“By the way,” he says, “that
customer over there was nuts. You can’t
order a sunny side up egg with only egg whites.
The sun is the yolk.”
“Thank
you.” He’s hot and he’s sane. It’s a good
combination. One that’s unfortunately
very rare in single men my age.
“Plus,” he adds, “egg white omelets
are awful. The best part is the yolk.”
Hot and sane and with good taste in eggs.
“I agree. Especially when it’s
all runny.”
“Yeah!” He nods eagerly. I love the way his face lights up. “You should have just brought that guy a
sunny side up egg. Maybe that’s why he
was such an ass—lack of egg yolks.”
“The customer is always right, you
know?”
“I’m impressed at your patience.”
“Well, I’m very nice.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” The smile fades
slightly from his lips. “I’m not nice,
so…”
“No?” I don’t believe it. A guy who smiles like that has got to be
nice. I can tell from his face. “I’m pretty sure you’re nice.”
“No, I’m really not,” he sighs. His aqua eyes bore into me. Even with the geeky glasses, he’s sexy enough
that he could be a player—the stubble and the scar put him over the edge. But I don’t get a player kind of vibe from
him. Everything about him cries out Mr.
Nice Guy. “I promise you—I’m not nice. I used to be, but…”
I shrug. “Well, everyone can’t be nice, can they? As long as you’re not a complete asshole.”
“And what if I am?”
I look right into those intense
blue-green eyes. “Prove it.”
He lifts an eyebrow and grins
crookedly. “Prove it?”
“Yeah. What makes you think you’re
such an asshole?” When he doesn’t
answer, I prompt him, “Do you torture puppies?”
I think of Katie Williamson sobbing in the lobby after her encounter with
that asshole in 5B. “Make schoolgirls
cry?”
“Uh…” The tips of his ears turn
pink. “I’ve made a few schoolgirls cry.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true.”
I doubt it. He’s good-looking, but I suspect he doesn’t
have it in him to be mean. “And what
else?”
“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “sometimes
when I finish the milk from the milk carton, I put it back in the fridge
empty.”
I clutch my hand to my chest. “Oh my.
I may have to ask you leave, Mister.”
“Well…”
“Is that really the best you’ve
got?” I grin at him as I roll my eyes. “Sorry,
but I’m still not convinced.”
“Okay, how about this: when I was a
kid, I told my sister there was a boogeyman in her closet, and she had to sleep
in my parents’ bed for two months.”
“Kids will be kids.”
“All right, all right…” He’s really
thinking about it now, a sexy crease forming between his eyebrows. “Um…”
“May I suggest you can’t think of
anything because you’re actually a nice guy?”
He shakes his head soberly. “No.
Trust me.”
It’s funny—usually, it’s the
opposite. The city is full of asshole
guys who are masquerading as nice guys.
Even if he is an asshole, I’d have to appreciate his refreshing
honesty. Although I don’t believe it.
“You gotta give me something then.” I spread my hands apart. “Like, demand that I give you a bacon
cheeseburger without any bacon or cheese.
Or… I don’t know… park your car in the handicapped space outside.”
He blinks a few times at that last
one. His mouth falls open, and the flush
in his ears enters his cheeks. Uh oh.
“You didn’t, did you?” I say. “I mean, park in the handicapped spot?”
If he did… well, I’d definitely have
to give the guy his Asshole Card. Even
if you’re just running in to get takeout, it’s not okay to park in those
spots. Not that I would never date a guy
who did that, but I’d definitely have to educate
him a bit.
“No,” the guy mumbles. “I… uh, I walked over.”
My heart sinks. He’s broken his eye contact and is looking
anywhere but at me. I don’t know what I
said wrong, but it was obviously something. I clear my throat, and look at the to-go
orders behind me. There are three of them. “So what name is your order under?”
“Jeremy.”
“Jeremy,” I repeat. I identify the name scribbled on the middle
bag. I lift it up—it’s light. Just food for him, I assume.
