Jill M. Moore
WRA 355
Some Kind of Terrible
She winced as she reluctantly inserted the clear, spit-filled retainer back into her
mouth. She had just finished brushing her teeth. It was nine o'clock at night, bedtime.
Nine o'clock and her 26-year-old ass was putting in a retainer and going to bed. When
did it come to this? While all the other 26-year-olds were out partying at the bar, going
out to dinner or renting movies, she was turning off the lights in her lonely apartment,
making the rounds before her solitary decline into slumber. She winced again as she
tasted the unlikely combination of mouthwash and the acne medication that somehow
made its way onto the retainer. She closed the medicine cabinet and took one last painful
look at herself in the mirror. Deflated, she staggered to bed.
Mary Helen Vandenhausen was an unfortunate-looking single white female,
trying to make it in the big city of Chicago, but barely hanging on. She weighed 447
pounds and was five feet, nine inches tall. Her acne-ridden skin was bumpy, blotchy, and
irritated. Her hair was shoulder-length, mousy brown, and prone to frizz. She had bad
eyes, a crooked nose, and yellow teeth. She wore two and a half chins and ten stubby,
sausage-like fingers. Her left cheek bore a large, raised mole that reliably sprouted a
single black hair, which she carefully plucked each morning after brushing her teeth and
before taking her anti-depressant pill. Mary had graduated five years prior from the
University of Wisconsin with a bachelor's degree in business administration. She was
currently a manager at Burger King.
Five years after graduating from Wisconsin, where she had always thought she
would meet the love of her life, Mary was still without a sweetheart, living alone in a
dingy one-bedroom apartment in Chicago's Roscoe Village. She was depressed, lonely,
and miserable. Just being out in public was humiliating for her; she heard the whispers,
caught the stares. She knew what she looked like, she saw herself in the mirror every
day; she lived through the daily struggle of squeezing into a pair of jeans, shimmying
sideways through doors, and taking up one and a half seats on the subway. A tiny piece
of her already-battered heart cracked and broke off with each public appearance.
Despite her daily public humiliation, Mary still held firm to the belief that there
was someone out there that could help relieve her pain and loneliness. She was a
romantic at heart, and believed everyone has one true love. She read the engagement
announcements in every Chicago newspaper religiously. She memorized all the great
love stories in both books and film. Mary was in love with love. She’d just never
actually experienced it. Mary was the type of girl that already had her entire wedding
day planned out – from napkin rings to tablecloths to the main course served at the
reception – but had no idea who the groom would be. She had never even so much as
kissed a boy. Well, unless you count John Gale in third grade. But that only happened
when his two buddies pushed his head into hers as a cruel joke. Mary was beginning to
wonder if her whole life was a cruel joke.
The next morning, she awoke to the shrill screech of her six o'clock alarm.
Irritated, she reached out toward the machine, groggily slapping at it, missing twice, but
connecting on the third try. With a deep sigh, she rolled out of bed and sluggishly
stumbled to the bathroom. Indolence passed quickly as she remembered why she’d
gotten up so early this morning. As pitiful as Mary’s life was, today would be special.
Today was Carol Copeland day.
Carol Copeland was a cheesy romance novelist whose trashy fiction had been
injecting hope into singles across the nation for twelve years. Her writing was notorious
for chance meetings, unusual pairings, and unlikely romances. Today was the day of
Carol’s thirteenth release, Oliver Tryst. Mary had been a Copeland faithful for years,
having read each of the twelve novels cover to cover more than twice. Today, Mary had
a new love story to vicariously live her life through; she buttoned up her jacket and
headed to the Barnes & Noble on State and Elm.
*
On the other side of Chicago, another pathetic soul was gearing up for the big
release date. His name was John Smith, a 31-year-old single computer programmer for
Comtek, an international systems solutions company. John was largely successful as one
of the youngest and highest paid programmers at the company, but this success came at a
price. He spent long, grueling hours at work, often neglecting sleep for labor. With all of
his time spent at Comtek, needless to say, John’s social life was lacking. After a few
failed attempts at Internet dating, he had given up on trying to find a meaningful
relationship, and delved headfirst into his work. He too substituted real-world romances
with vicarious living through Carol Copeland novels.
