NaNoWriMo - Day 2 (11/02/2005)
Not for the first time, today or otherwise, I wonder why I married him. I remember when we first met and started dating: he was so interesting and dynamic, so good-looking. I was interesting then too, and I wonder if I’ve changed as well? Not nearly as much as he has, that’s for sure.
There was a time when I really loved him, unlike now when I am barely able to stand him. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t love him. So why did he have to go and change? The problem with men is that they don’t know who they are; their identities are defined by the people in their lives, instead of the other way around. It’s like Joe Pesci says in that movie, Lethal Weapon, “They fuck you at the drive-through.” That’s what men do. You have a look at the menu, find what it is that you’re interested in and place your order. Then you drive up to the delivery window, pay for, and receive, your food, only to find out once you’re well on your way, when it’s too late to turn around and go back, that you didn’t get what you asked for. Not even close. Tuna, when you asked for chicken, or some other shit.
He is almost finished brushing his teeth. I can hear him hacking and spitting to get the toothpaste out of the back of his throat. He has this super-sensitive gag reflex and can’t stand it when he swallows a bit of toothpaste. It’s surprising that he hasn’t given up on brushing entirely and simply replaced his real teeth with dentures. That’s the kind of man my husband is. He regularly pukes just from brushing his teeth. I used to think he had a drinking problem, that he was sneaking it behind my back and puking in the morning. Then one Sunday, after we’d spent the evening alone together—again—I heard him throwing up again. He didn’t have a drop to drink the night before.
The door opens and out he comes. It’s about time. I’m going to be late for sure, now. I told him I wanted to leave in three minutes and he goes and takes five in the washroom. I rush past him, not sparing the time to even glare at him and quickly brush my own teeth. I don’t have the same problem he does, and I’m finished inside a minute.
“Let’s go,” I say, pulling on my overcoat. It’s drizzling out and I don’t want to get my uniform wet. “I need to leave right now. I’m already late as it is.”
“Sure, sure. Don’t sweat the money, Vanessa. I’ll make it up to you.”
Really, how? What an ass. He has no idea what goes on in my life, and he doesn’t really care. I lead him out the front door, not bothering to reply. This is our life together. He talks, I fume and we each go off to work. He’s so pathetic.
A cab is turning the corner as we walk down the steps together and I quickly put my fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp whistle to catch the driver’s attention.
“I’m late,” I tell him, stating the obvious. “I’m going to catch a taxi and see if I can make it on time.”
“Won’t the taxi cost you more than the 15 minutes of docked pay?”
“That’s not the point,” I tell him. I’m already opening the back door to the cab, throwing my stuff onto the back seat. “I have to go.”
Without a kiss, a look or another word, I jump in the taxi after my belongings and pull the door closed. As we pull away from the curb, I watch him watching me. He has this dumbfounded look on his face, which turns into a grimace as he tries to smile goodbye. He raises his hand as if to wave to me, but I don’t return the gesture.
The wiper blades make a clunking noise as I turn to face forwards and start my day.
~ Jimmy ~
I’m really in luck today. Mr. Cunningham is standing on the sidewalk, just outside his house. I pedal harder so I can reach him before he walks away or back inside.
“Mr. Cunningham!” I call to him. “Mr. Cunningham, wait up a second!”
He turns to look at me. I don’t think he recognizes my voice even though I’ve been delivering his newspaper every Saturday and Sunday for the last three years, since I was twelve. I’ve talked to him about a thousand times, for sure.
“Mr. Cunningham!” I pull up beside him, skidding a little on the wet sidewalk. He looks at me for another second before his eyes seem to clear up a little and he gives a little smile.
“Hi Jimmy,” he says slowly. “Didn’t recognize you there at first.”
Yea, because there are so many kids out in the rain on a Wednesday morning, all calling your name. Jeez, what a dope. I’ve always liked Mr. Cunningham, he’s a really nice guy, but man he’s a little slow sometimes. He always gives me a good tip though, so I can’t complain too much.
“What’s up?”
“I just wanted to talk to you about your yard. Christmas is coming up and I’d like to make some extra money so I can buy some nice presents for my mom and dad. I was wondering if you needed any help with your yard? I only charge ten bucks an hour.”
