  Short Stories
This week: Same Old Lang Syne Edited by: Shannon  
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Welcome to the Short Stories Newsletter I am Shannon , and I'm your editor this week. |
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I'd like to start 2011 off with a New Year's story inspired by a beautiful song about love, loss, regret, and new beginnings.
Happy New Year, everyone!
Same Old Lang Syne
by Shannon Chapel
Publishing a novel is brutal these days. Publishers expect you to market yourself and your book, and the tour takes a real toll on you. Thirty cities in fifty days. Yesterday I did a signing at the Barnes & Noble in Boise--my hometown. My family moved away years ago, so I stayed at Hyatt Place Boise/Towne Square--a short five-minute walk away.
Boise's never gotten much snow, but this year it must've snowed just for me. I wrapped my jacket tight around me and ducked my head to keep out the chill. Cars and trucks sloshed past me on Milwaukee Street as the snow continued to fall.
I'd brought along my HP Mini 110, just in case I got time to write. The signing would most likely be like all the others: a few people here, a few people there. I was obligated for four hours: 7:00-11:00 p.m. I could tap out a lot of words in four hours, especially when I was in the groove. I opened the door, stomped the slush off my feet and walked inside.
"Welcome home, Mr. Buchanan! Thank you so much for coming." The Barnes & Noble employee greeted me as soon as I walked through the door. "Are you ready for ... oh my goodness, you're soaked!"
"Kale. Call me Kale. Yeah, it's a little wetter here than I remember. Can I use your bathroom?" I asked. "Maybe get dried off a bit before--"
"Yes, of course. Right over there--straight back. When you're ready, we've got your table set up right by Starbucks ... right in the center of the store. Can I get you something warm to drink? You look like you could use it."
"That would be fabulous," I said, shrugging off my coat. "I'd love a Venti extra-hot Chai Tea Latte, please ... and thank you."
I washed up, dried myself off and set up camp. As expected, things were slow. One fan here, another fan there. I smiled, made the obligatory, "Thank you for coming in tonight. What's your name, hon? How do you spell that?" and "I'd love to take a picture with you," small talk and waited for the next buyer to come along. The atmosphere was inviting--cozy, even--and I smiled in spite of myself at the nostalgic Christmas tunes that played in the background as I banged out a few words on my WIP in between customers. I glanced at my watch: thirty more minutes.
Authors are, if nothing else, masters of time management. 2,000 words a day is still 2,000 words a day whether you write them in one sitting or fifteen. I learned early on to embrace each and every spare moment and use it to my advantage. How I achieve my writing goals doesn't really matter as long as I achieve them. At least that's what my publisher tells me.
I stopped typing when I heard the familiar piano intro of Dan Fogelberg's Same Old Lang Syne, closed my eyes, and smiled. No matter how many times I hear it, that song always makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Met my old lover in the grocery store.
The snow was falling Christmas Eve.
I stole behind her in the frozen foods
and I touched her on the sleeve.
She didn't recognize the face at first,
but then her eyes flew open wide.
She went to hug me and she spilled her purse,
and we laughed until we cried.
"Hello, Kale."
I opened my eyes to see a beautiful brunette standing in front of me. The fact that she'd called me by my first name was a bit unexpected, but then again it wasn't the first time it'd happened: lots of fans address me by my first name. They feel they know me through my writing ... a kinship of sorts.
"Hello." I reached out for the book she held in her hand. "Is this for you or is it a gift? Who should I address it to?"
"You don't recognize me, do you?" She looked embarrassed and a little disappointed. "You can make it out to Olivia."
I swear my heart stopped beating. I must've looked the fool sitting there with my mouth hanging open for God knows how long before I was able to mutter, "Olivia Donaldson?"
"Olivia Donaldson-Dubois, to be exact," she smiled. "You look ... you look really good, Kale. How have you been?"
Olivia Donaldson, my high school sweetheart. We'd dated all through twelfth grade, splitting up the summer before we started college. She was going west, I was going east, and neither of us could see the sense of subjecting ourselves or each other to a long-distance relationship. They rarely worked, and we knew it. We kept in touch for a little while, but as is usually the case when you're eighteen, out of sight meant out of mind, and by Christmas we'd stopped talking altogether. That was twenty-two years ago, almost to the day.
"I've been good," I said, still dumbfounded by the coincidence. "Wow, small world, huh? What are the odds?" I chuckled nervously. "Judging by the hyphenated last name, I assume you're married?" I looked over Olivia's shoulder at another woman waiting to have her book signed. I glanced once again at my watch. "Hey," I whispered, motioning to the waiting woman. "I've got another twenty minutes here. You feel like grabbing a bite to eat after?"
Olivia looked over her shoulder and blushed. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, that sounds great." She apologized to the woman again and pointed to a corner table. "I'll just wait over there, whenever you're ready. No hurry."
The next twenty minutes lasted an eternity. As soon as the clock struck 11:00 I packed up, squared with the bookstore, grabbed my coat and laptop and extended a hand to Olivia.
"You ready?" I asked.
"Where shall we go?" she asked when we stepped outside. "Boise kind of closes up shop after 10:00. IHOP is open twenty-four hours, though. It's just around the corner on Emerald."
"IHOP sounds great. Just don't make me order Moons Over My Hammy. I could never bring myself to order something that sounds so ridiculous."
"That's Denny's," she laughed. "But IHOP does have a pretty good breakfast sampler that comes with ham, bacon and sausage. I remember what a meat lover you are."
