The Ambitious Daydreamer

A short story (around 2,000 words)

Ruth was recording a man across the street playing merrily with his daughter, when her phone battery died, drawing attention to the bus pulling up she was supposed to catch. After running for the bus, she realised she did not have enough change for the fare. The indicator ticked like a clock. She slung her backpack off her shoulder and dug around for her bank card. Rejected. The driver rolled his eyes and nodded his head back, gesturing his sympathy, and her luck. “Thank you” she said.

After deliberately avoiding eye contact with one of the girls who bullied her back in school, she seated herself near the back, plugged in her earphones and leaned her head against the window. It was not long before her stop came, and it was time to jog. She took a moment to catch her breath before entering through the salon door; the bell above announcing her arrival.

“You’re late. Again.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“No need, just crack on.”

She slung her backpack in the back area, washed her hands and slipped a charger into her phone. She pulled the pen out of her bun to let her hair down. A few scissor snips and pretended interest in unenlightening gossip later, a familiar face entered.

Gwen sold antiques. Her gold and orange hair were wavy like marmalade but had recently began greying. Her collection of bangles and beads rattled against the sleeve of her long purple coat, and her perfume choked the room.

“Gwen! It’s been years. Do you still have Alphie?”

“Indeed I have, he’s been costing me a few vet bills but he’s as lively as ever.” Alphie is a German Shepherd. She continued, “I can’t have kids so I figured I’d get a lively dog that’s a pain in my arse so I never feel bad about it. I’ll never forget you pulling him out of that lake, I still owe you for that, it ruined your camcorder.”

“Ah, don’t be silly, you don’t owe me anything. And had it been a little yappy Terrier or something I probably wouldn’t’ve bothered. But a good review wouldn’t be rejected” They shared a smile. “How’s the hubby?”

“Still thick as rhino s**t, but easy to boss about”

“Ha! Yeah, but you love him”

 “Love him? Heavens no dear, my love is reserved for Tulloch, the hunky black fella I met in Jamaica. I’m going back there next year to tango with him on the sandy beaches, and by tango I mean pogo rodeo. Anyway, It’s good to see you’re not as scrawny. You’re not still stuck in that crappy hostel are you?”

“I have my own little flat now. Quiet in the evenings but plenty of space to write.”

“Oh, are you still doing your writing? That’s good to hear.” Gwen quizzed.

Lisa, her work colleague, added to the question, “You should write for Martial Thoughts Magazine, you were always reading them in school and getting stuck on half the words”, giving a reassuring wink.

“Nah, I thought about applying there once. I filled out the application form until it asked about qualifications. I’ve been turned down by so many companies, that was the last straw for me. I haven’t really applied for much else. I’ve sold some articles in one or two magazines, oh and a newspaper, but that’s only because my cousin edited it.”

“So why don’t you have the qualifications you need?” asked Gwen.

“It’s not so easy because I’m dyslexic. I can write, but it’s like decoding for me and takes much longer than others, which makes timed exams impossible to pass at a decent level.”

Lisa imputed “Yeah but she’s the best writer I know. Her videos are amazing. She does these mini documentary things.”

“That’s because you don’t read anything other than texts” They laughed.

“Yeah, but you’re a good storyteller. There must be a way you can still be a journalist or something? I only know about your videos because one of my friends shown me a video about the local park. I was surprised to see your name at the end of it.”

She couldn’t help but smirk, “Yep, took 2 months I’ll never get back.”

“You can do something with what you have, or dwell on what you don’t” Gwen replied.

“There.” She held up a mirror for Gwen to see the back. “What do you make of that then?”

“It’ll do, I suppose”

Gwen stood up whilst removing her apron, and turned to pay.

“Nah, on the house, my treat.”

She pulled out a £20 note as if she did not hear her. “Well take it as a tip, then” she whispered, whilst placing it in Ruth’s bra. “Put it towards some heels darling. You’re not a teenage boy, you’re a lady”

“They’re skater shoes. They’re comfy”

“So are slippers dear, but one never wears them in public” She slipped her coat back on. “You’re always good to me. Too nice for your own good, you know. Oh, what’s your number, we need a few gins and a proper catch up sometime”

“Absolutely, although anything but gin. I never knew a liquid could taste so dry. My phone’s out back. Give me yours and I’ll text you mine”

And so, they exchanged phone numbers and Gwen left the salon. It was enough to make the day seem brighter than the usual monotonous hours of work, and the rest of the shift seemed to wither by unnoticed, like a candle in the background. After the last customer had left, and the floors were swept, she shoved her charger in her backpack and said her usual farewell to her work colleague. She hated this part of the day. On one hand, work was over, and she was permitted temporary freedom. On the other, she would go home to a ghostly silence, record some vocalised daydreaming, watch some TV, and repeat the day upon waking.

She turned her phone on as the salon door closed behind her, and the screen cautioned ‘three missed calls’. She called the number whilst heading to the bus stop back home.

“Hello, Martial Thoughts Magazine. How may I help you?”

“Oh. Hi. Um- I had a few missed calls from this number?”

“OK, what’s your name?”

“Ruth Campbell”. She slowed her walking while listening intently to the pause.

“Mr. Simon Henderson wants to see you, about an interview. We can squeeze you in for nine tonight or arrange for some time next week. How soon can you get to our office in the Garden Heights?”

