Someone New by Clive Aaron Gill, cappuccino

 

Jacob, a boy I had known at the Francis W. Parker School in Chicago, sent me a personal Facebook message on New Year’s Day in 2018. Emily, remember when we were forced to learn ballroom dancing in seventh grade? He had been a studious and accomplished student whom the girls in our class nicknamed Egghead.

 I do. I also remember waiting for a boy to ask me to be his partner. And the relief when you chose me. Being taller than boys had its disadvantages.

We exchanged phone numbers and continued Facebook messaging. Jacob wrote that he had lived in Italy for six years. At age twenty-nine, he settled in Sydney, Australia, where he’d stayed for five years. I lived in a small apartment in Lincoln Park, Chicago, on a quiet, tree-lined street near the Lincoln Park Zoo.

On a Sunday morning, four months after Jacob’s first message, I awoke later than usual and checked my messages. Emily, Jacob wrote, I’ll be in Chicago on business for a few weeks in September. Would you like to meet?

Feeling lonely, I immediately replied, Yes, I would.

We met at a bar and ordered craft beer. Jacob was as lean as a long-distance runner, almost as tall as my six feet, and dressed in a camel-hued coat, white shirt, and blue jeans.

“You’re still pretty, Emily.”

I never knew he thought I was pretty, and I appreciated his honesty by not saying I was more than pretty, like gorgeous. My appearance was improved with my navy-blue velvet slip dress and faux-pearl hoop earrings.

He talked about his plan to visit Antarctica. I told him my passion was to write love stories.

At the railroad station, Jacob boarded the last train of the night that would take him near his hotel. I waved at him as the train gathered speed, wishing he had offered to kiss me. That night, I couldn’t sleep, worried that he wouldn’t ask to see me again.

A week later, I agreed to meet him before he flew back to Sydney. We went out for drinks and dinner, and he listened to me attentively during our leisurely meal. This time, I invited him to my apartment. He accepted, and shivers of anticipation ran down my back.

After our nightcaps of Irish Cream liqueur, he caressed my face. We removed our clothes, and holding his hand, I led him to my bed. He stroked my breasts and hardened nipples and massaged the roundness of my belly. I traced my finger across his cleft chin, pressed my lips against his, then straddled him. We clung to each other and moved as one.

The next morning, I hummed as I brewed coffee. I showered and prepared my favorite breakfast burritos for us, using scrambled eggs, potatoes and cheese.

Jacob returned to Australia. We communicated with each other at least once a week for a month. He messaged, I visited Yalgorup National Park near Perth. At night, thousands of stars looked close enough to touch.

I replied, I went to the Field Museum of Natural History. Amazed to see Sue, the world's largest known T. Rex.

Men typically ended our relationship at about three months, usually saying, “I’m sorry, Emily, I met someone new.” Each time I was rejected, I asked myself, “What’s wrong with me? Why do I always have to get hurt?” After each rejection, I couldn’t just turn off the romance like turning off a tap.

With Jacob, two months passed, then six, then nine, and we messaged almost every day. I learned about his seven-year career plan and how he spent eight days on a farm where he helped harvest organic tomatoes, lettuce and carrots. He knew about my dream to ditch my boring sales job, my obsession with cleanliness and my love of LeAnn Rimes songs.

Maybe, just maybe, our relationship was becoming more than casual.

While Jacob was on a business trip in Chicago, a little over a year since he first contacted me, we met for dinner at the Sapori Trattoria. He arrived on time and during our meal, he was polite to the server. I loved his Aramis floral-spicy scent, and I relished the joy of our time together.

I ordered lobster ravioli, and he asked for mushroom risotto. We both loved the rich, creamy blend of tiramisu made with layers of Italian cookies, mascarpone cheese and espresso coffee.

“I appreciate our friendship, Emily. We fit together like a chocolate and vanilla soft-serve twist.”

“That sounds cliché. But I get what you mean.”

“I love being with you.”

“I feel the same, Jacob.”

We spent that night in his hotel room and most of the following day in bed. We ordered food that was delivered to our door. I felt intimacy and affection when he held my hand and massaged my neck, although I kept my expectations in check.

But during the next three weeks of his business trip, I allowed myself to be excited about the potential for falling deeply in love.

