To Submit

Writing fiction’s not usually my thing¹ but I think I’m going to submit a story to this.

Here’s a draft of the beginning.²

Card Carrying

It’s easy enough to do when your job is like mine. Already every box requires invoice, padding, advertisements and coupons so at least thus far the addition of a tiny white card has not brought any consequences down upon my head.

You might think that the thing in and of itself would be the most troubling part but that’s not exactly the case. Performing the act is a relief. It’s avoiding it that brings on pain. For days I tried to ignore the call, thinking that my mind was once again up to its games. After the first week I peered extra-close at the trio of bottles that keep me on the straight-and-narrow (or mostly on  the straight-and-narrow, although after reading this to its conclusion you might be inclined to wonder if that description is altogether apt). I peered; I saw nothing amiss. My little pill-container spoke the truth when it said that I’d faithfully consumed each dose. But that night I double checked as I put one set after the next into the lidded wells. Was each pill in place? Were there no doubles? No blank spots? Five times I checked but seeing nothing wrong I sighed, gulped down that night’s poison and tried to ignore the bells.

Faithfully taken medicines or no, the call kept on coming and finally I could ignore it no longer. I tried to make an excuse. Printers are on sale, I thought, flipping through the inevitable circular in Sunday’s paper. I could use a printer. Who was I kidding. My printer was just fine, but by that point even thinking about the constant clanging messages left me swallowing hard, shaky as a newborn lamb and absolutely convinced that the choices were go to the store or die.

I slipped through the doors that very day. Like a movie star, shoplifter or one previously banned I kept my dark glasses on and edged around the periphery. As I poked doubtfully at a few printer buttons the thought popped into my head that maybe the answer was with the books. Maybe some weird subliminal advertising message had worked its way in and I was being compelled to read whatever was this year’s version of the cheese-moving book. I gave up the edges and strode right through the middle. Cheese, I thought. It’s all about the cheese, but before I even reached the book aisle I knew I was wrong. “Sam J. to printing” boomed a voice from the ceiling. “Samita Jacobson, to the printing department. Your order is ready.”

Now this I knew to be some fucked-up business. No one but my father calls me Samita and I was certain I’d not placed an order in this soulless bigbox hellhole. My place of employment never required outside printing jobs; if they did it’s doubtful they’d send a box-stuffer to pick it up. On her own. In a Yaris.

The last thing I wanted to do was walk to printing but my feet didn’t get the message. Off they marched and as I drew close I knew what it was that the universe wanted me so badly to have because I could see it on the desk: A brightwhite cardboard box big enough to hold maybe two-hundred business cards, the sort of thing this store no doubt passed across the till a hundred times a day.

I didn’t order this, I told the boy behind the counter.

His smile was nearly as shiny as the box. “No, it’s for you. See, here’s your name.”

I looked. My name was there. But I didn’t order it, I repeated. I didn’t order anything from you.

He shook his head and cranked up the smile. “Well now that’s where you’re wrong!” He could have been reading the winning lottery numbers on a cruise ship instead of arguing with an increasingly freaked-out customer on a Sunday afternoon. He tapped a few keys and turned the screen toward me. “See here? Samita Jacobson ordered this exactly three weeks ago today. This is your address, isn’t it?” I nodded. “And your phone number?” It was. “And you paid for it with your Visa, right?” I looked at the number on my screen. It was my Visa: the Visa I keep for emergencies. In the freezer. In a block of ice.

But this grinning lackey didn’t need to know that and I’m not sure he even would have cared. “Sorry it took so long to arrive,” he said cheerfully as he tucked the box into a completely unnecessary plastic bag. “It’s the special paper, you know.” He hit me with a lewd wink. “Did you want to check the order before you go?” I shook my head, dazed, and left.

By the time I was parked at home I’d made a few decisions. Out of the freezer came my icy credit card; as hot water ran over it in the sink I dialed up the company. No, they told me over the phone, I’d made no charges with the card for well over a year. The most recent usage ($412 for tires last April) had been paid off the next month and then…nothing. You’re sure, I said. Nothing to XXXX XXX?

I could hear the rep’s keyboard clicking as she paged back through statements. There was nothing to them. Ever.

I cancelled then shredded the thawed card anyway, glad to have some distraction from the box now facing me on the table. I reached out but almost couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Don’t be an infant, I lectured. This is all a big mistake. Numbers transposed or some such. Just open the damn box.

But before I even did I knew the first phrase and without hesitation my hand went to the card at the front of the box.  A purplyred droplet appeared on the blinding white paper but that didn’t stop me from scrawling the message: Window breaking.

1. reading it is a completely different matter [↩]
2. Having written so very many things in such a public venue lo these many years I can see how you  would come to the conclusion that putting this up would cause no more angst than any other post. You would be wrong. Criticism is awesome, but do please be gentle. Otherwise I may spend the rest of the day weeping in the corner. [↩]