“Bacon cheeseburger?” I ask. “With sweet potato fries on the side?”
He nods and reaches for the
container with his left hand, still avoiding my eyes. What the hell did I do wrong? “Thanks.”
I slide his check across the
counter. “Cash or credit?”
“Cash.”
Then he hesitates.
Seriously, he better not be one of
those deadbeats who “discovers” at the register that he’s unable to pay. That
is the worst. If that’s the case, he’s most definitely an asshole. He’d be even worse than the customer I had
yesterday who not only decided not to tip, but took it upon himself to deduct
two dollars from his tab because of “poor service.”
But then he reaches into his pocket
and pulls out his wallet, which I can immediately see has plenty of green bills
in it. He places the wallet down on the counter and starts fumbling with
it. That’s when I notice he’s doing the
whole thing one-handed. I hadn’t
realized it before because his coat is so bulky, but now that I’m looking, I
can see his right arm is pressed against his chest, the hand squeezed into a
tight fist. And now I see exactly why he
got quiet when I made that stupid stupid
comment about the handicapped parking spot.
I wish I could say my reaction to
his visible disability is something classy like… I don’t know… not staring. Or better yet, not letting my jaw hang open.
I’d like to say that but I can’t.
Jeremy looks up and notices the way
I’m staring. He’s beet-red now. When he
finally gets out a bill from his wallet, he practically shoves it at me.
“Here. Keep the change.”
He’s tipped me over a hundred
percent on the bill. “I hope you enjoy
your burger.”
He avoids my eyes. “Yeah, thanks,” he mutters.
And then he reaches for a metal
crutch that’s leaning against the counter. I had vaguely noticed the crutch,
but it hadn’t even occurred to me it was his. After he’s got his forearm laced
through the metal rings, he reaches out for the plastic bag containing his
order. His blue-green eyes meet mine
briefly, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
He turns away from me and limps in
the direction of the door. He leans
heavily on the crutch, leading with his left foot, then pulling his right along
slowly and carefully. At one point, his
right foot sticks on a crack in our floor, and he struggles for a moment before
getting it loose.
As he puts his good hand on the
handle of the door, I realize something:
I still find this man incredibly
sexy.
I haven’t looked at a guy and felt
this way in so long. I don’t know what
his deal is, but I don’t care. I know
it’s cheesy, but I believe in love at first sight. When I first laid eyes on Greg, I knew he was
the man I was going to marry. And… well,
that didn’t work out so great in the end, but the point is, I was right. I did marry Greg.
I don’t want to blow it with this
guy. I really think he could be…
Something. I don’t know what yet, but something.
I can’t let him leave. Once he does, he’ll never come back. So before he can get out the door, I quickly
lift my hand to wave at him, offer him my most come-hither smile, and say,
“Come back again if you like the burger, okay?”
He hesitates, gripping the handle of
his crutch in his left hand. He turns to
look at me, but there’s no affection in his eyes. He nods briefly. It’s barely even a nod. It’s a quarter-nod. “Yeah.
Okay.”
Damn. I’ll probably never see him
again.
Jeremy
Flirting.
I miss it.
The girl working the counter at
Moonlight Diner was flirting with me.
Actually, she was more of a woman than a girl. Yeah, definitely a woman. She had these sexy lines around her mouth
that made me think she was probably a couple of years older than I am. Everything about her was sexy, actually. Her dark hair pulled into a messy bun behind
her head. Her suggestive smile. The way she didn’t lose her cool when that
asshole customer was laying into her.
I was very out of practice. Women don’t flirt with me anymore. For starters, there’s the fact that I rarely
leave my apartment, which means I don’t interact with human beings much in
general. On top of that, I know the
crutch and my bad arm are not what most women would think of as
attractive. The truth is, just thinking
about it makes me lose all my confidence.
So I don’t even bother flirting.
