The Never Series Pt. 01

Chris

If that wasn't exactly what he had written, it was something very similar. After that, he didn't ever see her again. That was in early August, and a week or so later, he and Dean took an extended trip out West before returning to school to finish their senior years. If he remembered correctly -- and he wasn't sure that he did -- Caroline was enrolled in summer school that summer, and summer courses must have come to an end right around that time. After that, she was just gone. She was a year older than he was, so he assumed that she had finished school and moved away. When he returned to classes again in the fall, Caroline Seale was nowhere to be found. He never saw her again.

He heard only silence on the other end of the line for several moments. "I didn't think I was being overly vague, Chris. I meant what I said. I thought maybe you were mad at me because I left Mt. Pleasant without having said goodbye." She sounded serious, so he thought he'd better explain himself.

"I guess I thought that it was the other way around, Caroline -- that you were mad at me, because I left you a note that next morning instead of saying goodbye in person. I had to work that day, and you were sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you up. Anyway, after that night, I don't think I ever saw you again. I guess I assumed that you'd graduated and moved back home."

"That's exactly what happened. Summer graduation was the day before. That's why I was partying so hard on a Thursday night! My parents left that morning after the ceremony, and that was my last night in town. I'm sorry, I thought you knew all that. I moved back to Port Huron that next afternoon, and then started a teaching job the following fall."

"Okay, that makes sense. I just didn't remember that you'd graduated. If I would have known you were leaving, I would definitely have tried to get your phone number and address from you, and tried to keep in touch. I'm sorry I didn't do that."

"Oh, don't be sorry, Chris. I should have left you all that information. I'm the one that should be apologizing." She paused. There was awkward silence on the other end of the line. "Can I ask you a question, Chris?"

"Sure."

"You never struck me as the kind of guy that would read romance novels! How did you ever wind up reading my books?"

He let loose an audible sigh of embarrassment. "Well, I might as well admit it -- I don't read romance. I just stumbled across your name when I was researching something for a story I was writing, and then I decided to look you up, and I found out you were a well-known writer. Anyway, I decided to read some of your stuff -- I confess, just one novel. I was curious, is all. Even though that's not my cup of tea, I have to admit, you're really good!"

"You're a writer, too! That's awesome!"

"Well, I'm not really a writer, at least, not a writer like you are. You know that old philosophical question -- 'If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound?' In this case, it's sort of, 'If a writer writes a story and no one reads it, is he actually a writer?'" He paused. He suspected that he wasn't making any sense, but he was curious what she would say to that.

"I'm sure you're a fine writer, Chris, and just because I make a lot of money selling books does not mean that I'm a fine writer."

"No, you're right -- making money is not really the thing that I think legitimizes writers. Having people read what you write is what makes you a writer, and that's what makes me...." He trailed off in embarrassment. Again a long silence ensued.

"I don't think I agree with you, Chris. Was Emily Dickinson a poet? Because when she died, only a handful of people had ever read her poems."

"But that's my point precisely. When Emily Dickinson died, no one knew she wrote. Today, most people know her, and hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people have read her poetry." Silence.

"So, if you didn't know that I was a writer, how did you come across my name?"

He laughed. "Did you ever know Michael Oleksyszyn?"

"Michael..." She paused for a moment, thinking. "The Music major? Sure I did. I didn't know you knew Michael, Chris."

"Well, I didn't know Michael, at least not all that well. It's just that in the story I was writing I was creating a character that was based on Michael. I don't know if you remember, but Michael wanted so badly to be taken seriously as a jazz musician, yet he really wasn't much of a jazz musician, and so that was what I was writing about, and I couldn't remember his last name, and for some reason, I just had to find out that name. Anyway, I looked up Michael on the CMU Music Department webpage, 'cause I remembered having gone to one of his recitals, and that's when I ran across your name -- found out that you'd had a recital, too -- and it got me thinking about you, and so I looked you up -- googled your name."

"I hope you don't think that makes weird or anything. I was just curious what happened to you. And then when I found out you were a famous writer, I decided I wanted to read your stuff. It's kind of funny, too, in trying to find out Michael's last name, I came to realize that I'm a lot like Michael myself." He laughed again.