“I don’t know, Jimmy,” he starts. “The yard isn’t looking too bad this year.” I’ve heard this before though, and I know exactly how to hook him in.
“Okay, Mr. Cunningham, if you’re sure. I just thought that since you and Mrs. Cunningham haven’t been away very much, you might be planning to take some time off together. I could definitely help you out with your yard while you’re away and because you’ve been so good me with your newspaper subscription, I’ll give you a deal as long as you promise not to tell anyone else in the neighbourhood. I’ll do the work for eight bucks an hour instead of ten.” I’ve been reading some of my dad’s books on selling and negotiation.
“What do you mean, you’ve noticed we haven’t been away much?”
“Oh nothing, Mr. Cunningham. Just that I deliver your paper every Saturday and Sunday, and you’re always here. Plus, you know, I ride my bike around the neighbourhood and see you guys around. I mean, I see your car in the driveway. Say, Mr. Cunningham, how come you don’t drive your car to work every day?”
I’m getting off topic, and that’s one of the first rules of negotiation: stay focused on the goal. But it’s so strange, I mean, here’s this guy who obviously has a good job, nice clothes and a nice house, and his wife is pretty good-looking. She’s no Mrs. Abernathy, up the road, but she’s got a great pair of legs. But he’s always taking the bus to work.
“My office doesn’t have parking,” he says, which I guess makes sense. “Besides, gas is so expensive right now and driving is really bad for the environment. I should do like you, Jimmy, and get a bike to take to work.”
“Yea,” I say. I’m losing him. “About the yard, Mr. Cunningham, how about we just give it a try. I’ll only charge you seven bucks an hour—but you can’t tell anyone else, cause if they find out they’re paying more, they’ll be mad at me—and we’ll try it out for one weekend. Four hours a day, for two days is only $56. I promise you’ll have the best looking yard on the entire street.” I try and wink, but end up blinking instead. Gotta work on that one.
He laughs. “You’re very persistent. Your dad’s in sales, isn’t he?” I nod. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he says. I’m not sure what he means by that. I’ll have to remember to ask my dad. But right now, I’m about to land my first big fish, so I gotta concentrate. I can hear the city bus on the other side of the hill, closer to my house. It’s going to be here in a couple of minutes and then he’ll be gone.
“Listen, Mr. Cunningham. Let’s do this: I’ll come by on Saturday and work for four hours—if you don’t like my work I won’t come back on Sunday. And if you really don’t think I did a good job, you don’t even have to pay me for Saturday. What do you think?”
“Boy, you sure are persistent,” he says, still laughing. I don’t think he’s laughing at me, so I grin right along with him. I can sense my victory. Mr. Cunningham really is a pretty decent guy. He’s getting a little pudgy around the middle and he’s losing his hair on top, and dad sometimes calls him a ‘dork’ but I think he likes him well enough. I’m not quite sure how he got Mrs. Cunningham to marry him. He must have a big wang. That’s gotta be it. He scratches his leg with one hand and looks at the watch on his other arm.
“I’ll tell you what Jimmy. You come over on Saturday morning, say around ten o’clock, and we’ll have a look at what needs doing. You can do some of the work and I’ll do some of the work. You can be my apprentice. How’d that be?”
“That sounds great, Mr. C,” I tell him, grinning wildly. The bus is coming down the hill—the timing couldn’t be better. “Like I said, Christmas is right around the corner and I just want to earn some extra money so I can get my parents and my little brothers some nice presents this year.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at ten o’clock on Saturday then,” he tells me, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and flipping to his bus pass. “You’re going to have to earn your eight dollars an hour though Jimmy.”
Eight? My last offer was seven! I wonder if he forgot? The bus pulls up and the driver opens the door for Mr. Cunningham. He gives me a grin and then gets on the bus, showing the driver his pass as he steps on, then folds it back into his wallet and puts it into his pocket. As the bus starts to pull away from the curb Mr. Cunningham is walking back along the aisle, looking for a seat. He looks out the window at me, grins again, and gives me the thumbs up sign.