But there was something about this
woman—the one whose nametag pinned to her chest said Noelle. Noelle. She’s the first thing that’s reminded me of
Christmas that I haven’t hated. When our eyes met, it was like a truck hit
me. I mean that in the best possible
way. I looked at her, and all I could think
to myself is, I want to kiss this woman.
I
want this woman.
Really,
really bad.
I haven’t felt that way in a long
time. Yeah, I still look at porn and
jerk off and all that shit because it’s a biological need. But it’s really
unsatisfying. On the rare occasion I
meet a real life woman around my age, I generally feel nothing. I had thought maybe the bleed in my brain
killed my libido too, on top of everything else.
Noelle proved that isn’t true. I’m
still as horny as I ever was. I just
hadn’t met the right woman. When I
looked at her and she smiled back at me in a way that wasn’t at all
condescending, I thought maybe I’d finally met the right woman. Maybe I could ask her out and it would
actually go somewhere instead of a stammered apology when I try to ask for
another date, followed by a cold shower.
Then she made that joke about the
handicapped spot outside. And that’s when I realized:
She
didn’t know.
If I could have hid it from her, God
help me, I would have. But I knew it was
only a matter of time. Minutes… or more
like seconds. Sure enough, as soon as I
tried to pay, I gave myself away. When
she finally noticed my right arm clenched to my chest, she started gawking at
me.
Just like fucking everyone else.
I’m an idiot. I didn’t realize she hadn’t noticed. I thought she was the one woman who saw my
disability and liked me anyway. That was a real punch in the gut.
I miss women. I miss being close to women. I miss kissing. Holy shit, I really miss kissing.
And there’s sex. I haven’t had sex in over four years. It’s starting to feel permanent.
Something’s got to change. Otherwise, I’m going to be single for the
rest of my life.
Will Noelle discover Jeremy is actually the neighbor she hates?
How the Grinch Stole My Heart, Chapter 4
Jeremy
To be continued....
Taylor used to like my hair long. Well, not long, but shaggy. She really liked
running her fingers through it. I joked to her once that she wished she were
married to a rock star, and she said she didn’t know any rock stars who wore
nerdy glasses like me. Then we ended up
having sex, which was how most of our arguments used to end.
This morning when I show up at the barber for my quarterly
haircut, I point to number three on the wall and plop myself down in the chair.
These days, I want my hair really short. I’m not dedicating any maintenance
time to my hair when nobody but me looks at my stupid mug anyway. And I only have to look at myself a couple of
times a day when I’m in the bathroom.
December is a shitty time to get a haircut though. I pull on
my hat for the two-block walk back to my apartment building so I don’t feel the
bitingly cold air against my newly shorn skull.
At least it hasn’t snowed yet. If
there’s been a recent snow, I don’t dare go outside. Nothing good can happen if I try to walk on
ice.
Joe, our doorman, is reading a magazine when I get to the
door of our building. I can see him
through the glass, but he doesn’t move a muscle to help me. He doesn’t even glance up. Am I going to have to pound on the door to
get his attention?
I hate having to ask for help. Hate. It.
Opening a door—I should be able to handle that. Most doors I can manage fine, but our
building did some renovations last year, and the new door they put in weighs
twenty tons. Trying to grip it with my
left hand and pull it open while maintaining my balance is not easy. I’ve
learned that the hard way.
If you’re a guy in your thirties, the last thing you want is
to have to ask for help with anything, much less something so basic as opening
a door. But I’ve learned to swallow my
pride. I have to if I want to get into
my own damn building.
“Let me get that for you, Jeremy!”
I turn my head and see Fanny, my upstairs neighbor, coming
up behind me with a big paper bag. Actually,
it’s more of a sack. She’s gripping it
in both hands, even though it’s half as big as she is.
Fanny is old enough to be my mother—possibly old enough to
be my grandmother. I was raised to hold
doors open for people like Fanny and offer to hold her bag (or sack—whatever)
for her. But that’s not going to
happen. Instead, Fanny holds onto her
own sack and pulls that heavy door open for me.
I’m the opposite of a gentleman.