John knew it was unusual for men to read, much less enjoy, Carol Copeland
novels, but he couldn’t resist. Her quirky characters and accidental meetings called out to
him – gave him hope in a hopeless city. He knew he was an anomaly, a rarity, an
abnormality – a man in touch with his feelings. And though he’d rejected the standard
callousness of masculinity, he hadn’t rejected his innate male pride. Instead of owning
up to his emasculating passion, John developed a Carol Copeland release date ruse. He
hid behind the “I’m buying this for my mother” ploy, and though he had already used it
twelve times, it continued to work because he bought from a different bookstore each
time. His computer programming skills came in handy several years back when he
developed a software program that randomly selected various bookstores throughout
Chicago. Each time a new Copeland novel came out, the program eliminated alreadyvisited stores and selected a new one. He never visited the same bookstore twice, and his
plan never failed. Today’s randomly selected bookstore was the Barnes & Noble on
State and Elm.
*
Upon entering the store Mary realized she wasn’t the only one in Chicago looking
forward to this day. To her disbelief there was already a line wrapped around the store,
consisting mainly of thirty-something plain-looking women, anxiously thumbing through
the book while they waited to make their purchase. Horrified, Mary saw the quickly
emptying shelves and knew she was running out of time. She rushed over to the
ostensibly vanishing stack of books, and there it was, just inches away – the very last
copy! Mary reached out for the book when suddenly a hand shot out from her right. She
audibly gasped as the last copy of Oliver Tryst disappeared from the shelf. She whipped
around to see whom she was going to have to kill for her Carol Copeland, and there he
stood. John Smith. They locked eyes and Mary could swear she felt her knees buckle
under the enormous weight of love at first sight.
He stood about five feet, ten inches tall; his round baby face was covered with
acne and a light brushing of strawberry blonde facial hair. His head was crowned with
blondish-brown curly hair. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses, and a plaid shortsleeved button-up shirt tucked into his pleated khaki pants. Wrapped around his potbelly
waist was a brown braided belt; just below was a pair of blindingly white generic tennis
shoes. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Sorry,” he said nervously, nodding toward the book he now shamefully held in
his hands. “You can have it.” He held it out to her as a peace offering.
“Are you sure?” Mary asked shyly. As gorgeous as this guy may have been, she
wasn’t about to lose her Carol Copeland.
“Yeah, sure,” he laughed, playing it cool. “It was for my mom anyway. I can get
it another time.” He smiled, revealing two rows of metal and teeth. Any other woman
would have seen a 31-year-old with braces, but Mary, she saw sparks.
“Well, thanks. I’ve been looking forward to this for months.” In truth, she’d
been looking forward to this moment her whole life. They nervously chitchatted about
Mary and John’s mother’s obsession with Copeland novels for ten minutes before he
finally worked up the courage to ask for her number. Mary asked for his instead. He
scratched the number onto the back inside cover of Mary’s Oliver Tryst. She could have
died.
He explained that he had to run an errand – careful not to expose the fact that he
really needed to find the nearest bookstore – but that he hoped she would call him. And
soon. He held out his hand for an awkward goodbye shake, but when Mary reached out
to reciprocate, she somehow stumbled forward and fell into him, nearly knocking him
back into the bookcase. Her face ripened like a tomato, her head felt like it was going to
explode. “Sorry,” she said, mortified.
“Oh, umm, that’s okay,” he relieved her. “I hope to hear from you soon.” And
with that, John Smith uncomfortably waved goodbye, the second departure even more
gauche than the first, and left the store. She stood in a daze and almost completely forgot
about the Copeland novel she was holding.
