My best friend went to prom last night (I'm not in school anymore, so no prom for me, thank god! Can't dance worth crap, and hate dressing up, lmao). But there was some drama going on and she started texting me towards the end. I convinced her to list ten good things about her day, and it was tough, because, let's be honest: she's a bit of a pessimist.
Okay, a
lot of a pessimist. Sorry, hun, it's true.
But the idea got me thinking: if people could think of ten things--anything, it doesn't have to be serious or obvious--everyday that they were thankful for or happy about or just interested in, I think the world would be a little happier. At the very least, it would put the crappy parts in perspective, which is really what being happy is all about. Choosing to see the world differently.
So from now on, all my posts are going to have a list of Ten Things at the end -- except this one, it'll be long enough already. Lol.
In other news: apparently, the store I got that interview at is willing to give me a shot. They hired me yesterday, and my mom as well. We start Tuesday, so wow, I'll actually have something to talk about, lmao.
For now, I have a short story (unedited and admittedly lame). I wrote it a couple weeks ago and just liked the beginning, and I decided it's worth posting, at least for that. Something is better than nothing!
===
They named her Rose, but not like the flower. Her mom always said she meant it like 'rising above' what was silly in the world. But people always guessed it was the flower, so what her mom meant didn't count for much against all of them.
Personally, she hated the flower. They smelled bitter, like lonely old women, overused and underpampered, but still kicking long enough to reapply that drugstore 'Red Hot' lipstick.
But her name was Rose, and the men all gave her roses, and she hated them (the flowers AND the men). One even had the balls to tell her she looked like a rose. Pssh-aw, not likely! If anything, her thick brown-black waves and frost blue eyes, framing a peculiarly pale skintone of blue white, made her look like sleeping lilacs, if she allowed herself to be so poetic. And she rarely allowed herself to be poetic.
Ass, she fumed, settling into a booth in the only cafe in the only town for about an hour's drive in all directions. It was crowded, too, like all the people in town decided they were moths and needed to be in the yellow glare of cheap bar lights for a few hours. The shade over her table flickered, and she knew by the end of the night she'd have a headache. Who the fuck thought strobe lights would be any better?
"Rose?" asked a voice. She mentally prepped herself for the inevitable, cursing her sister for setting her up on this damned date. Hadn't she said it enough that she hated dating? That she was done with dating? Geezus Cries, her sister had balls--
Her eyes finally locked on his, and she smiled. Hmm. He was kinda cute. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. He smiled. "Do I have the right girl? Rose Franklin?"
"That's me," she said, sticking out her hand like a salesman on the outs. They shook. "You Ben?"
"Yepp." He sat down across from her, ordered a drink, asked the waitress what was good on the menu.
He was cute, she decided. Very cute. Nice smile, the kind that reaches the eyes. Nice hands, the kind that worked with more than a pencil or a computer. His hat was stupid, the kind with the band that newsmen wore in the old days, but she'd let it slide. She snorted to herself. Hell, she was nearing twenty-seven, and in this town, you had to let a lotta shit slide or you'd end up twenty-seven and single. Don't be picky unless you got a lot to pick from, Rosie! her mom always said. She'd had to learn it someday. It may be the new millenium, but modern society has a way of forgetting to bleed through the trees.
"So," he started, once they ordered food (she went for cheapest thing; wasn't even sure what it was). "your sister tells me you work at the radio station."
"That's right."
"What do you do there?"
"Not much," she said honestly. "Run the switchboard mostly, in the afternoons when we have our requests hour."
"What do you do the other seven hours of your shift?"
"Sit around and play music."
"What do you listen to?"
She allowed herself to fidget. What was this, a job interview? "The good stuff," she said, thinking of ruffled feathers and how plainly she wore hers, like an Indian headdress.
He smiled again, sorta crookedly, like half his face was pulled into a smile by a little kid. "Care to enlighten me?"
Hmm. Enlighten. What a nice phrase. "What do YOU listen to?"
He listed a few artists, then the waitress brought their food (she'd ended up with what they called chicken breast but looked more like shriveled chicken tenders), and he rattled off a few more. "Mostly country," he said finally, spinning his fork thoughtfully in some cheap looking pasta. "Stuff I was raised on."
Every kid and his mother listened to country, especially in this town, and it frustrated the hell out of her. "Country's fine," she hedged, "but it's not the good stuff."
"What is?"
