The Millennial, Ch. 2 (1/2) 18+

                 It was 11 PM; there was David purchasing a tomato at Piggly Wiggly. On the far wall, a sheet of paper, two tabs missing. Were the numbers dialed or stuck in wallets and forgotten? And how many times had he passed without notice? Beleevus Writing Workshop, Polybius University at Helvetica Springs, and see it starts next week. Time yet to call, time yet to enroll. Pull the tab and dial the sideways digits. He would be a great novelist yet.

                 He ripped one off and stuck it in his pocket, kept checking to see if it was still there the whole walk home. On the way there he was passing a house, some small home he never bothered to acknowledge before. As he neared, the cold of the night fell away. Music poured from an upper window; very real and very sad, a trumpet, or cornet perhaps. It was unpracticed, harsh. Those sharps ought to be flats; the naturals were not natural. But there was one moment, as he kept drawing nearer, in which the music was sheer sorrowful perfection, saddest music being the most perfect. The cornet player, having played this series of perfect notes, realized the same thing he had--she could never have played more perfectly. And so she stopped. A heavy gust blew, and a dark figure shut the open window. Just like that the music was gone forever, the wind carrying it off. The cornet player wanted it eternal; the wind would carry the notes far past Helvetica Springs, perhaps to Fiji or Tuvalu. She would shut the window and never play again.

                That night David wrote about the goblin army’s invasion of the elven homeland.

----

                He fumbled with his cell phone, open and shut. Dial the first three digits then hit the red cancel button. Telephonophobia. A sonorous neologism, it had a certain ring to it. But enough with the procrastinating. Dial the rest of the digits and get it done with. Verbal stumbles were forgivable: it’s a writing class not a speaking one.

                Dial the digits, hit the green go button.

                “Hello, and thank you for calling the Beleevus Writing Workshop. Please wait for a representative to respond to your call.”

                Were there other writers in Helvetica Springs? Would they all be there, pipe-smoking, plotting? The next word, the next sentence? Did they fill their notebooks with scribbles or cut and paste, wearing away the veneer of the keyboard? Maybe they used typewriters, preferring the chick-chick-chick-ching or the joy of replacing an ink ribbon. Perhaps their protagonists were partly evil, or just more than partially flawed. But not too whiny and not too self-loathing; there’s only so much one can take.

                “Hello, Barbara Beleevus speaking. Thank you for your call.”

                “You’re the recording,” David said.

                “What recording?”

                “The one when I called.”

                “Oh my, yes. Well, that wasn’t a recording.”

                “It put me on hold. I thought about scribbling and typewriters.”

                “Ah, it’s an old trick I learned as a receptionist at Monte Carlo Publishing. When you’re busy you simply pretend to be a recording.”

                “You worked at Monte Carlo Publishing?”

                “As a receptionist.”

                “So what were you doing?”

                “Working as a receptionist…”

                “No, when I called.”

                “Eating a sandwich.”

                “Oh.” A brief second. “I’d like to enroll in the Beleevus Writing Workshop.”

                “Terrific! I’ll just get your address here and we’ll send out an informational packet. Just so you know some specifics--it’s a seven week course and we’ll be needing a check for three hundred dollars before the starting date.”

                David gave his address before hitting the end call button.

----

                How to procure three hundred dollars.

                First thought: give up drinking, save his money. Unlikely anytime soon.

                Sit on a curb and harass passersby with ear-straining half-melodies. Put out a guitar case, a box, a glass jar, a Panama hat. Find an accomplice, a sidekick. She plays the tambourine. Collect the coins each night, and if we’re oh so lucky, there’s a bill or two, likely from an out-of-towner. Firstly, learn to play the guitar.

                Purchase a ten dollar pack of tarot cards and a crystal avec le mystique. Twirl said crystal counterclockwise, murmuring incantations concerning Nostradamus and Confucius. But Confucius was a scholar, not a mystic, the customer says. Shhh, you whisper, you’re interfering with the psychic energies of the Crystal of Confucius.

                Get a job. Well, he already had one of those. Only so many hours in a workday and only so many days in a week. And there are other bills.

                Raid the flower shops early. Buy cheap roses, take them home. Get out the ice chest and put them on in. Wait till nightfall; sell them in bars for five dollars apiece.  Honey, look flowers…flowers, eh? how much then?…five dollars…five dollars?…five dollars…well, here you are then.

                Sell blood plasma. Arrive, say hello to the nurse, sit down and start the questionnaire, come across a surprise question--Have you had sex with another man since 1977?--confusedly press yes, flashing screen comes up, nurse comes in, I’m sorry, but you’ve failed the test and cannot give plasma. But what have I done wrong? Why, you answered yes. But what does this mean? I’m sorry, but you’re a risk, you answered yes and are a risk, you’ll have to go now.

                Call home, ask for money. He’d never asked his mother for a dime. What was that about giving up drinking again?

----

                More telephonophobia.

                “David! I’m so glad you called, honey.”

                “Hi Mom. How’s Claire?”

                “She’s just fine. Actually, maybe you can talk some sense into her. She got three Cs on her last report card.”

                “They get letter grades in elementary school now, huh?”

                “Yes. I remember the days of plus and minus signs. Happy face. Frown face. Those actually meant something to kids. And truly her school has gone crazy. The report card they sent me the other day had a grade point average on it. What is a nine year-old going to do with a grade point average? All these numbers and letters are meaningless to them. C for Claire is as much as it means to her.”

                “I think she’s smart enough to know what it means.”

                “I know. You’re right, David, but really that’s what scares me. She knows and doesn’t care. Mrs. Rossol sent a note home the other day saying she doesn’t hand in her homework. It’s not that she can’t do the work. She knows it all, but just doesn’t bother to turn it in. Whatever I say to her doesn’t seem to work. She listens to you, you know.”