"Yeah, I was at that recital, too. I knew Michael from Music courses that we had together. You're right; he wasn't all that good. I think he played the flute, didn't he?"

"Well, that was his main instrument, and he was at least okay as a flautist, but he really wanted to play the saxophone more than the flute. He wanted to be Sonny Rollins, and so he started a jazz band and tried playing tenor sax. His band wasn't very good; neither was he." He paused. "I guess it makes sense that you knew him. Until I looked up Michael, I don't think I knew you were a musician, but then I saw your name in the list of people that had had recitals. You played the organ, right?"

"Yeah, I started on piano, and then moved on to organ. I had a major in Music Performance, and organ was my main performance instrument. But, Chris, how did you know Michael? You weren't a Music major, were you?" She sounded confused.

"No, I was an English major. But I knew Michael because he worked at the college radio station with one of my friends, and so he ended up coming to a couple of parties at our house, and then he saw my record collection. I always had a lot of records.

"I remember that! Your collection always impressed me. You knew a lot about music!"

"Thanks! Anyway, once Michael started looking through my stacks, he realized I had all sorts of old, obscure, jazz records, and when he saw that I had three or four Sonny Rollins albums, he wanted to be my best friend!" He laughed.

"He used to come over to my house and ask me to play those Rollins records all the time, but by that time, I had sort of soured on jazz. All the greats had already died, with the possible exception of Sonny. In fact, I think Sonny is still alive. Anyway, I didn't want to play those jazz records for him, but he kept insisting on hearing Fletcher Henderson or Horace Silver or Art Blakey, and especially Sonny Rollins, and that struck me as really funny -- this white kid from some small city in Michigan -- Battle Creek or Kalamazoo, or something like that -- who thought he was Sonny Rollins. He wanted to be Sonny Rollins so badly, even though that was like the last person in the world he could ever be. Anyway, I was trying to create a character that was like that -- completely obsessed and totally unrealistic. I just thought that was an interesting idea for a character."

"That is an interesting idea!" She paused. "But, Chris... let's not talk about Michael, okay?"

"Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

"How about you? What are you doing now? Are you married? Do you have kids?"

His shoulders drooped, as he resigned himself to his fate. He had guessed in advance that he was going to have to explain all of this, and he figured everything he was about to say would look bad -- like he was some kind of loser, and maybe he was.

"Well, it's kind of embarrassing, but I guess it is what it is. I'm a bartender now. I'm sort of semi-retired. For a long time, I was a high school principal, but I quit doing that about a year ago. I hated it, and I was sure it was going to kill me. Besides, I had to give half of my money away to my ex-wife, who, trust me, didn't need that money at all. So, I figured, why kill myself to satisfy her? She ran off with another guy a couple of years ago, and I guess I'm kind of bitter about it. Anyway, I just took a job bartending so that I didn't have to give her so much money. As for kids, yes, I have two daughters. They're both out of college, and they've moved away and have jobs, but I do get to see them over the holidays and occasionally during the summertime. I love them to death."

He could very nearly hear her wince several times over the phone as he described his tale of woe. When he finished there was a long pause. "I'm sorry about your marriage, Chris."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Like I said, it is what it is."

"How do your daughters feel about your wife's treachery?"

"I guess that's the good part, though it doesn't change much of anything. They didn't like it at all. They barely speak to her now, and they haven't forgiven her for what she did. On the other hand, it's brought us a lot closer together. They're both really good people, beautiful girls, and they're both doing very well -- great jobs, nice boyfriends. My oldest Maddie is up in the Bay Area; she just passed the bar. She's probably going to get married pretty soon. I'm really looking forward to that. Hadley is back in the Midwest -- in the Twin Cities. She's a veterinarian."

"Where do you live, Chris?"

"I'm in California. Central Coast -- about halfway between L.A. and San Francisco -- a little closer to you in L.A., I guess." There was another long pause, and then he continued, "But enough about me; what about you?"

