I sit at my desk that is tucked into a quiet corner of my house and lay out five pieces of paper. None of them has so much as a wisp of individual importance. I sort and arrange them on my horizontal worktop, chiding myself for my harebrained idea. The litter is simply pieces of trash that I collected during runs this week. My inspiration, fueled by caffeine and endorphins, is to write a short story using words from the debris. The refuse messages are: (1) the number 950; (2) Michael London’s business card from a Bellevue Honda auto dealership; (3) a wrapper from a Gone Dilly dill pickle; (4) a corner from an American General Life Insurance ad; and (5) a blurry printout of something to do with providing marketing support for investment products.
I sit at my computer and wait patiently for creativity to make an appearance. Nothing happens. I place my fingers on the keyboard and with irritated but disciplined purpose, I begin to type.
Paul ambles up to the card table, and selects his usual seat directly across from Lilly, the dealer. She smiles at him with practiced but genuine warmth, and he grins back. “Hey, Lilly, how’s my favorite Lilly Dilly the Silly the Card Dealer?” Lilly scrunches up her nose in a show of feigned offense, her hands smoothly shuffling a deck of cards before glancing around to see how many players are coming in. Paul and Lilly murmur chummy exchanges to each other, efficient and softened with time and familiarity. Three or four other players join the single deck blackjack game.
Paul pauses as the evening goes on. He is winning – for a change. Not that it matters. He is not wealthy but his retirement as a marketing agent for a financial services company has left him economically comfortable. The casino is a friendly escape from the relentless loneliness of his homelife, tediously quiet since the death of his wife. He is reconciled to solitude, just as he became accustomed to her absence after almost four decades of her presence. Their life together was more than happy; they had an affinity for each other, an allure based on companionable intimacy. At times in bed at night, he would listen to her breathing, synchronized with his, never envisioning that life without his wife could exist. When she drew her last breath, he knew with certainty that his would cease as well.
But he lived on – despite his wish that he would not.
Paul glances at Lilly and sees her differently tonight, wondering where she goes when the casino closes. He knows that she is a single parent, struggling with a part-time job during the day at a drycleaner while her children are at school. On nights that she is dealing cards at the casino, her children stay at their grandparents’ house, happily unaware of their mother’s financial sorrows. He senses that she is selfless and kind from the way she deflects attention to the gentle care she shows to others. He briefly wonders what it would feel like to push her dark hair off her cheek and fasten it behind her bejeweled ear and then tentatively draw a finger down the nape of her neck to the swell of her breasts.
Paul assesses his physical self and examines what the ravages of time has wrought. His square jaw, once likened to that of actor Michael Landon, has softened. The toughly attractive angles of his face - akin to the steely flash of stirrups and spurs - have become fleshy and subdued, just like the rest of him. His muscular and thick carriage has diffused into a submissive slump, like the dwindling embers of a smoky wood fire. He is not the man he used to be.
Paul considers the ten $100 bills he received when cashing in his chips. After paying his tab, and tipping Lilly, he is left with $950. He muses what that money would buy him if he spent it on Lilly. Loneliness suffocates his intrinsic decency, overwhelming his basic goodness. He ponders whether the limits of her modesty would be tested by a sum that is almost half of her monthly income, money that could buy trinkets for her children – or more urgently, time away from work to spend it with them. He suspects that her decorum would be taxed by his generosity but that she would give in, reluctantly but with eyes wide open, to whatever he asked of her.
Paul sighs, gentility overtaking him, washing away dishonorable thoughts like waves engulfing sand crabs on a shore. He moves to Lilly’s table, where she is tidying up for the evening. She smiles at him and congratulates him on his winnings, telling him to come back to see her soon. Her facial expression turns from bright to confused when he places $950 on the card table and turns to walk away. “Paul,” she says, “Wait. Are you sure?” He knows she is wondering what she owes him in return. “Lilly,” he says, wishing that his words will be received as confident and playful, but knowing that she will, instead, witness his pain. “You are a wonderful human and mother. You make me happy to be here. Do something special for your remarkable family. You deserve it.”
Paul returns to his sturdy, loyal Honda sedan in the parking lot, its resolute steel form reminding him of responsible obligation. Before starting the engine, he dials his life insurance agent, and leaves a professionally concise voicemail message. “Hi Tom, Paul Winslet here. Hey, give me a call on Monday. I want to change the beneficiary of my American
General life insurance policy – the term policy that I took out a couple of years ago. I have a friend that needs the money more than my family members will. It will mean a lot to her. Thanks Tom.”
Paul guides his automobile home, hoping that solace will replace sadness as he walks in the front door.
I review my short story with dissatisfaction. I allow myself a shadow of appreciation for my willingness to accept a challenge where I am forced to direct my story – instead of allowing creativity to forge its own path. It is not too bad. Not only did I create something out of garbage, but my running path is a bit tidier for the effort.