Afternoon Gloom
by David Michael
Tim opened the door wearing his typical slept-in flannel and blue jeans couture, with his short hair sticking out in enough directions you could use him for a manga. He looked at me, and said, “Another rejection, eh?”
My attempt at a nonchalant, just happy to be there look fell away. “That obvious?”
“Why else do you come over?” Tim asked.
“Maybe I want to see if you’re still wearing the same clothes as the last time I was here.”
“I remember you took those clothes off me,” he said, “last time you were here.”
I smiled. “Yeah. That was fun. And necessary. How long had you worn that same shirt?”
He gave me a sleepy, come-hither smile. “I’ve been wearing this shirt since Tuesday.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. You going to let me in?”
He moved out of the door so I would have a clear path into the murky, disheveled darkness that was his apartment. He closed the door behind me, blocking out the sun. I felt him move past me as I waited for my eyes to adjust.
“You want a beer?” he asked from the direction of the countertop-with-stove-and-dishwasher part of the apartment that the brochure claimed was the “kitchen”.
“Too early for a beer,” I replied. “Got any of that bottled water left?”
“Sure. It’s not like I drink it.”
“You need to drink more water,” I said.
He made a noncommittal noise.
I could make out the shape of the couch now, so I moved over to that. I picked up one edge of the quilted comforter that covered the couch and flipped it back, clearing a space to sit on.
“And you probably need more company too,” I added. “Let your adoring public know where you live, so they can keep you company when I’m not here.”
I heard the hiss of his beer opening. He didn’t respond. He usually didn’t. He liked being anonymous. I’ve never understood that.
He appeared out of the gloom with a beer in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other. He handed me the water, then sat on the other end of the couch, on top of the comforter.
I opened my water, and he took a drink of his beer. Neither of us said anything for a couple minutes.
“I think you need a better post-rejection ritual,” he said.
He was right. But that didn’t mean I wanted to hear it. “If that’s the way you feel about it,” I said, and started to get up.
“Don’t be like that,” he said.
I kept going. I picked my way through the shadows and detritus that littered his floor, making my way back to the door.
“Damn it, Becky, sit down.”
“No,” I said. “You’re right. I gotta stop coming over here every time I get a rejection letter. Another rejection letter. One after the other.”
“That’s not what I meant–”
“After all, all it gets me is laid–and you laid too, now I think about it–and when it’s over, I’m still just a wannabe writer, playing the groupie to the great Tim Otero.”
He got up from the couch, and slipped around it to get between me and the door. “That’s not what I meant,” he said again.
I tried to glare at him, but it’s hard when you’re not sure if your eyes can even be seen. “Fine. So what did you mean?”
“I mean you gotta stop celebrating your failures.”
“And here I thought it was sympathy sex–”
“Don’t change the subject, Becky.”
“I thought that was the subject,” I said before he could continue. “Me and my tendency to come over and seduce my favorite writer–”
“I’m not your favorite writer.”
“Well, no, not recently. That bizarre other world fantasy crap never appealed to me. But that’s beside the point.” I paused. Then I added, “At least, I think that’s beside the point.” I crossed my arms. “So tell me then, Mr. Otero, what was your point?”
He took a breath, let it out slow. I smelled the fresh beer on his breath. “Look,” he said, “you’re a great writer.”
“The editors of the world don’t agree with you,” I said.
“Are you going to shut up and let me say this?”
I hate being told to “shut up.” Even by famous writers that I sleep with. “No,” I said, and tried to push past him.
“Damn it. Stop. I’m trying to help–”
“Help someone else with your speech,” I said. “And help me by getting the hell out of my way.”
“No!” He made a wall out of himself, blocking my path. “Look,” he went on, “you’re a great writer, Becky. Maybe better than me–”
That got my attention. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I can be flattered. I was still pissed off at him, but I paused. And in the pause I started to feel my frustration again, the urge to cry that I’d been fighting since I opened the rejection letter. The twenty-fifth rejection letter this year. Ten stories, twenty-five rejections. Not a great ratio. I felt again the pain I was trying to get away from by coming over here.
He must’ve put down the beer while I floundered there, trying not to start crying, because next thing I knew he had his hands on my shoulders, his fingers giving me a supportive, comforting squeeze.
“You’ll make it,” he said. “I know you will.”
“Thanks–” I started to choke out, my voice tight with suppressed sadness and–maybe–a little bit of affection.
“I’m not done,” he said.
I blinked, pushing tears out of my eyes, and I looked up at him, waiting for him to continue.
“You’ll make it,” he repeated. “But you need to remember something.”
“Remember what?” I asked.
“You need to remember why you started.”
I slumped, but he didn’t let go of me. It felt like he was holding me up now. Probably because he was holding me up. I wanted him to pull me close, give me a hug, take me back to the couch–but he just held me up. The gentle, understanding bastard. I sighed. “But I’m so tired,” I said. “I just want …” I looked up at his face again. “I want to win,” I said. “I’m tired of losing.”
“You’re not losing,” he said.
“Yeah? That’s what it feels like to me. Over and over.”
“You’re not losing–”
“You need to stop repeating yourself,” I said.
“That’s what my editor says too. But you’re not. Losing, I mean.”
“Right,” I said. I pushed the tears out of my eyes with a knuckle, and shrugged to get him to let go of my shoulders. He didn’t. “You can say that. But I got twenty-five letters at home that all say ‘you lose’.”
“And yet, you keep writing more stories and sending them out.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing to point out. ‘Winners never quit, quitters never win. But if you never win and never quit …’ ” I trailed off. I didn’t want to call myself an idiot. “It was so easy for you–”
He snorted.
“It was,” I insisted. “You just sat down, churned out a novel, sent it out and bang! you’re published. It’s not fair.”
“I remember it being more painful than that,” he said, “but, yeah, it’s not fair. But,” he added, “that doesn’t mean you’re losing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I also keep saying you’re a great writer. But you never seem to hear that part.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’m not, and you know it,” he said. “And, to continue repeating myself, you need to remember why you started writing in the first place.”
“I like writing,” I said. “I like telling stories.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And you would be writing stories even if I wasn’t here, taunting you with my success–such as it is–and pushing you to submit your stories. Over and over.”
I sniffed. “And getting rejected, over and over. Have I told you ‘thank you’ for that lately?”
“You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Becky,” he said.
“If I don’t do it,” I asked, “who will?”
“Shh,” he said. He finally pulled me close to him, and wrapped his arms around me.
I breathed in his peculiar, not totally unpleasant musk, then asked, “So it’s OK if I keep losing?”
“You’re not–” he started, then stopped. “Only if you keep writing,” he said. “Because you can’t lose forever.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s not fair,” I said, repeating myself.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s not.”
Copyright © 2006 by David Michael.
Reversal
