Waves By Steve Ogden
There was a small bit of pain, and of course some blood. And then there was the needle sticking out of his arm. But in the end, it would all be worth it, right? It’s giving blood, after all. It’s saving lives. It made Gerald feel good, doing his bit.
And afterward, the Famous Amos cookies and orange juice, hand delivered by Thoughtful Jen. She was a socialite, a debutante; not a hair out of place. One of those girls. One of those wives.
His wife could have been one of those girls, too, if her parents hadn’t split up when she was young. They had been traveling in those circles before the breakup. And she could have been one of those wives. She still could be – the wife of the famous Gerald Rayburn – if Gerald could only get his act together and hurry up and get famous.
The book could make that happen for them if only he could get it done. Part Harry Potter, part Doctor Suess, he just knew it’d be a success. Maybe he’d get time to work on it later. But for now, there was small talk to be made.
“Where’s Michelle?” said Jen. She opened a can of orange juice, slipped a straw into the opening and handed it to Gerald.
“Yeah, she was supposed to donate, but she was feeling a bit sick. The kids have it, too, so they all stayed home.”
“Ohhh…” Jen pouted, “Well, aren’t you a good little soldier for coming through for the Drive today. Representing the family.”
Gerald smiled. One of the other donors held up an empty orange juice can. “Miss?”
“Refill?” she asked, and the man nodded.
“You got it.” She looked back at Gerald. “You tell Michelle we missed her today. Hope she feels better soon!”
“Thanks. I’ll tell her.”
Jen left. A large older man in the seat next to Gerald nodded. “The only Rayburn donating today, eh?”
“How you doing, Ed,” Gerald nodded back.
“Great, great. How are things up at the dream factory?”
Everyone knew Gerald worked for a famous computer animation company in a small town that had little else going for it. The company was the town’s collective dream job, everyone proud of some connection to the place, no matter how tenuous. For instance, Ed’s brother-in-law had a role in landscaping the building, and Ed made a point to tell anyone who would listen.
Gerald wished he could level with those people, that the job wasn’t all fun and games. That although most of the company’s artists worked on the movies everyone’s kids knew by heart, he was trapped working on the ads the company vomited. Cereal. Toaster pastries. Diarrhea remedies. The company didn’t publicize their work on these ads they way they did with the family movies. Gerald worked in the invisible end of a very visible company, and he longed to tell people that the job had become sort of like throwing up for a living. But he usually chose discretion.
He feigned a smile and said, “It’s great!”
Ed leaned in a little closer. “Did I ever tell you that my brother-in-law worked on the landscaping for your building?”
“Well, he did a nice job. I love those gardens.”
Ed beamed.
Jen returned. “Feeling OK?”
Ed nodded. Gerald nodded, yawning.
“Ooh, big yawn. They keeping you long hours again?” Jen asked.
“No, no. It’s– I’ve been working on a children’s book in my spare time. Sometimes it keeps me up a bit late. I guess I overdid it last night–”
Ed spoke up, “Oh, that’s right. My nephew was telling me something about that. He seemed pretty interested, actually.”
Gerald didn’t remember telling Ed’s nephew about the book. But he must have let it slip some time. God knows Gerald liked talking about his projects.
He brightened. “Yeah, well, it’s coming along. Had a few false starts, but I think I finally have a story worth telling. How much did your nephew tell you?”
“Oh–something about a cuckoo bird who didn’t want to be stuck in the clock anymore–? He saw you making some doodles one time during church, and asked you about it.”
“Oh,” Gerald laughed, “that’s right. I had forgotten.”
“So– when’s it coming out?”
“Well, I’m afraid that’s sort of on the back burner right now. I’m actually writing a different book, about a bear that hates living in the woods. I’m hoping when it’s done I can turn it into a short film, maybe get PBS interested. I know a guy who knows a guy.”
“Wow. I don’t know where you guys get all your ideas. I don’t know where you find the time.”
“Well, it has been getting scarce lately. I’m not as young as I used to be, and these late nights are starting to add up.”
Ed laughed, “Ah, you’re still a baby from where I’m sitting. And at least you have your health.”
Gerald nodded, but felt the room begin to spin. It was happening again – the lightheadedness, the horrible nausea. He gripped the arms of the chair and gritted his teeth, breathing deeply.
“You OK, Gerald? You don’t look so hot,” Ed asked.
Gerald didn’t answer but began taking deep breaths and exhaling. He was pale.