She told him. A jazz singer, some new-age acoustic shit, a couple of techno bands, a healthy dose of screamo rock. Music wasn't much of a passion for her, but the station's owner sent over new stuff every once in awhile, whatever hit it big in the city a few hours away, but rarely did it make it on the air. She ran requests hour, she should know. But all they wanted was country, country, country.
He sat back a little in the booth, his plate half empty. "That's a lot of range."
"An acquired taste," she said, proud that she could dazzle him with some culture.
They talked some more, about his work as an electrician ("Good business, in the winter and spring anyhow, when the storms knock out the whole town," he said smirking), about the weather, about her sister and mother and his sister and mother, and whatever else came to mind that she found worthy of discussing further. When the check came, he paid it in cash, shushing her up when she complained. A true gentleman, it was obvious. He even walked her to her car, which she'd parked in the forgetten lot of the old Kum'n'Go gas station.
"Well, Rose Franklin," he said, using that crooked smile, "I had a good time."
"Me too, Ben," she said, smiling evenly.
She wished her sister had thought of something to do other than just dinner, but then again, there wasn't anything to do in town except eat or go shopping. Hell, they didn't even have a Walmart yet.
"Do you like camping?" he blurted. She mentally rolled her eyes. That was every guy's idea of a second date around here.
"Not really," she said with an apologetic smile, hoping he'd be a bit more creative. She was tired of guys who were what she called 'par', who did just what was required while courtin' a girl, and guys who were 'under par', who barely did anything but still wanted you in bed. Well, shoot, she'd let the dumb hat slide, couldn't he put in some more effort?
"What about fishing?"
"Can't stand hurting animals."
"So I guess hunting's out."
She snorted. "The great outdoors and I don't get along much."
"Well, what exactly do you get along with, Rose?"
He was staring at her, that damned hat lying slanted on his head, his nice hands shoved deep in his best denim pockets. The nice smile had evaporated, replaced with an equally crooked frown.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He rolled his eyes, stamping his foot a little. "I've been trying to be nice all night and you're acting like I'm repulsive."
"What?"
"Your sister said you might act like this but I told her if I can find a fusebox without a flashlight I should be able to find some common ground with you."
It took Rose a minute to realize that Ben knew she was sizing him up, that he didn't like it, and that he had the balls to say so. "What else did Ellie say?"
"She said, and I quote, 'Rose is a bitter girl who never made it out of the boondocks and isn't afraid to tell you so.' Does that paint the picture full enough for you?" He turned on his heel, spitting in the gravel-dust, and back around the corner towards the cafe.
Well. It was no rose.
She cursed as she got in her car and pulled onto the main drag. After driving past the cafe, she saw Ben standing on the sidewalk, talking with a pretty girl she'd gone to high school with, one of those sunny girls that accidently procreated early and made sunnier kids. Well, every town's got one.
Well. Her eyes were welling up as she passed out of town, thinking about Ben and roses and dead-end dates and all the times she had wished, please God, that they had never named her Rose. Her sister Ellie got away with Elizabeth, a plain Jane name, and she was married with two kids now, and only twenty-four. She wanted to call her sister and scream at her, but nobody had cell phones where there was no service, and she did not think that her sister was worth the money it would cost to call her from a pay phone. Curse Ellie, curse Ben, curse her folks, curse this whole damn town and its population of stupid men who didn't know any better and couldn't take their heads outta their asses long enough to see that shit was not just country music and fishing, Geezus Cries.
She drove slowly, and didn't pass anybody on her way home, which gave her a lot of time to think. Mostly she thought about Ben. She'd been so busy sizing him up that she hadn't really looked at him. What color had his eyes been? What was his last name? But she couldn't remember anything other than that stupid hat and that crooked smile, and it occured to her that his mouth held a voice without a southern accent. That she could remember, because she could remember what he said clear as day. Rose is a bitter girl who never made it out of the boondocks and isn't afraid to tell you so. Why hadn't she caught that, the fact that he was missing the rural twang? He'd said girl, not gurl, and never, not niver. Isn't, not ain't, and afraid instead of scurred. Where the hell was he from? Had she even asked?
Ellie was sitting on her front porch when she got home, smiling innocently as she rocked a kid to sleep. Ellie and her husband were staying with Rose until they could get their roof fixed. Rose stood in front of the stoop for a long while before Ellie sighed and patted the space beside her. The Franklin girls sat, and Ellie was the picture of feigned patience.
"Ben called," she said conversationally.
"I bet he did."
"Said you acted like a bitch."
She shrugged in reply.
Ellie frowned. "Rosie, he's really a nice guy."