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath.
“If you want to thank me,” Fanny says as she pats her puff
of white hair, “you’ll share some of these bagels with me.”
I eye the sack. “You
expecting company?”
“No, I like to stock up.” She smiles at me with teeth that
are in very good shape. I hope my teeth
look that good when I’m her age, but they probably won’t be, considering I
substitute my teeth for my right hand in a lot of situations. “Ben’s has the best bagels. I put them in the freezer and they’re good
for ages!”
No. I don’t want a
bagel. I don’t want to make conversation
right now. But Fanny’s nice to me—one of
the only people in this building who talks to me. One of the few people in the world who talks to me. So I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’m trying to think of an excuse to get out
of joining Fanny for bagels when my foot snags on something on the floor of the
lobby and…
I’m down.
I don’t just fall—it’s one of those spectacular falls that
makes Fanny scream, and even Joe puts down his goddamn magazine. In rehab, they taught me to fall. Falling is inevitable, but the important
thing is when I see it coming, to do it in a way so I minimize injury. With only two fully functional limbs, I can’t
afford to take out anything else.
So no, this wasn’t my best fall. Nobody would record this particular fall and
put it on YouTube as a demonstration of the safest way to fall. But aside from the humiliation of falling on
my ass, I’m okay. Everything seems
intact. No broken bones.
Joe stands over me, his face white as a sheet. “Are you all right, Mr. Grieder?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
He holds out his hand to help me back to my feet, and I take
it. If I were on my own, I’d have to
crawl over to a couch to use it as leverage.
Don’t need to do that in front of an audience.
“What the hell was that?”
I ask. I push my glasses up the bridge
of my nose and search the ground for what tripped me. I immediately see an extension cord snaking
across the ground, leading to the most fucking elaborate Christmas tree I’ve
ever seen in my whole life. The tree’s
covered from top to bottom with ornaments and dizzying blinking lights. The tree does everything but belt out Christmas
carols. “This cord…”
“Sorry, we had to use the extension cord.” Joe’s brow furrows. “Some ladies in the building—they wanted the
tree there in the center of the room, so…”
I feel heat rising around my shirt collar. “So I get to trip and break my leg so they
don’t have to turn their heads to look at the tree? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“It really is a hazard,” Fanny adds. She’s a lot calmer than I am, but then again,
she didn’t just face plant on the floor.
“And anyway,” I go on.
I’m on a roll now. “If you’re
going to just have a tree, you have to celebrate all religions equally. Where’s your Hanukkah menorah? This is really offensive to Jewish people.”
Two pink spots appear on Joe’s cheeks. “Are you Jewish?”
“No.” I wish I were
Jewish. Then I wouldn’t have ruined the
holiday I loved the most by leaking blood all over my brain. A big subarachnoid hemorrhage can ruin any
special occasion. “But that’s not the point.
You can’t just celebrate Christmas.
You have to celebrate Hanukkah too.
And Kwanzaa—you need to have a Kwanzaa bush. And…”
I’m sure there are other holidays, but I can’t think of any. Oh
well. “Also, those blinking lights are
very distracting.”
I look at Fanny for confirmation and she nods. “They are a bit much,” she agrees.
“Those lights could give someone a seizure!” I say.
Joe’s eyes widen.
Maybe I went too far. I don’t
want him to think I’m going to start having seizures in the lobby. But on the other hand, I don’t want to look
at that tree every time I leave the apartment.
And I really don’t want to trip on the extension cord again.
“I’ll take care of it right away, Mr. Grieder,” Joe says
with a hand on his chest. “You have my word.”
Fanny drags me out of the lobby before I can lay into Joe
even more. By the time I get back to my
apartment, I’ve calmed down and am more than a little embarrassed by my
behavior down there. Did I really
suggest we have a Kwanzaa bush in the
lobby? Is that even something that
exists? I might have made it up. Joe must think I’m unbalanced or racist or
both.
