Hello, What I have thought about (since my English teacher brought it up) is that a Manuscript (MS) before it is edited, should be exactly the way the author want it. It should be the best it can be. I should have the words the author wants to use. Has my MS reached this state of being? NO. It is not revised to be the best it can be. Not Yet. But it is getting closer, really!! I wrote the end yesterday and I like it. I think it brings everything full circle and completes the story well. I still have holes, and I think I repeated myself and I need to delete scenes, but I am really really liking the story. It's fun, and engaging, light in some ways and heavy in others. I want it to be spectacular, so I guess I am putting undue pressure on myself. Oh well. It is the way I am.
Another dilemma I have is the blurb. Although the story is basically about Nick and RC (as in the blurb) there is so much more going on then that. And so many more characters. I am probably going to rewrite the blurb when I'm finished the MS. I want the blurb to convey more of the whole picture.
I also sketched a cover. This is what I picture. Lite Brown background. A grey pile of stones in the upper left corner next to a pile of dark brown sticks. Cute guy of course (Nick). and a sheet of white labels on the bottom, filled out in all the terms people use to bully and bash others with. This is the cover image I keep thinking of. I want that. Don't know if I'll end up with it, but it is what I want.
So, without intending to "tease" anyone, here is chapter 2. Rough and unrefined, but still....
Chapter
2
Marcy
Work. I like it, but I hate it. When I’m
bummed about whatever, I just don’t want to be here. Day in and day out, it’s
the same old thing. Maybe that’s the reason this is my first long-term job? I
get bored too fast and I need to move on.
I worked for Sprint for two months and
got an employee discount for a Galaxy II phone by Samsung. That was neat. I’d
never had a smart phone before, so working for Sprint paid off. But I didn’t
really care much about selling phones. I also worked for a mortgage company for
six weeks, but I’m not really the salesman type. I closed one deal and made
nine hundred bucks, but it was too much work. Then, I worked for Safeway in the
deli department, but I didn’t like the manager’s constant bitching. After that
I worked as a bank teller, and although counting other people’s money was super
cool, the job had too many requirements. The bank wanted me to learn about
selling IRA’s and home loans and shit; it wasn’t for me.
So now I’m here—Papa’s Pizzaria. I make
pizza for a living, and sometimes sandwiches, but the point is, it’s all food.
One of the cashiers, Marcy—she’s pretty—is teaching me how to ring people up on
the cash register. (Broadening my skills, as it were.) The boss moves me from
one job to another so often that I’m not bored yet, and I like the manager most
of the time. Result: I’ve kept the same job long enough for my mom to be proud.
Go me!
When Mom said that, it made me smile. I
don’t think she’s ever said she was proud of me before. My dad did a few times
when I got good grades in school, but Mom has always been hard to read. I’ve
wondered what she thought of me. Now at least I knew she’s proud, so I am
holding onto this job as long as I can. I might even get another raise.
After the morning’s reminiscence of
Corey, the last thing I needed was twenty questions from Marcy. (The cashier
whom I said was pretty.) She is pretty, and nice, but she’s also extremely
talkative and nosey and pushy, not to mention out to get me into bed. Oh, the
life I lead.
Being God’s gift to woman as I am, it’s
never created an issue unless it was with someone I worked with. I learned that
on my first job—not the Sprint store, but one at Dairy Queen. I had gotten
caught in the back seat of a girl’s car during break with my tongue down her
throat and my hand down her pants. She happened to be the owner’s daughter and
I was fired on the spot. After that, it became a personal rule—no dating in the
workplace. Now, if I left the job, or got fired, all women who worked for the
previous employer were fair game. I’m not completely stupid.
So, Marcy, she was becoming a problem. So
far, I’d been able to fend her off because I was technically dating Chrissy. I
tended to be a one-woman guy and I could stick to my guns around Marcy. Chrissy
was it, so she’d have to deal. But now….
Oh,
God. What would Marcy say about our break-up? Worse, what would she do?
