It's been too long (3)
This will be the last of my update posts. I realized I forgot to introduce Julie's dad!
My novelling is not as fun as it used to be. Mainly because things are actually startinng to happen, and they are not as great as I thought they would be. Except wedding dress shopping and the Emilio reference. That was genius. It's almost week 2, and I am worried that I will get too down. Luckily, with No Plot, No Problem, snacks, and last year's novels (as well as this years) for inspiration, I should be able to slog through. Not sure if slog is a real world, and frankly I don't give a damn.
Here is the sequence where Julie speaks with her father on the phone. To put it into context, she has just gotten off the phone with her mother.
I went to the kitchen, and downed another steadying shot of vodka, as the recent conversation with my mother had negated any of the steadying effects of the first. While in the kitchen, I got out my little black book. I looked up the number, dialled. Then I hung up abruptly.
Remember when you were in highschool, or junior high, and you thought that prank calls were the height of humour? Well, I was the very same way. Nothing hit my funny bone like calling my friends houses, asking them if their refrigerators were running, then telling them to go catch them when they inevitably responded yes. Ah, a simpler time. But, by the time I was in high school, there was a pesky option one could add to their phone plan: caller ID. An option that was the bane of the existence of prank-callers and telemarketers alike, but that is redundant, isn’t it, folks? Luckily, along with the advent of caller was the advent of another amazing, and free, tool. If you dialled *67 before dialling the number, “Unknown Number” popped up on call display. It was an amazing was to avoid being incriminated for a simple joke. A simple yet hilarious joke. I had used this almost religiously, and decided that now was the moment to make use of it again. Unless I wanted the person I was trying to get in contact with to not answer. Or worse. So I dialled, and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, he picked up.
“Howdy!” he practically shouted over the loud country music in the background. I could hear him telling someone in the room to ‘turn that gosh darn racket down!’. The music abruptly, and thankfully, shut off.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Julie,” I said timidly, unsure of his reaction.
“Hi, Julie,” he said, his voice fully of joy. Then something changed. “Julie, you know you are not supposed to call this number, unless its an emergency. If she finds out that I talked to you, well...I don’t want to even think about that.”
“I know, Dad. I just didn’t know how else to get in touch with you. I have something important to tell you,” I said, practically biting back the tears. I didn’t realize how much I loved him, and how much I missed him, until I heard his voice. Five years ago, my father had met someone. Her name was Cindy. Twenty years his junior, and drop-dead gorgeous, I had always been a little suspicious. My suspicions were confirmed when I found out she had been stealing money from him, while seeing another, much younger man on the sly. But Cindy was wise beyond her years. Once she found out that I knew she was in it for the money, she cut me off from my father. She married him, and said that if he ever had any contact with me again, she would leave him. My Dad was just rebounding from some very dark years. Dark years involving self-medication, among other things that I can’t even think about. And he felt that he needed her to keep afloat, to not regress again. So he agreed. My own father chose his gold-digging wife over me. I had still not forgiven him, but I missed him greatly. To be honest, I almost hoped she would overhear, or find out somehow and leave him. But I knew what that would do to my father. So the more sane part of me hoped that she wasn’t home.
“Well tell me quickly, Cindy should be home in five minutes,” he said, still whispering.
An odd thing happens when the person we are talking to on the phone starts whispering: the undeniable desire to whisper oneself, whether it is necessary or not. “Dad, I am getting married to James,” I whispered.
“Congratulations, honey,” he said, and I could practically hear him beaming. And in that moment, I knew that he missed me, too. “I am so happy for you.”
“There is something else, Dad,” I continued to whisper, before I caught myself. Why the fuck are you whispering? Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself! I thought. “I want you to give me away.” I said, finding my normal level of speaking.
“Oh, honey, I don’t know about that. Cindy...” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Our mutual understanding bridged the brief silence.
“I know. I know, Dad. But this means a lot to me. Not because you own me, and I need you to transfer the deed to James, so to speak. The tradition means nothing. Having you there means everything. I love you, and I want you to be at my wedding,” I said firmly, but not without the shake of emotion touching my voice. “Maybe you could just tell Cindy you have a convention, or a business trip, or a conference, or something to go to. Maybe even that you need a vacation for the weekend.”
“I guess I could try something, for my little cupcake,” he said lovingly.
“Our wedding date is August 27th, here in London. I’ll send you the details later. Is there a time I can call you?”
“Don’t call me hear again,” he said, still whispering. “Let me give you my work number.”
As he recited it, I wrote it down quickly.
“Thanks, Dad. I will let you go, and talk to you again soon. I love you,” I finished.
“Love you, too, cupcake. Bye.” With that he hung up. Reluctantly, I too set the phone in the cradle.