“Sit down,” Fanny instructs me. “I’m going to make you coffee and a
bagel. I even got lox and cream cheese.”
I don’t sit down, even though I’m notoriously unsteady on my
feet, as I very recently demonstrated. “Bagels
aren’t good for you,” I mutter, although Fanny is already in my kitchen and
doing her thing.
“Nonsense,” she insists.
“Who says bagels aren’t good for you?”
“The entire world.” I adjust my grip on my crutch. “I read that eating a bagel is like eating
eight slices of bread.”
“Well, what’s wrong with eating eight slices of bread!”
Fanny dances around my kitchen, slicing through the bagel
with one of the kitchen knives that are sharp as hell because I never use
them. I heard Fanny’s husband died about
ten years ago, so she’s all on her own now.
I don’t think she knows what to do with herself most of the time, which
is evidenced by the fact that she’s here right now. You have to be pretty lonely to try to be
friends with me. I want to tell her to leave, but at the same
time, I’m glad she’s here.
“That’s a lot of bread, Fanny.”
“People are too obsessed with their health these days.” She
shakes her head. “In my day, we used to
eat a huge plate full of beef smothered in gravy then an entire chocolate cake
for each person for dessert.”
Fanny is no more than a hundred pounds dripping wet. “You
ate an entire chocolate cake?”
“Of course!” She waves the knife in the air, and I suppress
the urge to duck. “Sometimes I’d eat
two!” She separates the two halves of
the bagel. “Anyway, Ben’s is the
best. The bagel will make you feel
better.”
It won’t. It
definitely won’t. But I haven’t eaten
anything yet today and I’m skinny enough as it is, so I’ll eat it.
“You know what you need?” Fanny says.
Yeah, I know what she thinks
I need. She’s told me many, many times. “I’m not interested in dating right
now.”
That’s not entirely true.
When I think of my exchange with that woman Noelle the other day at the
diner, I realize how much I miss the opposite sex. And maybe I’m not quite ready to give up on
my love life at age thirty-four.
“Don’t be silly, Jeremy!”
She spreads thick cream cheese over an everything bagel. “You just haven’t met the right woman.”
I did meet the
right woman. And then she left me. But I’m done pissing and moaning over that.
Well, maybe not entirely done.
“You’re so handsome,” Fanny continues. “You know that, don’t you? Any woman would be thrilled to go on a date
with you!”
“I don’t know if ‘thrilled’ is the word I’d use…”
“The girl who works behind the counter at Ben’s is single,
you know.”
I don’t understand why Fanny brings up some potential
girlfriend every time I see her. She
needs to give up on trying to get me to date.
Even my mother has given up on
trying to set me up—when I was at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, she
didn’t even mention the possibility of setting me up with the daughter of a
friend. She said to me, and I quote, “I
give up, Jeremy.” My own mother has quit
hassling me about being eternally single.
Why can’t Fanny?
Luis told me Fanny is the building yenta. She’s set up a bunch
of single people in the building in the past with varying degrees of success,
and I’m her current project. She can’t
stand it that I’m alone, even though I’m fine with it, and like I said, so is
my mother.
Or at least, I thought
I was fine with it. Until Noelle
scrambled my brain…
“Her name is Hayley,” Fanny goes on, even though I’ve said
nothing to encourage her. “She’s very
cute! You’d like her.”
I roll my eyes. “Would
I?”
Fanny face brightens as she spreads a piece of fresh lox on
the bagel. “Oh yes. She’s the perfect height for you. How tall are you?”
“Five foot eleven.”
That’s my height, although it’s hard to stand up straight anymore when
I’m leaning on a crutch.
“Well, she’s five foot five, so that’s perfect!” She starts on a second bagel. “She has some meat on her, but she’s not one
of those women who needs the stomach stapling.”
I snort. “Good to
know.”
“I told her about you too,” she adds. “And she was very interested.”
Fanny finishes the second bagel and brings two plates over
to my small dining table. I could count
on one hand the number of times I’ve had company over besides my parents. Good thing, since I only have one hand to
count with.