He’s not a bad guy, I think. Not bad at all.
Today’s word count: 1802
Cumulative word count: 3652
There was a time when I really loved him, unlike now when I am barely able to stand him. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t love him. So why did he have to go and change? The problem with men is that they don’t know who they are; their identities are defined by the people in their lives, instead of the other way around. It’s like Joe Pesci says in that movie, Lethal Weapon, “They fuck you at the drive-through.” That’s what men do. You have a look at the menu, find what it is that you’re interested in and place your order. Then you drive up to the delivery window, pay for, and receive, your food, only to find out once you’re well on your way, when it’s too late to turn around and go back, that you didn’t get what you asked for. Not even close. Tuna, when you asked for chicken, or some other shit.
He is almost finished brushing his teeth. I can hear him hacking and spitting to get the toothpaste out of the back of his throat. He has this super-sensitive gag reflex and can’t stand it when he swallows a bit of toothpaste. It’s surprising that he hasn’t given up on brushing entirely and simply replaced his real teeth with dentures. That’s the kind of man my husband is. He regularly pukes just from brushing his teeth. I used to think he had a drinking problem, that he was sneaking it behind my back and puking in the morning. Then one Sunday, after we’d spent the evening alone together—again—I heard him throwing up again. He didn’t have a drop to drink the night before.
The door opens and out he comes. It’s about time. I’m going to be late for sure, now. I told him I wanted to leave in three minutes and he goes and takes five in the washroom. I rush past him, not sparing the time to even glare at him and quickly brush my own teeth. I don’t have the same problem he does, and I’m finished inside a minute.
“Let’s go,” I say, pulling on my overcoat. It’s drizzling out and I don’t want to get my uniform wet. “I need to leave right now. I’m already late as it is.”
“Sure, sure. Don’t sweat the money, Vanessa. I’ll make it up to you.”
Really, how? What an ass. He has no idea what goes on in my life, and he doesn’t really care. I lead him out the front door, not bothering to reply. This is our life together. He talks, I fume and we each go off to work. He’s so pathetic.
A cab is turning the corner as we walk down the steps together and I quickly put my fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp whistle to catch the driver’s attention.
“I’m late,” I tell him, stating the obvious. “I’m going to catch a taxi and see if I can make it on time.”
“Won’t the taxi cost you more than the 15 minutes of docked pay?”
“That’s not the point,” I tell him. I’m already opening the back door to the cab, throwing my stuff onto the back seat. “I have to go.”
Without a kiss, a look or another word, I jump in the taxi after my belongings and pull the door closed. As we pull away from the curb, I watch him watching me. He has this dumbfounded look on his face, which turns into a grimace as he tries to smile goodbye. He raises his hand as if to wave to me, but I don’t return the gesture.
The wiper blades make a clunking noise as I turn to face forwards and start my day.
~ Jimmy ~
I’m really in luck today. Mr. Cunningham is standing on the sidewalk, just outside his house. I pedal harder so I can reach him before he walks away or back inside.
“Mr. Cunningham!” I call to him. “Mr. Cunningham, wait up a second!”
He turns to look at me. I don’t think he recognizes my voice even though I’ve been delivering his newspaper every Saturday and Sunday for the last three years, since I was twelve. I’ve talked to him about a thousand times, for sure.
“Mr. Cunningham!” I pull up beside him, skidding a little on the wet sidewalk. He looks at me for another second before his eyes seem to clear up a little and he gives a little smile.
“Hi Jimmy,” he says slowly. “Didn’t recognize you there at first.”
Yea, because there are so many kids out in the rain on a Wednesday morning, all calling your name. Jeez, what a dope. I’ve always liked Mr. Cunningham, he’s a really nice guy, but man he’s a little slow sometimes. He always gives me a good tip though, so I can’t complain too much.
“What’s up?”
“I just wanted to talk to you about your yard. Christmas is coming up and I’d like to make some extra money so I can buy some nice presents for my mom and dad. I was wondering if you needed any help with your yard? I only charge ten bucks an hour.”
“I don’t know, Jimmy,” he starts. “The yard isn’t looking too bad this year.” I’ve heard this before though, and I know exactly how to hook him in.
