Something Wicked. Susan Johnson-Kropp
“What kind of writing? Would I have heard of it … or you?”
“Unlikely,” I said flatly. “I’m an unfulfilled romance novelist.”
“Why unfulfilled? Writer’s block?” He chuckled at his own cleverness.
“How do you know about writer’s block?”
“I’m an unfulfilled writer as well.”
A writer. Wow! “What kind of writing do you do?” I asked.
“I write about the history of sports.”
“You mean like books?”
“Yes, and I do freelance articles for magazines.”
“That’s great. Why unfulfilled? Couldn’t get a good interview?”
“Something like that.” His seemingly ever-present smile faded slightly.
I turned away to order but I didn’t want anything anymore; too nervous. “Tall black coffee, please,” I said to the frazzled barista. She filled, capped, and handed me my cup. I turned to say good-bye, but my neighbor was already being helped by the other girl, so I simply nodded toward him, mouthed good-bye, and started out. I wasn’t a block back down my street when he came up beside me.
“Hey, what’s your hurry?” He was rather out of breath for a guy who wrote about sports.
“Nothing. I was just heading back home.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“If you can keep up,” I said teasingly.
“So, tell me. Why are you unfulfilled?” he asked.
He seemed genuine, but I was suspicious. “Well, I really want to write a serious novel—you know, mainstream, but I just can’t seem to put it to page, so I am very frustrated,” I said truthfully.
“You must be doing well to live where you do. Why not stick with what works?”
“Because it’s nonsense, that’s why.”
“So, you don’t respect your own work. Is that it?”
“Look, I respect my work as much if not more than most in the genre. I just don’t respect the genre.”
“Funny, you sound both proud and wretched at the same time. I didn’t think that possible.”
“Wretched? Such an old word for a man in 2016.” I commented.
“Did I mention that I, too, am a writer?”
“Yes. You write about sports, and you don’t find it fulfilling.”
“Not like I used to. I mean, I like it, but …” He trailed off ruefully. “I would love to write a novel. I mean … that is to say … I am attempting to write one now.”
“Really? Have you a story yet?”
“Yes, I have. I thought it would be fun to write a murder mystery. You know, like Agatha Christie.”
“I’d have thought Stephen King.”
“Nope, Agatha Christie. She wrote with style.”
“I haven’t read anything of hers for so long, I really don’t remember it well. I saw Murder on the Orient Express when I was little. I don’t really remember it well either.”
“Yeah. Great movie. Better book,” he said.
“That’s usually the case, it seems,” I responded, sounding more smug than I’d meant to. “Well, here we are. Nice talking to you.” I started toward the elevator of our building. I knew he lived on the first floor.
“Hey, I’d like to get together and discuss books and movies and lack of fulfillment with you sometime.”
“Oh, you would, huh?” I asked jokingly, my face flushed again.
“I would indeed,” he said grandly.
I was beginning to think he was trying to impress me with eloquence and sophistication. It was working. “Perhaps,” I told him with a sly smile.
“Oh perhaps, huh?”
“Yes, perhaps, per happenstance, perchance … a distinct possibility, while not certain.”
“You are one to be reckoned with, I see.”
I’d gotten onto the elevator and pushed the button, so the door had begun to close when I employed my best Jeremy Irons voice: “You have no idea.”
Chapter 3
I tried to concentrate on my work during the days that followed, but I could not. I was horribly distracted by the thought of Jeff—and for what? I’d spoken to him for maybe ten minutes, and yet I was letting the thought of him creep into my mind like a vine taking root, blocking my ability to think of anything else. Pathetic!
I ordered one of Jeff’s books from Amazon. It was called The History of Tennis. I also found a few articles he’d written. They’d been syndicated in several newspapers across the country. The first one I chose to read was about the history of women’s golf. I found his writing to be spare and precise but at the same time almost graceful; not what I’d expected. I wondered where he’d studied. Probably somewhere in California. He looked like California, handsome and athletic but not overly so.
I tried to find him on Instagram and Facebook, but he wasn’t active on either. I went for walks, dressed cute in case he should appear, which he never did. I did this for days and days, until finally there he was, in the lobby of our building. He was sitting on the oversized leather sofa, arms stretched out to either side, watching me walk toward the door, and smiling like the Cheshire cat.
“Good evening,” he said casually.
“Good evening.” Stay cool, I thought to myself. I could feel the blood rushing to my face once again. It was like a tidal wave, almost making my knees buckle, but I pressed on toward the main door. He’d gotten up and started walking beside me. My heart was in my throat.
“So, how are you?” he asked very casually.
“Fine,” I said pensively.
“Where are you off to, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Going for a walk.”
“May I join you?”
Hell, yes! “If you’d like,” I said.
We walked a bit without talking. It was a cool, crisp day with no clouds to speak of. We headed in the direction I always went, toward a nearby park. I would usually walk around the park two or three times and then head back. I liked this park because there were many deciduous trees, which lost their leaves in winter only to regain them in spring, offering shade on hot days and then turning orange and red for their finale.
“I used to bring my dog on this walk, but he passed away a few years ago,” I said, seeking no sympathy but expecting some.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. He was pretty old.”
“You miss him a lot, I can tell.”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of dog?”
“German shepherd.”
“Best dogs.”
“Yep.”
“Have you thought about getting another?” he asked.
“Of course, but I haven’t felt ready. Maybe someday.”
“So, where did you grow up? Here?”
“No. Stamford, Connecticut.”
“Really? What brought you out here?