“What did you tell her about me?” I ask as I plop down
across from Fanny, resting my crutch against the table. I’m not sure I want to continue this
conversation, but I can’t help myself.
Fanny rewards me with a big smile, thrilled I’m
cooperating. “I told her you’re very
nice.”
“I’m not nice.”
She gasps. “Don’t say
that! You’re absolutely delightful.”
“I’m delightful?”
I’m definitely not delightful,
whatever that means. And like I told
Noelle, I’m not nice either. No point in pretending. I used to be nice. A long time ago. Now I apparently slam doors in little girls’
faces and threaten to confiscate balls from small boys. The best thing you
could say about me is I’m harmless, and the worst thing you could say is I’m a
bitter asshole.
“And I told her you had the most striking aquamarine eyes,”
she adds. “And nice teeth. You can tell a lot about a man by his teeth.”
“You’re thinking of horses.”
She ignores my comment, as she takes a bite of her
bagel. “Anyway, she was very
interested. I could tell.”
“Did you tell her I’m crippled?”
“Jeremy!” Fanny puts down her bagel, aghast. “I said no such thing! And you shouldn’t either.”
I shrug. I’m not sure
what the big deal is. Maybe it’s not the
most PC way of describing my situation, but it’s accurate.
One of the hardest adjustments for me was thinking of myself
as disabled. Before that aneurysm burst,
I was really healthy. I never even got
colds—never missed a day of work in my life.
Taylor was the one with the migraines and irritable bowel syndrome and
the “trick knee.” I went from being a
healthy twenty-eight-year-old man to having a very visible disability. When the doctor offered to fill out a form
for a handicapped parking permit for me, I almost cried.
Six years later, I’m used to it. Crippled, disabled, handicapped—whatever
anyone wants to call it. It doesn’t
matter. It all amounts to the same
thing.
And if this Hayley doesn’t know in advance, there’s no way
I’d consider going out with her.
I can’t believe I’m considering it at all.
“I told her you use a cane,” Fanny says quietly, like it’s
some kind of secret. “She didn’t seem
bothered at all.” She raises her
eyebrows at me. “Do you want her
number?”
I look down at the bagel on the table, decked out with a
thick layer of cream cheese and two slices of pink lox. I’m considering this. I can’t believe it, but I’m actually
considering it. It’s been a year since
I’ve been out on a date, and even that was nothing to write home about. I’ve had a handful of awkward kisses since my
divorce, none of which led to second kisses.
I decided to stop torturing myself.
I thought I was fine with being single. I was fine
with it. I was fine with my life.
Damn that woman at the diner.
Fanny sees my hesitation and grabs the huge pink purse she
slung on the back of her chair. She
rifles through the bag, pulling out a tiny change purse, five napkins, six
starlight mints, and finally, a small piece of paper with a bunch of digits
written on it. She slides the paper
across the table to me.
“Promise me you’ll think about it, Jeremy,” she says.
“We’ll see,” I mutter.
I know I won’t though.
Noelle
Work today was a stressful disaster. I’m so sick of getting yelled at by entitled
customers. I mean, I know you’re upset
that your burger arrived medium-well instead of medium, but that doesn’t mean
you have the right to scream at a fellow human being (i.e. me).
Although all evidence points to the fact that it does mean you have a right to scream at
me.
Also, I looked in the fridge this morning and we’re out of…
well, everything, so I have to make a trip to the grocery store on the way
home. I have this amazing ability to get
on the wrong line, and I picked a line with the chattiest cashier ever. She would not stop talking to the guy in
front of me about the different varieties of bread in the bakery. I was ready to bash them both on the head
with a loaf of brioche.
While waiting on this endless line, I made the dire mistake
of checking my email. And I found this
lovely gem from my ex-husband:
Noelle,
I was very
disappointed to receive your email about wanting Henry to spend Christmas Day
with you. Even though this holiday falls
on a weekday, which is typically your time with Henry, given that this is such
an important holiday, I feel we should at least share the time.