                “Yeah. Okay, put her on then.”

                The muffled static of a passed receiver.

                Her little voice come to life. “David?”

                “Hi, Claire. A little bird told me that you haven’t been trying your hardest in school. Have you not been handing in your homework again?”

                “Mom’s not a little bird.”

                “Better not let her catch you saying that.”

                Her little chuckle. David smiled, melted inside.

                “My teacher is an idiot. Instead of saying dang it, she makes us say ‘oh pickles.’”

                Amusing. A harmless expletive replaced by a word which carries far more humorous possibilities. Was the irony lost on a cadre of fourth graders? Did they laugh behind Mrs. Rossol’s back, their little pickle-fingers pointing at her vagina? Pickles. Diminutive penises.

                “That doesn’t mean you can just ignore your homework. I know it’s boring and that you know all that stuff already, but you still have to turn it in.”

                “Okay…”

                “Have you been reading? Going to the library?”

                “Ugh, yes…”

                “And not to play Internet games. To get books.”

                “Mom got me a book last week. I’ve been reading that one.”

                “That’s good. What’s it about?”

                “There’s this vampire who likes this girl.”

                Devastating. “So you’ve bought into all this vampire stuff, huh?”

                “Not really. My friend Ashleigh really likes vampires, though. She started wearing this black nail polish. Anyway, the vampire guy dies right away and the whole town gets mad at the girl for bringing him in the first place even though she didn’t know and she has to hide from them.”

                “So the vampire dies?”

                “Yeah, like in the first chapter.”

                “Maybe I would like this book.”

                Her chuckle again. It made him so fragile.

                “Claire?”

                “Yeah?”

                “Keep reading, all right? Love you. Now can you put Mom back on?”

                More muffled static. All phones sound as though they’re passed violently. After the noise, there’s the split second of complete silence, perhaps as the receiver is brought to the ear. The slightest of moments as the other speaker determines what to say. Yet nearly always it is a short hello? Interrogative as though you might have hung up, even though you requested the transfer.

                “Hello?”

                “Mom, I need to ask you a favor. I know I said I would never ask you for another, but this is really important to me.”

                “Is everything okay, David?”

                “Oh, it’s nothing bad. The opposite, actually. You know how I want to be a writer, right? There’s this great opportunity here in Helvetica Springs. Only I need three hundred dollars for the workshop.”

                “David, I would love to help you, I would, but I just don’t have the money for that kind of thing. Don’t they do something like that in your school courses?”

                “Something like that. But it’s not the same, Mom. In the courses, you sit around with a bunch of people who just write some stupid thing in ten minutes and expect everyone to say good things about it, which, sadly, most people do say good things. There’s no incentive to get better. This workshop has writers from all over the state and is run by a professional.”

                “I really wish I could help you, honey, but it’s just not in the budget. I’m sorry.” A pause. “Tell you what, I’ll talk to your grandfather. You know he’s supported your writing from the beginning. He might just be willing to write a check. I wouldn’t hold out any hopes, though, okay? You know how your grandfather is with money.”

                “All right. Thanks, Mom.”

                “You’re welcome, honey. And don’t forget to call your sister Katie. It’s her birthday in two weeks.”

----

                Mom came through. Three days later a check arrived along with a note saying, Make sure you visit your grandfather and thank him.

                But now was a time to celebrate. A time to invite friends.

                Heather arrived first and walked into the living room, dressed in a surprisingly flattering summer dress.

                “No knee-length skirt tonight? What happened to my future wife?”

                “David! That’s only if neither of us is married by the age of forty. And remember, that’s only if both of us can legally get married.”

                “You look great, Heather! So I see you came early to show off. And what, might I ask, is the occasion?”

                “Can’t I look nice without some underlying motive? We’re celebrating after all!”

                “I’m going to go with underlying motive,” David said, laughing. “Is there a new guy interest? Tell me all about him!”

                The kitchen door crashed and in came Russ and Jeremy, a bottle of booze in each of their hands. David ran to the kitchen and caught the end of their conversation which consisted of the words cleavage and sweat stains.

                “David!” Jeremy yelled. “We got some cheap vodka and that whiskey I know you like. I don’t know how you can stand that stuff. It rarely makes for pretty drinks.”

                “It’s all the same once it’s inside you.”

                “True enough. Yet I’ve got this lovely orange juice to make mine pretty on the outside. Pretty on the outside, pretty on the inside.”

                Heather entered, grabbing four shot glasses from a cupboard and lining them up on the counter. “Pretty unless you drink too much, Jeremy, and what’s on the inside comes back to the outside.”

                “Well now!” Jeremy said, seeing Heather for the first time. “Someone’s got a hot date.”

                David pointed. “That’s what I said!”

                Heather sighed. “Why does everybody assume that just because I dressed up that means I have a guy lined up like some kind of suitor?”

                “A suitor?” David said. “I didn’t know it was so serious.”

                “Oh, shut up you two. I just wanted to look nice for once is all. Can you just drop it?”

                Jeremy began pouring a round of shots. “Now now, Heather, my dear. I’m just happy you decided berets and jean skirts weren’t the extent of fashion in Helvetica Springs.”

                “Asshole!”

                The four of them laughed.

                “A toast,” Jeremy beamed. The four friends gathered around. “To us. May we find the men we’re looking for.” A short hesitation as the group looked at each other with knowing smiles. “Or if you’re Russ, the woman.”

                “Here, here!”

                The glasses rang together, small streams of vodka and whiskey dripping over the sides, across their fingers, and onto the floor.

(This chapter continues...)