“Miss? Miss!” Ed shouted.
Jen ran over, took one look at Gerald and called for a nurse. Gerald thought she sounded odd, as if calling from the bottom of a well.
Gerald woke up in one of the donation chairs which had been fully reclined. A nurse was on a stool next to him, checking his pulse against her wristwatch.
“You gave us a scare,” she said. “First time donating blood?”
“No,” Gerald said, fighting back a wave of nausea.
“Not your first time passing out then, either, is it?”
“No.”
“Is it the needles?”
Gerald took a deep breath, and felt the room steady slightly under him. “Maybe a little. But mainly, it’s the nausea.”
The nurse checked his pupils with a penlight and put her stethoscope on his chest. “Take a deep breath.”
Gerald breathed again, and felt a little better.
“You feeling nauseous now, Mr. Rayburn?”
“No,” he said. “Sorry about this.”
“No need to feel sorry, sir. We just don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“I guess I just get all worked up about giving blood. I don’t know why. I mean, I feel really good about donating. But when I’m done, I feel all lightheaded and I get these little waves of nausea. And I hate throwing up, always have. So I tense up, trying to fight it. I feel like if I can just breathe deeply enough, the feeling will pass, but I can’t catch my breath.”
“Well, you were trying. You hyperventilated.”
Gerald nodded, and closed his eyes.
“You shouldn’t get so tense, Mr. Rayburn. You need to relax and not fight nature so much.”
When Gerald had recuperated to the Red Cross’ satisfaction, he headed out into the cold fall air. He was glad to be out of the stifling heat of the Church fellowship hall. He knew why they kept it so warm on
How embarrassing. But at least he hadn’t tossed his breakfast. Who knows how the church personnel and Helpful Jen would have responded if he had. How many hours would he have had to spend recuperating? How much small talk would he have had to bleed out before he was done bleeding?
On his way home, Gerald stopped by The House. There’d been one of them in every town where he and Michelle had ever lived. The Tudor in Comus, of course, was their first home crush. Then, all those beautiful stone lodges in the
He sat there at the edge of
He could feel his mood elevating before other thoughts began to fill his mind. Who was he fooling? 40 years old, and still working for someone else. A salaried stooge, too tired at the end of most day’s work to create his own masterpiece. His ship had probably already come and gone without him. Still, maybe he’d win the lottery one of these days.
* * *
Piqued by his conversation with Ed, Gerald went to the basement as soon as the kids were in bed, to look through his notes on the cuckoo story. He dug through his files, and by 2AM, he had read through several folders full of semi-completed, abandoned projects spread out on the floor around him. It was like being in a mausoleum full of deceased old friends.
So many stories. A cuckoo that yearns to escape the clock. A fish that longs to leave the acquarium. Poker chips that don’t like playing poker. A man who builds a flying machine to leave town.
He didn’t hear Michelle until she spoke. “Honey–?”
The sound of her voice made him jump.
“Sorry. I was just…” he gestured around him. “Did I wake you?”
“No– I fell asleep with the TV on. The couch was killing my back.” She stretched, and looked around at the piles of paper. She bent down and picked up a sketch of the cuckoo. “I always liked this one. He was cute.”
Gerald nodded, “I liked him, too.”
She put the sketch back, and then sorted through a half-dozen other sketches. She sat back against the wall next to Gerald with a handful of pages. Finally, she put the pages down and looked at Gerald.
“You liked all of them,” she replied.
* * *
Monday. Work. While the golden boys upstairs worried about character moments in next summer’s blockbuster, Gerald and his crew worried about the critter for their new ointment ad. Would he be ugly enough to represent toenail fungus, yet not repulsive?
He looked through the mail on his desk. Mixed in with the usual junk was the latest issue of a trade magazine. From the cover, the smiling faces of his bosses seemed to leer at him. And standing in their midst was Mitch Vaughann, the director of their next feature film.
“Soul destroying, isn’t it?”
Gerald looked up at the sound of the voice. “Sure, Simon, barge in, and don’t bother knocking.”
“Thanks. I never do.” Simon came in and plopped down in a seat opposite Gerald. “And don’t even pretend that cover isn’t bothering you.”
“No, I think it’s great. It’s great for the company, good for the bottom line. Nothing wrong with a little PR.”
“Yeah, right. Mitch Vaughann is on the front cover of that magazine, and you know it should be you instead. But it’s good for the company.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
Simon shrugged, and then closed the door. He folded his arms.