He returned to Australia, and our communication became spotty. He said he worked long hours and no longer told me about his activities after work. I hated waiting for his occasional messages and dreaded the thought of receiving a breakup message. It stayed that way for five months, with me trying to walk the line between messaging him and not being annoying. I forced myself to stop checking for a message from him and thought, “Oh, my God, I’ll go crazy.” I had to do something about my sleepless nights.

I messaged, I’m sorry, Jacob, I met someone new.

About the author  

Fifty-five stories by Clive Aaron Gill have appeared in literary journals and in “People of Few Words Anthology.” Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from UCLA and lives in San Diego. https://www.amazon.com/Clive-Aaron-Gill/e/B00FADQIR6

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Caws

 

by Clive Aaron Gill

Crow's Nest 

  The jarring, staccato caws of crows every morning disturbed Daniel during his virtual college classes. Through his window, he watched the birds courting, fighting and scolding. Sometimes puffing up, bowing and rattle calling.

Daniel recorded the hoarse, screaming kee-aah of red-tailed hawks, enemies of crows.

When a group of crows cawed during his class, he played the recording.

The crows swarmed up, flapping in all directions, then flew away.

About the author

Fifty stories by Clive Aaron Gill have appeared in literary journals and in People of Few Words Anthology.

Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe.

 

Mom's Bills

by Clive Aaron Gill

cola

I loved to dress up as a princess and parade in front of Dad. But when I was five, he walked out on my mother and me.

Mom worked in a bakery during the day and as a waitress at a diner in the evening. She spent money on gambling and clothes. Everything but the bills. The debt collectors pestered Mom, warning her they would take our trailer and truck if she didn’t pay. Somehow, we scraped through the years.

When I was sixteen, Mom met Ryan, a mechanic who became a regular at the diner. They dated for three months, the longest time she had dated anyone since Dad abandoned us.

On a beautiful April morning, Mom said, “Abigail, I’ll be gone all night.”

 “Why aren’t you coming home, Mom?” I always found her in bed in the morning after her nights out.

“I’m going with the ladies to a show at the casino. Afterward, we’ll play the tables. I’ll sleep over at a friend’s place.”

“You’ll gamble too much.”

“I’ll keep to my limit.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yup. After that break-in at our neighbor’s place, I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I’ll be just fine, Mom.”

“Would it be okay if Ryan comes over?”

“Ryan? He’s your friend, not mine.”

“He said he would like to spend some time with you.”

I scratched my head. “Well … I guess.”

Mom drove away after dinner, and I strolled outside the trailer to gaze at thousands of stars, pinpricks of light in the jet-black sky.

Ryan, a tall man with a stomach that pushed against his shirt like a water-filled balloon, drove up. We went inside the trailer and sat on the sofa while we watched a movie and ate popcorn. During the movie, he snaked his thick, hairy arm around my shoulders.

“Did your Mom explain things to you?”

I shook my head.

Ryan’s pink scar, running from his ear to the corner of his mouth, reddened. He shocked me by kissing me on my lips. His breath smelled of beer.

“Just … just go,” I said.

He stared at me with dark brown eyes, steady as a hawk’s.

“Please go,” I said, pushing my elbow against his chest.

*

At five in the morning, Ryan walked out the door. When I got up, I found a fat, manilla envelope stuffed with fifty-dollar bills on the kitchen table.

I grabbed my mother’s dresses out of the closet and threw them into a stinking dumpster.

After loading my backpack with clothes, toiletries, and the manilla envelope, I left the trailer.

I never told anyone about Ryan’s visit. I was ashamed and disgusted and scared to go to the police or a hospital.

Since the day I walked out on Mom thirty years ago, I haven’t seen or spoken to her.

I live in the prison of my horrible memory.

About the author

Forty-five stories by Clive Aaron Gill have appeared in literary journals and in “People of Few Words Anthology.”

He tells his stories at public and private gatherings.

Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.

 

The Cross-Country Race

by Clive Aaron Gill

sports drink

“Run to beat your personal best today,” said Coach Martinez, a man with iron-gray hair and a spreading paunch. “You’re competing with the top runners. Steve, you’ve got a good chance to lead your team to victory, plus win the race individually.”