It’s not like I wasn’t attracted to her,
I was. In fact, her long black curls and stunning green eyes were exactly my
vision of perfection, but she worked with me. I couldn’t date her. Girls rarely
stuck around after being with me. Why, I didn’t know. I kind of liked Marcy,
and I wanted to keep her in my life for more than six months. If we fucked, I’d
lose what little we had growing between us. I didn’t have friends, so Marcy and
I had to remain platonic.
As soon as I put a lid on the chicken
noodle soup I finished scooping for a customer’s order, I saw Marcy bouncing my
way and I cringed. I had to tell her about Chrissy, but I feared her reaction.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” she
exclaimed, bouncing over like a brunette bunny, bristling with the energy level
that only teenagers on Nos Energy Drink could attain.
I really wasn’t in the mood for whatever
had revved her up. I had too much on my mind already and I needed quiet. “What
is it Marcy?” I asked halfheartedly.
She leaned in extra close and whispered,
“That guy at the counter is staring at you.”
I shifted my eyes to the customer at the
counter, and then back to Marcy. “No, he’s staring at the menu board.”
“No, I swear, he walked through the door
and did a double-take in your direction. He thinks you’re hot.” She lifted her
eyes brows and smirked.
“Everybody thinks I’m hot,” I corrected.
Internally, I was thinking, But he’s a
guy, Nick! I turned away and picked up a chopping implement and proceeded
to take out my surge of aggression on the steak I was cooking. The
metal-on-metal sound hurt my ears but I didn’t care. I was angry at her
insinuation. When I spoke, I made sure my voice was low enough that the scruffy
looking dude at the counter couldn’t hear me. “Marcy, how many times do I have
to tell you, I’m not gay.” Why, of all
days, does she have to bring it up—again? I tossed some onions and green
peppers on the grill and squirted some oil on them.
Marcy walked away and took that guy’s
order. I finished one sub and threw some burgers on the grill for the next as
Marcy waltzed back over. She hung the ticket up on the metal strip above my
head and crossed her arms over her chest. She
wasn’t leaving if I knew that look.
“Oh come on. Aren’t you at least a teensy-weensy bit interested? After all, you did say you dated a guy last year.”
Why
did I ever have to mention Corey to her? I’ll never learn!
I stopped mid-chop and glared at her. I was mad and she might as well get the
full blast through my look if I couldn’t shout at her in the workplace.
“No, I didn’t,” I replied sternly. “I
said we hung out a few times. A few! Hanging out with a guy doesn’t equate to
dating. Okay? And hanging out doesn’t make me gay.” (Although sex might, but I
was in denial about that.)
I didn’t understand what the big deal was,
and why Marcy, as well as the other girls I’ve met, got so hyped-up over guys
hanging out together? And God forbid I mention that I kissed Corey. Marcy might
end up squealing like Dawn did last year at M-L’s house when I kissed him for
the first time. I did it. It was done. And I hadn’t thought of going out with
Corey for almost five months—until my mom brought it up this morning.
No matter how much I wanted to be left
alone, something inside would not let it go. I grumbled more as I cooked. “If
hanging out made guys gay, then all guys would be gay. We hangout, it’s what we
do!”
She wasn’t put off by my assertiveness.
“Then maybe you’re bi?” she quipped.
I exhaled loud enough to be heard at the
counter. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! I told you I’m not. I date girls. Several. Just
because Chrissy and I aren’t on the best of terms doesn’t negate that.” I
turned my attention back to preparing the cheese steak sub for my ticket, while
Marcy stood there watching. Why was she watching? Surely she had better things
to do than wait for this order and stare at me?
“Nick, come on, it’s no big deal. Gay is
the new straight,” she said cheerily.
I almost missed the roll as I transferred
the meat from the grill. “What? No it’s not! And what the hell does that even
mean?”
My melodramatic coworker placed her hands
on her hips. “You don’t have to get all snippy about it. I was just saying….”
I gawked. “Saying what? I don’t even
understand what you mean.” I tucked in the meat, and turned, with the sub in my
hands, to the workstation behind me so I could wrap it up to go. As I rolled it
in wax paper and aluminum foil, Marcy rattled on.
“I mean that being gay is no big deal
anymore. You know? Like it used to be a big scandalous act that got kids beat
up and stuff, but now it’s more like… like the cool thing to be. Like if you’re
gay, you’re in.”