Gerald rolled his eyes, and then shook his head. “OK. But I don’t get it. Mitch is my age. He used to work in this department. Under me, in fact. I go to work every day, too, do my job, just like he did. You shouldn’t get to win the lottery from just going to work.”
“Let’s split some wood,” said Simon.
* * *
Simon and Gerald walked to a field not too far from the Animation building, where they went to have their more serious chats. Simon searched the weeds near a fallen tree.
Simon found what he was looking for – an old, rusty circular saw blade – and brought it over to where Gerald was standing. He drew back and let the blade fly like a Frisbee, sinking it several inches into the dead tree. He shot Gerald a cocky smile. Gerald grimaced and retrieved the blade.
“Thing is, I know I’m lucky. Beautiful wife, great kids, a house, a car, a good job –”
Simon forced a cough.
“IT’S A GOOD JOB,” Gerald continued. “I know I’m better off than 99 per cent of the planet.” Gerald threw the blade. It glanced off the tree and went sailing off into the weeds.
“But at least ‘I’ve got my health’ and don’t I know it! No matter what I’m dealing with, how unfulfilling my job is, so long as I’m able to stand on my own two feet, there is always someone around to remind me that. Supposed to make me feel grateful, I guess. Well, I’m already grateful dammit!”
They walked together to find the blade. “But after my basic needs are met, is that it? Am I not allowed to have aspirations greater than that?”
“I don’t think your aspirations are going to be met in this job. Let’s face it, you’re too good at sweeping the floor, mate.”
Gerald knit his brow.
“You know, like they tell kids just starting out, get a job sweeping the floors and try to work your way up. But if you get too good at sweeping the floor, there’s no incentive to move you up. You become hard to replace.”
Gerald picked up the blade and handed it to Simon.
Simon continued. “You’ve made yourself so good at doing something no one else wants to do, that now you’re stuck doing it. Meanwhile, Vaughann made it known that he wanted to direct, and he did bloody little else to distract him from that goal.”
Simon threw the blade again. This time it stuck in the tree for a moment before falling out onto the ground.
“It’d be hard for things to change for you, now,” he continued. “He’s got his niche and you’ve got yours. If you want to hit the big time, you are going to have to do it on your own.”
Gerald said, “I’m working on it.”
“Are you? So, how is the bear these days?” Simon walked to retrieve the blade.
“It’s coming along. The story is half completed.”
“I thought it was half completed 6 months ago.”
“I’ve had a lot going on.”
“You had a lot going on when you quit the cuckoo story. No offense, Gerald, but you seem to have a lot going on most of the time. Are you sure you’re going to finish this one?”
“This is the one. I can feel it.”
“I hope so. But I swear I’ve heard you say this before. I think you’re only sold on a project until the next one comes along, and you think the new one is better. It’s self-doubt, Gerald. You’ve just got to outrun it.” Simon handed the blade to him.
Gerald threw it. It glanced off again, this time only a few feet away from the tree.
* * *
That night, Gerald sat among the piles on the basement floor. He was thinking about his bear story, and how sure he was that this was The One. It would change his life.
You’ve just got to outrun it. Easy for Simon to say. People’s demons run at different speeds.
He noticed that as he was thinking, he had doodled a potted plant hopping out of a greenhouse. A story began to form in his mind, the tale of a hothouse flower who dreams of escaping the nursery.
A wave was coming. It was the first time Gerald had perceived it thought it was obvious it had happened many times. Waves are deceptive; a swell precedes them.
So many times he had been sure of his latest project, and oh how that exhilarating rise seemed to suggest the universe agreed with him. It was enough to make him forget that on the other side of that swell was a monster that would leave him spinning and sputtering for air in its wake. But while rising to such heights, what else mattered?
He could already feel the roiling spray that rode the leading edge stinging his face. He had that much warning, at least. If only he could relax, let nature take its course, maybe it wouldn’t take such a toll on him this time. But from there on top of the swell, he had a brief moment of clarity. He saw that it wasn’t about the Chalet at Schuster. It wasn’t about making his wife a socialite. It wasn’t about riches or fame, and it sure as hell wasn’t about Mitch Vaughann.
And it wasn’t about outrunning the wave, either. No one’s that fast. It was about surviving the aftermath. In that moment, the piles of paper surrounding him didn’t look like the flotsam and jetsam of a disorganized life. They looked like life preservers. All he had to do was reach out and grab one, and hold on for dear life.