Or arguably, it would
be in his best interest to spend Christmas morning with us. We have a full-sized Christmas tree under
which we can put presents. We even have
a faux fireplace above which we can hang stockings. Also, since both Dina and I will be here, there
will be more of a “family atmosphere” at our apartment. I think this will be a much better experience
for Henry, and you must agree that is the most important thing.
I hope you will be
reasonable about this.
Best,
Greg
Was Greg this obnoxious when we were married? Did I simply never notice it because it was
always directed at other people? Or is
this a mid-life crisis, even though he’s only in his mid-thirties?
In any case, he’s spending Christmas morning with Henry over
my dead body. Christmas falls on a
weekday and our divorce agreement he
signed specifically states that I get Christmas, and he gets Thanksgiving. I went to my parents’ for Thanksgiving dinner
all alone this year so he could take Henry to his folks—he’s not getting Christmas too. “Family atmosphere,” my ass. I’m spending Christmas with my son—he will not take that away from me.
By the time I get back to my apartment building, I’m ready
to collect Henry, have a nice quiet dinner together, and watch a few episodes
of Big Bang Theory. Except when I get into the lobby, I’m faced
with yet another kick in the teeth.
“Joe,” I say. My
voice is shaking. “Where’s the Christmas
tree?”
The beautiful Christmas tree I’d looked forward to seeing
every day is gone—vanished. That tree
made me smile every single day. Now all
I’ve got is the stupid dwarf tree in my apartment. It’s an insult to trees to call that thing a
tree. I don’t know why I even bothered.
Joe lifts his eyes from his magazine. He glances at the empty spot in the middle of
the lobby where the tree used to be. It
isn’t even like they moved it to the old location. The tree is simply gone. Vanished into thin
air.
“Oh.” Joe
shrugs. “Mr. Grieder in 5B complained
about it. He said it was offensive or
something.”
5B again, whose name is apparently Mr. Grieder. More like Mr. Grinch.
“Offensive?” I shriek.
“How could a Christmas tree be offensive? What’s wrong
with him?”
“He said it wasn’t right to have a Christmas tree if we
didn’t have a thing for Hanukkah and Kwanzaa,” Joe explains.
“Right, so let’s get a menorah and a…” I bite my lip, trying
to think of the religious symbol used to celebrate Kwanzaa. This seems like something I should know.
“The management doesn’t want to,” Joe says. “They said it’s easier to just dump the
tree.”
“Easier to dump the
tree?” I repeat dumbly.
“Also,” he adds, “Mr. Grieder said the lights on the tree
were upsetting him.”
Is he kidding me?
Christmas lights were upsetting
him? What is wrong with this guy? What a
bitter old man!
I always thought the War on Christmas was something FOX News
made up to get everyone riled up, but apparently the War on Christmas is real
and being waged in my building. Wait
till Luann hears about this!
“I’m going to call the management myself,” I say. “There should be a tree in the lobby. This is absolutely ridiculous.”
What I should really do is march over to Mr. 5B himself and
give him a piece of my mind. Christmas
trees are not offensive! Who says
something like that?
Instead, I stomp off to the mailroom because I haven’t
checked my mail in several days, and it’s probably overflowing by now. I remember when I was a kid, it was so
exciting to get letters in the mail. Now
as an adult, getting the mail is the biggest drag of the day. Most of it is junk mail from stores I can no
longer afford to shop at. The rest is
bills. So many bills.
While I’m in the mailroom, my eyes are drawn to the mailbox
a few boxes down. It’s 5B. I read off the name taped to the box: J
GRIEDER.
I wonder what the J stands for. Jerk?
Jizzface? Jackass? The possibilities are endless.
As I’m sorting through my mail (i.e. bills), I hear
footsteps growing closer outside the room.
A moment later, that friendly old lady who lives on the ninth floor
comes into the mailroom. I squint at her
big puff of white hair, trying desperately to remember her name.