My novelling is not as fun as it used to be. Mainly because things are actually startinng to happen, and they are not as great as I thought they would be. Except wedding dress shopping and the Emilio reference. That was genius. It's almost week 2, and I am worried that I will get too down. Luckily, with No Plot, No Problem, snacks, and last year's novels (as well as this years) for inspiration, I should be able to slog through. Not sure if slog is a real world, and frankly I don't give a damn.
Here is the sequence where Julie speaks with her father on the phone. To put it into context, she has just gotten off the phone with her mother.
I went to the kitchen, and downed another steadying shot of vodka, as the recent conversation with my mother had negated any of the steadying effects of the first. While in the kitchen, I got out my little black book. I looked up the number, dialled. Then I hung up abruptly.
Remember when you were in highschool, or junior high, and you thought that prank calls were the height of humour? Well, I was the very same way. Nothing hit my funny bone like calling my friends houses, asking them if their refrigerators were running, then telling them to go catch them when they inevitably responded yes. Ah, a simpler time. But, by the time I was in high school, there was a pesky option one could add to their phone plan: caller ID. An option that was the bane of the existence of prank-callers and telemarketers alike, but that is redundant, isn’t it, folks? Luckily, along with the advent of caller was the advent of another amazing, and free, tool. If you dialled *67 before dialling the number, “Unknown Number” popped up on call display. It was an amazing was to avoid being incriminated for a simple joke. A simple yet hilarious joke. I had used this almost religiously, and decided that now was the moment to make use of it again. Unless I wanted the person I was trying to get in contact with to not answer. Or worse. So I dialled, and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, he picked up.
“Howdy!” he practically shouted over the loud country music in the background. I could hear him telling someone in the room to ‘turn that gosh darn racket down!’. The music abruptly, and thankfully, shut off.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Julie,” I said timidly, unsure of his reaction.
“Hi, Julie,” he said, his voice fully of joy. Then something changed. “Julie, you know you are not supposed to call this number, unless its an emergency. If she finds out that I talked to you, well...I don’t want to even think about that.”
“I know, Dad. I just didn’t know how else to get in touch with you. I have something important to tell you,” I said, practically biting back the tears. I didn’t realize how much I loved him, and how much I missed him, until I heard his voice. Five years ago, my father had met someone. Her name was Cindy. Twenty years his junior, and drop-dead gorgeous, I had always been a little suspicious. My suspicions were confirmed when I found out she had been stealing money from him, while seeing another, much younger man on the sly. But Cindy was wise beyond her years. Once she found out that I knew she was in it for the money, she cut me off from my father. She married him, and said that if he ever had any contact with me again, she would leave him. My Dad was just rebounding from some very dark years. Dark years involving self-medication, among other things that I can’t even think about. And he felt that he needed her to keep afloat, to not regress again. So he agreed. My own father chose his gold-digging wife over me. I had still not forgiven him, but I missed him greatly. To be honest, I almost hoped she would overhear, or find out somehow and leave him. But I knew what that would do to my father. So the more sane part of me hoped that she wasn’t home.
“Well tell me quickly, Cindy should be home in five minutes,” he said, still whispering.
An odd thing happens when the person we are talking to on the phone starts whispering: the undeniable desire to whisper oneself, whether it is necessary or not. “Dad, I am getting married to James,” I whispered.
“Congratulations, honey,” he said, and I could practically hear him beaming. And in that moment, I knew that he missed me, too. “I am so happy for you.”
“There is something else, Dad,” I continued to whisper, before I caught myself. Why the fuck are you whispering? Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself! I thought. “I want you to give me away.” I said, finding my normal level of speaking.
“Oh, honey, I don’t know about that. Cindy...” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Our mutual understanding bridged the brief silence.
“I know. I know, Dad. But this means a lot to me. Not because you own me, and I need you to transfer the deed to James, so to speak. The tradition means nothing. Having you there means everything. I love you, and I want you to be at my wedding,” I said firmly, but not without the shake of emotion touching my voice. “Maybe you could just tell Cindy you have a convention, or a business trip, or a conference, or something to go to. Maybe even that you need a vacation for the weekend.”
“I guess I could try something, for my little cupcake,” he said lovingly.
“Our wedding date is August 27th, here in London. I’ll send you the details later. Is there a time I can call you?”
“Don’t call me hear again,” he said, still whispering. “Let me give you my work number.”
As he recited it, I wrote it down quickly.
“Thanks, Dad. I will let you go, and talk to you again soon. I love you,” I finished.
“Love you, too, cupcake. Bye.” With that he hung up. Reluctantly, I too set the phone in the cradle.
This is really sad, Sam! Funny, but sad. It's interesting that all of the wives and mothers in your novel are so crazy and awful. Is that why Julie is so scared?
ReplyDeleteYeah, that was very sad. But somehow, I just know that not only will this add to the hilarity of your novel in the end, but perhaps will lead the plot in an interesting direction. Well played, Sammy, well played.
ReplyDelete