"They're all nice."
"Then why not pick one?"
"I have standards."
Ellie didn't say anything, just sighed in that housewife way, sadly, as if the weather had turned sour again. A few moments later and Rose was alone, the younger Franklin off to put the baby in bed.
Rose had read once, where exactly she couldn't recall, that certain flowers meant certain things. Red roses meant true love, which was obvious enough. White meant things like secrecy and purity, or eternal love. Yellow was for friendship and depending on the shade, pink could mean anything from grace to gratitude, youth, and desire.
If Ellie had been a Rose, she would've been light pink. Joy of life. And she was pink in the face anyway, always laughing, and her hair a reddish brown that Rose was always jealous over.
But what kind of rose would Rose be? Definitely not red or yellow or white. And not anything pink. Maybe black: hatred, farewell, death--
"Hey Aunt Rosie!" called a nephew from the house. "Why so blue?" She heard Ellie shush him and send him off to bed, but then she tuned everything out.
Blue? Geez, she mused. Was that it? Blue? Was she really blue? The word felt so thick and massive that the whole ocean of the color must be crashing down on her.
Blue roses, she remembered, pulling from a far corner of her mind, meant mystery. But they also meant attaining the impossible.
If that was so, then why the fuck was she sitting here on the stoop of creaky old house when she really wanted to be in a jazz club in downtown, dressed in pinstripes instead of plaid and gingham?
"Rose?"
It was Ben. His hat was gone, but the mark was still there, his blondish hair flattened around the top. She hadn't even heard him pull up, but now that she paid it some mind, there was an unfamiliar Chevy parked behind her little sedan.
"Yeah?" she finally said, squinting. He was standing several yards away, looking as if he was afraid of spooking her. He started to say something, but it seemed only meant for the air in front of him. "Come here, I can't hear a thing you're saying," she said, and after a deep breath he came forward.
He was a slip of a thing compared to most of the guys in town, thinner than she thought he was, but tall, with strong arms. He didn't slouch, which again told he wasn't from around here. Nobody cared about things like posture when there was kids to raise and houses to fix and farms to tend. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. It was rude." He shifted a bit, and she could see he was holding something in the feeble porchlight. "Sorry to come up like this but I wouldn't have slept with that on my conscience."
"No," she said, surprising herself. "That's all right. Thank you. You're forgiven." He nodded his thank you. "And I apologize. I didn't know I was being a bitch until you pointed it out."
He chuckled at the curse, shrugging. "Wasn't my place."
"No," she gave, resting her chin in her hand. "It was. Shouldn't let people push you around and all that junk."
"True." He fidgeted again with the bundle in his hand.
"What's that?"
"Oh." He handed the crinkling thing to her, which she now saw was a small bouquet. "Just wanted to say sorry," he repeated, stepping back after she'd taken them.
They were daisies, though she wasn't sure what kind. Their yellow centers reminded her of the sun, and then that sunny girl from high school, and then she was very annoyed because he'd only come to apologize to her after making nice-nice with another girl.
"Lynn said those were good, for the occasion."
"Huh?" Lynn was the name of the girl, but what right did he have to tell her their business?
"Lynn? My cousin. Runs the florist's?"
Oh. Oh! "Oh," she said, blushing more than she'd ever thought possible. "Well, that was nice of her. Did she say why?"
"Not really. Just that daisies made people smile." His mouth quirked a little, as if contemplating doing that very thing, but changing his mind. His face still had a guilty quality to it, and she guessed it was a mark of a gentleman's upbringing. "Well, I gotta go, Rose. If I'm not home soon, the dogs will starve."
"Alright. Thank you, Ben."
"No problem." He waved as he walked back towards his Chevy, raising dust with his shoes.
Rose put the flowers to her nose and inhaled. Sweet. Not bitter at all. "Hey Ben?"
He slowed, craned his neck to hear her. "Yeah?"
"Where are you from?"
He frowned, which was understandable. It was an odd question. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Just curious."
He studied her, and she let him. It was only right of him to size her up after she'd sized him, and miscalculated as well. After a moment, one side of his face tilted into the crooked smile.
"Around." He waved again, got into his truck, and drove back towards town.
When the taillights disappeared, Rose bolted into the house, into the kitchen, which was empty aside from a cat, and sat down at their ancient computer. Thank god for the internet! She searched through pictures of daisies until she found ones that matched hers. Oxeye daisies. And then she looked up what they meant.
Patience.
Well, she mused. You kinda need that if you're attaining the impossible, don't you?
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