"That's a beautiful area! I love it up there! In fact, I've often said that I'd like to move there! It's such a nice, relaxing place. Sure beats L.A. where I live! I hate the rat race here!"

"Well, I've called it home for quite some time now. I guess I like better than just about anywhere else. Unfortunately, when I was a principal, I didn't have a lot of time to enjoy it."

"I can imagine. My father was a high school principal in Port Huron. I remember how much he worked. I trust you get outside a little more now?"

"Yeah, I like to hike. I've been doing a lot of that lately." He paused. He was embarrassed talking about himself. "What about you, Caroline? You married? Have kids?"

"You know, Chris, my life is quite a bit like yours. After I started writing and had some success, my husband got bored with me. He said I worked too much, though he was very happy to help spend my royalty checks! He started having an affair with his secretary, and so, when I found out, I divorced him. My kids are grown up too. My son is still here in L.A. He's trying to be an actor! He's actually had a little success -- he had one decent movie role a couple of years ago, and he does a few commercials and some voice-over work. My daughter is up in Seattle. She's a teacher. Like your oldest, I think she's going to get married soon."

For the first time in a long, long time, a hopeful, expectant feeling washed through him. At the same time, he was afraid to ask the next question that had slithered like a snake into his consciousness. Before he could screw up his courage to do so, Caroline Seale asked him the very same question, "Are you dating anyone now, Chris? Is there a woman in your life?"

"Nah, I think I'm too much of a misanthrope to find anyone at this point." He didn't care to explain; it was too painful. Besides, he was fairly certain that admission would scare Caroline away.

Apparently, he was wrong about that. "I think, to some extent, we're all misanthropes, aren't we?"

"How about you, Caroline, are you dating anyone now?"

"No, it seems like I don't really have time for men. I spend some of my time writing, and then most of it promoting my work. Trust me, it's a full-time job." She paused. "Listen, I would love to read some of your stories, Chris. Would you let me see one or two of them?"

"Absolutely!" he answered excitedly. "I would love it if you would read something. No one else reads my stuff, so I would hardly turn down an offer from someone who actually possesses the knowledge to be able to tell me whether or not I should continuing wasting my time doing this. I value your opinion. Maybe you can give me some pointers. By the way, I have to confess, Caroline, I wanted to ask you if you would read my stories. Thanks for not making me beg!"

"I have a sneaking suspicion that I am going to love your work, Chris!"

"Well, I don't know about that, but whatever you think, I want you to be absolutely honest. Please don't sugarcoat your critique. I really want to know if I'm any good or not, and if you are not 100% honest, I'll never find out the truth. If I show you some things, do you promise me you'll tell me what you really think?"

"I promise. Do you want to email them to me?"

He was feeling much more confident than he ever thought he would be, and so, rather than answering her question, he decide to make a brazen request. "Caroline, can I ask you a favor?"

"Certainly!"

"I would love to see you. Would you mind if I came to visit you sometime? I could bring some stories with me. Maybe spend a weekend down in L.A. I could take you out eat, or maybe we could go somewhere together, you know, the Getty or something. I guess I'm asking you out on a date, Caroline", he said with embarrassment.

There was a pause, and he could barely make out a few muffled sounds on the other end of the line. It was a bit disconcerting. When she answered, Caroline's voice had changed -- it was softer and less confident. "Of course, Chris; I would love that! I was going to ask you if I could see you again, but this time you beat me to it. It's been a long time, and I would really like to get reacquainted." Again, he could hear Caroline move the phone away from her mouth, and it sounded as if she was holding it against her body to muffle the sounds.

"Great! I hope this is not too soon, but would next weekend work for you? I was supposed to work on Saturday night and then be off on Sunday, but I think I can find someone to cover for me, and then we'd have the weekend. I work during the day on Friday, but I could come down Friday night and stay until Sunday afternoon, if that would be okay with you."

"Sure, Chris." She didn't say anything more, and he wondered why she'd become reticent so abruptly.

"What part of the city do you live in, Caroline? I'll try to find a hotel room nearby."