“Okay, Mr. Cunningham, if you’re sure. I just thought that since you and Mrs. Cunningham haven’t been away very much, you might be planning to take some time off together. I could definitely help you out with your yard while you’re away and because you’ve been so good me with your newspaper subscription, I’ll give you a deal as long as you promise not to tell anyone else in the neighbourhood. I’ll do the work for eight bucks an hour instead of ten.” I’ve been reading some of my dad’s books on selling and negotiation.
“What do you mean, you’ve noticed we haven’t been away much?”
“Oh nothing, Mr. Cunningham. Just that I deliver your paper every Saturday and Sunday, and you’re always here. Plus, you know, I ride my bike around the neighbourhood and see you guys around. I mean, I see your car in the driveway. Say, Mr. Cunningham, how come you don’t drive your car to work every day?”
I’m getting off topic, and that’s one of the first rules of negotiation: stay focused on the goal. But it’s so strange, I mean, here’s this guy who obviously has a good job, nice clothes and a nice house, and his wife is pretty good-looking. She’s no Mrs. Abernathy, up the road, but she’s got a great pair of legs. But he’s always taking the bus to work.
“My office doesn’t have parking,” he says, which I guess makes sense. “Besides, gas is so expensive right now and driving is really bad for the environment. I should do like you, Jimmy, and get a bike to take to work.”
“Yea,” I say. I’m losing him. “About the yard, Mr. Cunningham, how about we just give it a try. I’ll only charge you seven bucks an hour—but you can’t tell anyone else, cause if they find out they’re paying more, they’ll be mad at me—and we’ll try it out for one weekend. Four hours a day, for two days is only $56. I promise you’ll have the best looking yard on the entire street.” I try and wink, but end up blinking instead. Gotta work on that one.
He laughs. “You’re very persistent. Your dad’s in sales, isn’t he?” I nod. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he says. I’m not sure what he means by that. I’ll have to remember to ask my dad. But right now, I’m about to land my first big fish, so I gotta concentrate. I can hear the city bus on the other side of the hill, closer to my house. It’s going to be here in a couple of minutes and then he’ll be gone.
“Listen, Mr. Cunningham. Let’s do this: I’ll come by on Saturday and work for four hours—if you don’t like my work I won’t come back on Sunday. And if you really don’t think I did a good job, you don’t even have to pay me for Saturday. What do you think?”
“Boy, you sure are persistent,” he says, still laughing. I don’t think he’s laughing at me, so I grin right along with him. I can sense my victory. Mr. Cunningham really is a pretty decent guy. He’s getting a little pudgy around the middle and he’s losing his hair on top, and dad sometimes calls him a ‘dork’ but I think he likes him well enough. I’m not quite sure how he got Mrs. Cunningham to marry him. He must have a big wang. That’s gotta be it. He scratches his leg with one hand and looks at the watch on his other arm.
“I’ll tell you what Jimmy. You come over on Saturday morning, say around ten o’clock, and we’ll have a look at what needs doing. You can do some of the work and I’ll do some of the work. You can be my apprentice. How’d that be?”
“That sounds great, Mr. C,” I tell him, grinning wildly. The bus is coming down the hill—the timing couldn’t be better. “Like I said, Christmas is right around the corner and I just want to earn some extra money so I can get my parents and my little brothers some nice presents this year.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at ten o’clock on Saturday then,” he tells me, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and flipping to his bus pass. “You’re going to have to earn your eight dollars an hour though Jimmy.”
Eight? My last offer was seven! I wonder if he forgot? The bus pulls up and the driver opens the door for Mr. Cunningham. He gives me a grin and then gets on the bus, showing the driver his pass as he steps on, then folds it back into his wallet and puts it into his pocket. As the bus starts to pull away from the curb Mr. Cunningham is walking back along the aisle, looking for a seat. He looks out the window at me, grins again, and gives me the thumbs up sign.
He’s not a bad guy, I think. Not bad at all.
Today’s word count: 1802
Cumulative word count: 3652
posted by Paul Keetch at 8:15 AM
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