“Hold on, I’ll just check the bus times.” She ran across the road. “I can be there in about thirty-five minutes, it should be about nine, but it may be a few minutes after.”

“That’s fine, we look forward to seeing you shortly. Bye”

After finding the office, she ran up a flight of stairs, and pulled out her phone, ’20:58’.

“Hi there, may I help you?” She was greeted by a receptionist with her hand over the phone. “I have an interview with Mr. Henderson, at nine O’clock”.

“Oh yes, one moment please.” She took a deep breath and noticed a button missing on her coat.

“You may go in now”, she smiled, pointing to the door with ‘S. Henderson’.

She knocked to hear “Come on in”. He was rubbing his head before he looked up. His then smile was inviting, as was his hand offering a seat on the opposite side of his desk. The music from reception muffled as she closed the door behind her. She walked past the old brown leather footballs on display; the only thing in the room that did not look recently polished.  She sat under the clicking ceiling fan with her hands between her lap, trying to ignore the smell of the coffee on his desk.

“I believe you gave a friend of yours a haircut today, Mrs Gwen Cook. She happens to be an old friend of mine too, and she mentioned that you write intriguing articles. In fact, I was just reading through one now, on how the homelessness in this town is problematic, and you have some rather unique suggestions. My point, Miss Campbell, is that you have got it.”

“I’m sorry. Got what?”

“The gift of the gab. Any twonk with a pen can write an article, but you get readers engaged like no other.”

She stared at a small mark on the edge of his desk. “Can we cut the crap? I mean no offense, Mr Henderson, it’s just that I know where this is going. You want me as a writer, then I tell you I have dyslexia and have to explain how my brain is messed up, then you realise I require a constant editor that isn’t worth the money and it’s more effective to just hire someone who can write properly. So if you don’t mind, I’m tired, and I’d rather skip all that and just let myself out.”

“I’m not interested in hiring you as a writer”

“Um, sorry?”

“We have been around for many years as a magazine, but now everything is going online, and it has taken a toll on sales. You might just be the key to saving this company. I have watched some of your video essays, and if you like, I would like to start up a new page on our website, just for that. You would have all the gear you need, camcorders, those little mics that clip to your shirt, studio lighting, your own desk, new laptop, oh and I’m thinking of hiring a videographer so you can do interviews without having to hold the camera yourself. Whatever you need, just let me know. What do you think to that, Miss Campbell?”

She froze stiff. “I- I don’t know what to say.” Still leaning back, he stopped swinging in his chair, giving her space to think. “I’ve wanted to write for this magazine company for so long and been turned down for so many smaller positions my whole life. I never-” She cleared her throat, “I never expected this, and if I’m honest, at risk of shooting myself in the foot here, I’m scared I might not be able to deliver for you. I have always done it as a hobby but to do it full time, it will be new to me and I- I just don’t know.”

“Thank you for your honesty. I can see you would be pleasant to work with. I must insist that you take the night to think it over, and when you decide with certainty what we both know, you will need to hand your two weeks’ notice in at the salon. This should give me time to prepare your office.”

“Either way, thank you for the offer. I’m still baffled by it all.”

He pulled a lid out of his desk draw and screwed it onto the coffee. “Well then, it seems my day is done here. Did you drive here?”

“No, I got the bus. If I hurry, I might make the last bus home.”

“Nonsense. I’ll give you a lift.”

On the drive home, she decided he was nicer than she first thought. She knew she was going to take the offer but wanted to take his advice of sleeping on it, just to be sure. As he pulled up outside of her flat, it started to rain.

She told people she lived in a flat because it saved her explaining detail. It was a studio apartment on the third floor, with an on-suite bathroom and kitchen. Downstairs, was the share living room which she would occasionally spend time in, depending on who was in there at the time. She stood sheltered from the rain by the portico, put the key in the door and paused before opening. She reflected on her day for a moment, trying to figure out how such luck came about.

She was instantly met by Jenny, a younger girl she lived with. “Hey, a letter came for you this afternoon, it looks like your exam result. Do you want to open it in private or can we open it now? Pleeeease.” Ruth used to find Jenny annoying for being so gullible. But over time, she found her naivety to be quite sweet, like the innocence of a happy child.

Ruth smiled, “Go ahead if you like, I don’t need it anymore. I know what to do now” she cheered, then ran upstairs to her room. Jenny knew she would fail but could not help following her hope and curiosity. She opened the envelope, preparing for usual disappointment, and pulled out the sheet of paper. Her eyes lit up with a gigantic smile.

Author's Note

My first completed short story. Criticism is highly welcomed, don't hold back!

Reviews

[JayG]

The way to get indentation, here, is to indent via the top ruler in MS Word, and then copy/past it here. Because this is an Internet site HTML rules apply, and with them, leading spaces and tabs are trimmed.

Also, since you're writing fiction, one thing you should know: The skill we call writing, learned in our schooldays, has a longer, official name: Nonfiction-Writing. With a goal of informing the reader it focuses on detail progression. It tells the reader what happens, in summation and overview. Fiction, though makes the reader live those events, in real time, AS the protagonist. And that takes an entirely different set of skills.

There are lots of ways of acquiring them: Obviously, a degree in commercial fiction writing does it, but takes a lot of money, and commitment. There are conferences, workshops, and retreats, which can be a great help, as are writing groups. But the simplest, and cheapest way, is the fiction-writing section of the library.

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So dig in. Knowing a few of the tricks makes the act of writing a lot more fun.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/