"You absolutely will not!" Her tone was resolute, almost angry. She paused for a few moments before resuming again in a softer voice that infused reason into her argument. "Chris, I live in a six-bedroom, 10,000 square foot home in Coldwater Canyon all by myself. I'm getting sick of being alone in this gigantic place. Why would you stay in a hotel when I have more room than I know what to do with right here? Please do not get a hotel room. That simply makes no sense, and I would be offended if you did."

"Caroline, I don't want to offend you. I just don't want to impose, especially after I just invited myself."

"Chris", she said with a tiny hint of lingering frustration. "You just brought it up before I could. Besides, if you let me host you here, I'll come up there sometime to make things even. I absolutely love visiting your area. Where are you exactly?"

"San Luis Obispo County, a little town called Arroyo Grande."

She was back to her earlier emotional state -- excited, happy. "Yeah, the 'big ditch' -- I love that town! It's right by Pismo Beach, isn't it?"

"Exactly; the area's called the Five Cities." He could have continued, but decided it made no sense to wax poetic about the town he and his wife had decided to settle down in.

"Look, Chris, just come down here next weekend. You can't know how happy it will make me just to see you, but, look, I want you to be my guest. Do you understand? Everything's my treat, okay?"

He paused for a moment. "Okay", he said sheepishly. He knew without the words having been spoken that Caroline Seale had a lot more money than he had, and that fact both intimidated and embarrassed him. Still, his pride was not as powerful as his desire to see her.

"Chris, I need to run. I have a dinner meeting in an hour with my publisher, but I am so looking forward to seeing you. Send me an email at caroline***********.com, and I will write you back later in the week with all of the details about getting to my place. In the meantime, take care, okay?"

"I look forward to seeing you too, Caroline. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Chris." Her voice fell silent. After a conversation that left him lost in a fantasy world, the terminating click of the connection shocked him back to reality.

Not only had Caroline Seale agreed to read his writing, but far more importantly, she clearly sounded like she wanted to see him. His ostensible reason for calling her -- the possibility that she might take a look his work, help him to decide if he had any writing talent, and if he did, maybe even assist him in getting his work published -- had been completely overwhelmed by a far more remote possibility -- the prospect of reviving their short-lived and long-forgotten romance. Maybe he was reading too much into their phone conversation, but it certainly seemed possible that the unencumbered Caroline Seale might be interested.

He set his phone down, and moved his hands back to his keyboard. He had reached that place in the arc of his story where the two main characters were about to sleep together for the first time, and now his mind roamed backwards three decades to a tiny, ranch home in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan, just across Adams Street from Mill Pond Park.

*****

The party that night arose, as most of them did that summer, organically. He and Dean got off work at 3:30 on a blisteringly hot, Thursday afternoon, the last day in July, and headed straight to the liquor store. The only decision to be made once they arrived was: gin or vodka?

A similar trip the day before had delivered a brown, paper bag containing a 1.75 liter bottle of Smirnoff vodka, a two-quart can of V-8, a lime, and a head of celery to their house on Adams Street. On that occasion and most of the others that summer, by around 2:00 a.m., the Smirnoff bottle was empty, and he would crawl, weary and wasted, off to bed.

The following morning the two both rose by 6:15 to shower, shave, inhale a bowl of cereal, then pile into Dean's car for the 10 minute ride to the hospital, arriving just in time for their 7:00 a.m. shift. Upon entering the hospital, their first stop was always the office of Mrs. Erickson, a pleasant looking, 40-something nurse who served as the administrative assistant to the Director of Emergency Medical Technicians, the department where Dean worked. That was where they both clocked in, though the routine that they followed involving timecards and timeclock mattered far less than what came next.

Mrs. Erickson liked them both. Nearly every day that summer, she would offer them a friendly smile and greet them with very nearly the same refrain when they shuffled in, groggy and tired, and punched their timecards. "Tied one on again, huh, boys? Oh well, here you go!" They would both smile wanly and stick out their right hands into which she would drop two Ibuprofen tablets each. Then, she'd hand them each a small paper cup of water.