I handed her the wrapped sub and an order
of fries and tilted my head to the side. “You have no idea what you’re talking
about.”
“Sure I do!” She said, as she bagged the
order and called for number twenty-three through the microphone. After Marcy
handed the order to the customer who claimed it, she turned back to me. Of
course she turned back to me. I was the newest guy in town and she had some
deep, sadistic need to figure me out. Today, she was convinced I’m gay. Joy.
“No, you don’t,” I insisted, standing my
ground. I might not know loads about being gay, but I knew she didn’t either. “I’m
not sure what planet you live on, but around here, gay isn’t ‘cool’ it’s more
like a disease that others hope not to catch.”
“Oh come on, Nick, it’s not that bad.”
“Yes, yes it is! Remember when that
chicken place up the road had all its patrons rallying to show their support against same-sex marriage. This town is
full of right-wing extremists who’d like nothing more than to kick every last
gay person out!” (I was exaggerating, but I needed to for Marcy’s sake.)
Her eyes lit up instantly and she snapped
her fingers. “So you admit that you’re gay!”
“No!”
“But you’re not against it.”
I threw my hands out to the side. “No. I’m
for letting people live their own lives. Gay or straight. I just happen to be
straight. Very straight. Like an arrow.”
“You know what they say about people who
protest too much.” Marcy wagged an accusatory finger at me.
“Stop, okay? Just stop. I hate when you
do that. It’s like beating a dead animal with a stick—it doesn’t get you
anywhere.” I was so done talking about it. I started wiping down my work area
as a way of distracting myself. I wish I’d stayed home in my nice warm bed and
never woke up to a day with Mom asking about Corey, M-L telling me she’s a
lesbian, and Marcy playing matchmaker with me and a male customer who might
have been looking in my direction. I was sooo done. When does my shift end?
Marcy shrugged her shoulders. “No. I
guess not. You’re hot whether you’re gay or straight, and I’d still want to go
out with you. I can’t blame Scruffy Dude for stealing a glimpse of your squeezable
ass.”
Oh
my God. Shoot me now!
She used the very same term I used to describe him and it irritated me even
more. Why do we have to think alike?
I looked up and caught saw her expression.
It was all “teasing and flirty” and reminded me of Dawn a few years back. Marcy
couldn’t pull off “floozy”, so every time she tried flirting I couldn’t hide my
smirk. I knew the corner of my mouth would not remain firm for long. It was
curving. Up it went. Traitor. I couldn’t help it. I was smiling and my anger
waned. She did have a way of making me laugh with all her winking and sexual
innuendo and comments about my great body.
I was
pretty damn hot.
But still, there was that other side of me
that was done with hearing her rant over something she clearly knew nothing
about—homosexuality. She was talking
out of her ass and had no clue. But could I really say something? I wasn’t gay
either.
I chose to ignore all her smack about my
“squeezable ass”, and about her insinuation that I’m gay, and question her
nicknaming the customers. That was neutral ground. Why would she do that anyway? “So you’ve dubbed him ‘scruffy
dude’?” I asked. “What’s next, are you going to create a nickname for everyone
who comes in?” That guy was sort of
scruffy, even twenty feet away from the counter I noticed he needed a shave,
but to point that out (out loud) seemed rude.
“Yes,” she answered promptly. “I already
have a name for all the regulars who dine-in.”
“What? No way.” I found that mildly
amusing. I put my chicken cheese steak on the roll and handed it to Marcy.
“Here, this is Scruffy Dude’s sub.” I accidentally went along with her dubbed
title.
Marcy’s eyes glinted when she heard me
use her term. We did get along well for the most part. She took the sub and put
it on a tray. “If you don’t believe me, then come up here after you’re done
that tuna sandwich and I’ll point the customers out one at a time.”
“Okay, deal.” I made a point not to look
up at the counter when the scruffy guy picked up his tray of food. I kept my eyes
glued to the sandwich—thank you very much. It was a very nice sandwich. Cut
evenly, with the lettuce all tucked under the bread. I make the best-looking
food around.