She strutted confidently to the end of the lingering line, fully prepared to spend
the next 45 minutes blissfully daydreaming of John Smith. She imagined their first kiss,
late-night movies, cuddling on the couch, candlelit dinners, afternoon cocktails, and the
million other things they were sure to do together. But most importantly to Mary, she
finally had a face to put on her groom-to-be. All of her wedding day plans were finally
whole. For the first time, she was able to forget about her 247-pound problem and be
hopeful about something.
*
John practically skipped down the street in joy. He didn’t know why, he barely
even knew the girl; he just knew there was something special about her. Sure, she wasn’t
the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, but it didn’t matter. He felt something when their eyes
locked that he just couldn’t shake. He was so consumed with thoughts of Mary, it didn’t
even register in his brain when he entered a bookstore from which he had already bought
a Copeland novel.
*
Mary, still in a daze, didn’t realize the line had moved forward considerably, and
that she was obnoxiously delaying the 20-30 people behind her. Embarrassed, she
quickly moved forward, only to lose her footing and fall violently to the floor. As she
came crashing down, she reached out to the woman next to her for support but severely
outweighing the petite woman, Mary yanked her down right with her.
“I’m so sorry,” Mary quivered, the muffled laughter in the background echoing in
her ears. She gathered her belongings that had been jumbled with her victim’s. “I’m
really sorry,” she repeated.
The woman uncomfortably nodded, collected her things, and quickly stood up, as
though hurrying to get away from the clumsy beast. Mary was so horrified she didn’t
even think to check and make sure the copy of Oliver Tryst she now held was the one
endowed with John Smith’s number.
After another humiliating five minutes in line, Mary finally made her purchase
and left the cursed bookstore that had successfully made a fool out of her, twice.
Outside, she regained her enthusiasm as she remembered that not only did she have a new
Carol Copeland to read, she potentially had a new man in her life. When she got back to
her apartment, before even removing her jacket, she anxiously flipped to the back cover
to analyze everything from what John had written to his phone number to his
penmanship. To her horror, it was an untouched, pristinely white page. Her stomach
wrenched. She panicked. His name was John Smith! She was never going to find John
Smith in a city of 2.8 million. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was
helpless; she could do nothing but hold her head in her hands and cry. And she did, for
five hours straight.
Every single day for the next three weeks, Mary staked out the Barnes & Noble
on State and Elm, in desperate hopes of finding John. She knew it was a long shot, but it
was the only thing she could think to do. He never showed up. Mary was now certain
her miserable and solitary life was destined to be just that.
*
Six months later, Mary’s life remained much the same. She was still lonely, still
depressed, and still deeply miserable. She’d given up hope on ever finding someone to
love, or more importantly, love her. Her heart still ached over what-could-have-been
with John Smith. She hated herself for being so clumsy, but she believed her ill-fated fall
was just her unfortunate destiny. Even more disheartening – Oliver Tryst wasn’t even
that good. Though she’d given up on ever finding happiness through love, she still
dutifully read romance novels, watched romantic comedies, and faithfully read the
engagement announcements every week. Mary was still in love with love.
This particular Thursday Mary picked up the Chicago Tribune and flipped to the
“Celebration” section, where brides pay to guarantee the immortality of their engagement
announcements. One headline drastically stood out from the rest. Smith-Collins. It was
John. It was John and the woman she knocked over that fateful day at Barnes & Noble.
As she read the immodest words of the blushing bride-to-be, her stomach knotted and her
breath caught in her lungs.
“ ‘It was as if God somehow handed him right to me! God, or Carol Copeland.
And how ironic is it that we met by way of a Carol Copeland novel? I just happened to
be on the winning end of a book mix-up. I knew it was fate when there was a number in
the back cover. I had to call it. And it was my Johnny!’ ”
No, it was Mary’s Johnny. Mary wished she had smothered Elizabeth Collins that
day instead of apologizing. She couldn’t believe this was her life. She tasted bile in the
back of her throat. She looked at John’s face in the picture, so happy, so content. Mary
ripped the paper to shreds and watched as the shred with his face slowly drifted down and
landed next to her freshly renewed prescription bottle of anti-depressants.