It’s not coming. Damn
it.
“Noelle!” the old woman exclaims. She’s got to be eighty and her memory is more
intact than mine. “How are you, my
dear?”
“I’m okay…” Oh my God, what’s her name?
She smiles, showing a row of teeth that are certainly her
own. “Fanny.”
“Right. I knew that.”
Fanny laughs and makes for her own mailbox. She has so much energy. How could she be so peppy when I’m fifty
years younger than her and feel like I’m going to collapse?
“So,” Fanny says, “do you have any gentleman company lined
up the New Year?”
I don’t. I absolutely
don’t. “Maybe.”
She looks me over with her shrewd brown eyes. “No, you don’t.”
I let out a sigh.
“I’m just not ready to start dating again yet.”
“God, what is it with you young people and being ready?” she snorts. “Dating isn’t a chore. It’s fun. How could you say you’re not ready to have
fun?”
In this day and age, with the assholes out there, dating is not fun.
Trust me.
Although I can’t stop thinking about that guy Jeremy from
the diner. He wasn’t an asshole. I could tell after knowing him for five
minutes. He was sweet. And so sexy…
Okay, I’m not going to think about that. No point.
He didn’t ask me out, and I’ll probably never see him again.
“Hey,” I say to Fanny, trying to change the subject, “do you
know the guy who lives in 5B? Um, J.
Grieder?”
Her eyes widen. “Yes…
Why do you ask?”
“He made Joe get rid of the Christmas tree!” My face grows
warm with anger as I relate the story.
“That tree was really beautiful, and he had some bullshit story about it
being offensive. That’s what Joe said, anyway.”
Fanny’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Did he?”
“Yes, and you won’t believe what he did to my friend’s
daughter. She was singing Christmas
carols to him, because… well, from what I hear, he’s some sort of shut-in. And anyway, he just slammed the door right in
that little girl’s face! Can you believe
that?”
“How terrible,” Fanny murmurs.
I nod vigorously. “He
sounds like a real grump.”
“No, not at all,” she says.
“I’m sure these were all misunderstandings. He’s actually a very nice man.”
I snort. Mr. Grinch
is not a nice old man—that I’m
certain of. Fanny hasn’t even heard
about how he yelled at Henry.
“He really is,” Fanny insists. “He’s very
nice. He always makes time for me, even
when I can tell he’s busy. And I’ve
bored him with stories about all my grandchildren, and he’s never said an
unkind word.”
“He’s probably just got nothing to do,” I mutter under my
breath.
Fanny hears me though and gives me a look. “He’s got plenty to do, but he makes
time.” A tiny smile plays on her
lips. “He’s also… well, he’s very handsome. Like Gene Kelly.”
Handsome like Gene
Kelly? What the…?
Oh my God.
Fanny has a crush. On Mr. Grinch.
This is like something out of a movie. Fanny is the yenta, but now she’s in
love. And maybe the reason J. Grieder is
such an asshat is because he’s lonely.
Maybe it’s up to me to make the love connection between these two.
Although in all honesty, I think Fanny could do a lot better
than this guy. I mean, who says a
Christmas tree is offensive?
Still, some of my anger dissipates. It’s really sweet that Fanny is in love with
this guy. Actually, maybe I could help
her out.
“Listen,” I say, “do you think you could talk to Mr. Grieder
about the Christmas tree thing? Convince him it’s not such a bad idea.”
Her eyes light up. “Or maybe you should talk to him?”
Is it possible Fanny is shy and wants me to put in a good
word for her? It’s hard to imagine this woman being shy, but people are funny
around the opposite sex. I’d be happy to do it, but I’m scared I’ll end up
screaming at the old guy and make things worse.
“I think you should talk to him,” I say.
“Okay,” Fanny says slowly.
“I can do that.”
“You absolutely can,” I assure her.
Fanny smiles at me.
Despite her age, she’s still quite pretty. That Grinch guy would be a fool not to fall
in love with her.
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