"Yum. Wait ... what's it called?"
"Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity."
"Really? Oh man, you're killing me here!"
"Just kidding," she laughed. "It's called the Breakfast Sampler."
I suddenly felt as if I'd been transported back in time--that nothing had changed. I wasn't a forty-year-old single man living out of a suitcase six months of the year. She hadn't really married someone else. We hadn't really spent the past twenty-two years apart. It was like we were back in high school, and I felt as comfortable with her, adored her as much as I ever did.
I moved a wisp of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. "I see you haven't changed much," I said.
She blushed and lowered her head.
"Still not very good with compliments, huh?"
"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "Let's get going. I'm starving."
"Have you noticed how hard it is to find a good cup of coffee these days? I'm talking about real coffee, not that frou-frou stuff they sell on every corner."
She nodded and sipped. "Tell me about it. Pretty sad state of affairs when McDonald's has the best joe in town."
"So, tell me about you," I said. "What have you been up to the last twenty years?"
"Hmm, let's see. Well, I graduated with my nursing degree in 1992. I did bedside care for about ten years, then applied for a D.O.N. position here in town. I've been doing that ever since."
"D.O.N.?"
"Director of Nursing. It pays well, and we have a great group of nurses. I actually love my job. How many people can say that?"
"And your husband?"
She averted her eyes--something she's always done when she doesn't want to talk about something. "We met when I was in nursing school. He's a nurse anesthetist. Back then he worked at the hospital where I did most of my clinicals. We married in 1995."
I wondered if eating dinner with a married woman was wrong. Did the fact that we were old friends make it okay? Maybe that made it worse--that we used to be lovers. I wondered if her husband would care. I wondered if I'd care if I were married and my wife went out to dinner with an old flame. What if he found out? Would this meal cause Olivia unnecessary problems?
"Do you have any children?" I asked.
"No. Jack--that's my husband--Jack never really wanted children. He says he's too busy to be a father. I wish I'd known that before we married," Olivia said nervously.
"I'm sorry, Liv," I said, holding her hand. "I really am. Hey, I can beat that. I'm forty and have never been married. Hell, I haven't even been in a serious relationship since you and I broke up."
"What? You can't be serious!" She looked incredulous.
"As a heart attack. I graduated with my MFA in creative writing in 1993 and have been working like a madman ever since. My writing is my mistress. I'm loyal to her, and she never lets me down."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Kale. I always thought you'd make a wonderful husband and father. You've always been so thoughtful and kind ... and funny! Women love men with a sense of humor."
I didn't know what to say, so I settled on, "Thank you."
"I see you in magazines and on television every once in a while. I don't usually read or watch you, though."
"Why?"
She hesitated. "It makes me sad. Seeing you makes me sad. I wonder if I made a mistake all those years ago. I ... oh, never mind."
I squeezed her hands and whispered, "Go on."
"I wonder what could have been."
"Me too."
We sat there for a long time just holding each other's hands. We were comfortable in our shared silence, just as we'd always been. I began to feel this sickening ache in the pit of my stomach; it finally dawned on me that it was longing--longing and regret.
"Would you sign my book for me?" she asked.
"I forgot that part, didn't I?" I smiled. "As long as you promise not to read it until you get home."
"Deal."
I scrawled,
To Olivia, the only girl I've ever loved. In twenty-two years, no one else has even come close.
Thank you for the memories.
Love, Kale
"Thank you," she said, taking the book from me and tucking it under her arm. "I really should be going. Jack'll be wondering where I am."
I paid for our meal and walked her to her car.
"Where are you staying?"
"The Hyatt just up the road there, but I think I'll walk. It's not too far, and the walk'll do me good."
"You sure? It's freezing out. You'll catch cold."
"I'll be alright. Same old Liv ... always worried about me."
She blushed again in the glow of the street lamp, and I thought I'd never seen her look more beautiful.
"I'm so glad I got a chance to see you, Kale," she said, hugging me tight. "I've missed you."
I hugged her back, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to cry. "Me too. Take care of yourself, okay?"
I kissed her on the cheek and watched her drive away.
Just for a moment I was back at school
and felt that old familiar pain.
And as I turned to make my way back home
the snow turned into rain.
Songwriter: Dan Fogelberg
© EMI APRIL MUSIC INC.;HICKORY GROVE MUSIC
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Feedback
The following is in response to "Short Stories Newsletter (December 7, 2010)" :
souhasboui says, "Well i think the topic is gOod but if you Talked about the miserbel conditions and pain suffer in gaza Or IRAQ it will be better."
atwhatcost says, "You asked: 'No kidding! It's not cheap to self-publish. I often wonder if they make it up in sales. I would love to hear from self-published authors who are willing to share their stories.'
I know a few who have self-published. I know them, because they were forever showing off that they were 'published authors.' I've also learned that with lots and lots of self promotion and enough friends and family, they broke even.
I also knew my great-uncle never broke even with his self-published book, but that wasn't his intent. He gave it to every family member (about 200 of us back then) for free. After all, who else would be interested in the complete family history of one family, except family members? In his case, it was well written and an extraordinary effort for one man running eight family businesses, too."
BIG BAD WOLF is Howling  says, "You always want something to blame when you can't explain something, like the boogyman."
Thank you all for taking the time to read and comment. Happy New Year! |
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Short Stories: January 05, 2011 Issue [#4159]
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