I saw movement peripherally and I knew
Scruffy Dude was gone. I relaxed my shoulders and took my beautiful tuna sandwich
to the counter. I called the number over the microphone and handed the tray to
the customer. When he walked away, I noticed Marcy over by the ice cream
machine; she was texting on her phone. How scandalous!
“Marcy! What are you doing?” I hissed as
I walked over to her. True, no one in the restaurant noticed, but this was
still a work place and she could get in trouble for it. (I’m a rule-follower
for the most part.) “You know you could get into trouble. The boss said no
texting during work.”
“Then we should date.”
“What?” Shock, confusion, and a general
WTF went through my brain. “No. What? I’m dating Chrissy!” Or I was until this morning.
“If you’re as straight as you say you are,
then we should go out. You know Chrissy wouldn’t mind. I just got a text from Deena
that said she saw Chrissy kissing Terrell Burke. That means she’s cheating on
you. You should dump her and date me. I’d be loyal. I promise.” Marcy
accentuated her point by crossing her fingers over her heart and holding up
three fingers. I’m pretty sure that was the Boy Scout sign and salute, but I
didn’t need to drag her off on some tangent about being a scout. I had too many
conversations going on with Marcy at one time to add another. My brain could
only handle so much.
I replied, “No. I told you I don’t date
people I work with. And besides, I know about Terrell. He said he didn’t know
she was seeing me at the same time. Chrissy and I already talked about it.” I
knew I should tell her the truth—truth, always truth—my mom told me that.
“Besides, we broke up this morning.”
Her eyes lit up instantly. “You did? Why
didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t want to think about it.
We’ve been on and off for a long time and it’s draining. Can’t we just drop the
subject?” I hoped she would.
She frowned. “I’m sorry it’s been hard.”
Marcy reached out and rubbed my arm. She’s nice that way. “You know Chrissy
wasn’t good for you, right?” She sounded sincere and that made me feel good.
Then she had to ruin it by adding “But still, we should go out,” with a perky
change of expression. Why does she have to persist so much? “I could make you
forget about that cheater.” Now she was pouting and sticking out her lip. God, I can’t handle it!
“No, Marcy. I already told you why; we work together.”
She bit her lip and squinched-up her
eyes. Oh no, “contemplative” Marcy! “Is
it my boobs? It’s my boobs, isn’t it? They’re too small. I know guys like big
boobs. Mine are a C-cup. That’s too small for you, isn’t it? You look like a
double-D kind of guy to me.”
I think I was more annoyed at her prattle
about her boobs than I was about her talk about homosexuality. Or even about
Scruffy Dude looking at me. I didn’t fucking care about her boobs. I had never
really understood the fascination over breasts anyway. I liked nipples, but all
that extra flesh just flopped around. I told her, “No, they’re fine Marcy.” I
was getting a headache.
“Oh really?” She peeped, pleaded as
punch, stepping closer and leaning her C-cup boobs my way. “Then we should go
out.”
“No. Stop. Just… stop.” I backed up and
walked back over to my station. I wiped the cutting board and straightening the
boxes of wax paper as I went. I had to look busy or she’d never leave me alone.
As I thought she would, she followed me. “You’re giving me a headache, Marcy.
Can you just… go away?” Honesty is the best policy. (Again, a lesson from Mom.)
Marcy didn’t look happy, but she didn’t say anything either.
Luckily, a customer fake-coughed behind
her to get Marcy’s attention. She turned and the conversation was dropped. And
it stayed that way for several more hours. Thank God!
I went home with a migraine. Too much
thinking. This was why girls drove me crazy. How could one girl think up so
many different things to talk about in the same conversation? It was
exhausting. One subject at a time, please.
I didn’t even eat dinner; I went straight
to my room. Today was draining. I took out my phone and opened the pictures
folder. Corey, I sighed. Why was I so
attached to him? He wasn’t that special. He didn’t fawn all over me, and he
didn’t compliment my body constantly like Marcy did. Corey was somewhat
detached, actually. As I said before, we mostly fucked. Then why was I missing
his company so much?
I turned my phone off and went to sleep,
confused.