“Yes, Coach,” I replied, knowing I needed to win to get a college scholarship. My adoptive parents couldn’t help me financially, and I didn’t want to graduate from college with huge loans.

“Your old rival, Red, from The Bishop’s school, is your strongest competitor,” Coach said. “He’s gotten faster. If he’s in front of you, expect him to run shoulder to shoulder with his running buddy to block you. Go around them or push through.”

“I will, Coach.”

My team of ten from San Pasqual High School in Escondido, California wore royal-blue T-shirts and faced Coach. All year we had looked forward to the seventy-first cross-country invitational at Mount San Antonio College in Walnut, California.

“After your practice run yesterday, you know the twists and turns of the course,” Coach said, his eyes roving to each boy. “Remember to pump your arms. Tuck them in. Focus on your breath.”

During the last four months, we had built endurance by running three miles, six days a week to prepare for this event.

“When things get rough, stick to it.” Coach slammed his fist into his hand. “You have all improved your times since you started training this year. Jacob, you having a bad day?”

“Got a headache, Coach. I don’t—”

Coach interrupted him with a quick wave of his hand. “Running will take care of a headache, Jacob. At first, it will get worse. Embrace the pain. Run through it. By the time the race is over, your headache will be gone.”

Jacob nodded with seeming acceptance.

“Listen up,” Coach said. “Keep an even pace, including up and down hills. Tune out all distractions. Brandon, you look distracted. Are you mentally ready?”

“I was imagining our team winning. But I’m ready now, Coach.”

“Think like winners and you will be winners,” Coach said. “Remember, in life, you choose to be good or great. Are you ready to be great?” he bellowed.

“Yes, Coach,” we shouted.

“Go get ’em.”

My team members and I huddled in a circle, our arms over each other’s shoulders.

I shouted, “We are runners.”

The other boys replied, “We are runners.”

“We can,” I yelled.

“We will,” they whooped.

“Go, Golden Eagles,” we all screamed, jumping up and raising our fists.

A red-tailed hawk circled above us as if surveying the tightly packed athletes at the start area.

A warm wind blew against my face, and I smelled the nervous perspiration of those close to me. My girlfriend had said I seem to run without effort, although it sure didn’t feel like that. Being tall gave me a longer stride than most other boys.

At the start line on the former airstrip, I jogged in place with my running buddy, Joker. He earned his name because he loved to tell entertaining stories.

Dat, an immigrant from Vietnam, a thin boy with dark brown skin, stood beside me. He recently dreamed he had finished in fifth place for our team. The best he had managed until now was seventh. At this meet, he was determined to finish fourth or fifth, because only the first five runners’ scores in each team were counted in the team competition. He wanted his grandfather, who traveled with us, to be proud of him. His grandpa, a former general in the South Vietnamese Army, had boarded one of the last flights out of Saigon before the North Vietnamese Army captured the city.

Dat turned to look at the crowd of spectators in the bleachers.

His grandfather shouted, “Dat, run hard.”

Dat waved.

Dat’s running buddy was nicknamed Mousey because he had round cheeks and tiny eyes.

The race starter walked to the side of the competitors, twenty yards in front of the start line.

Some boys coughed. Others stretched their hamstrings. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves while visualizing myself breaking the finish line ribbon.

“Stand still,” the race starter said through a microphone. “Toes behind the line.” He blew a long, loud blast of his whistle. “Contestants to your marks.” He raised a red flag and the starter gun.

Matt and Zack, who stood behind me, were running buddies. Zack, nicknamed Rabbi, believed he could help people with spiritual ideas.

Coach was especially proud of Matt who had a kidney disease. Joining the team as a sophomore, he came in last during practice runs. He improved until, in his senior year, he finished six seconds after me in a cross-country meet. He once told me, “Every race is a fight. But I enjoy being part of the team.”  He earned the name, Champ.

“Bang.” A puff of smoke rose and the starter’s flag came down.

We ran forward, jostling for good positions. Some nervous participants sprinted. I recalled Coach’s warning to pace ourselves, and I settled into a steady rhythm with Joker, our feet pounding the asphalt of the old airstrip. We turned onto Valley Loop, a flat, dirt road. Live oak trees and green grass grew on the sides. For the first mile of the three-mile race, we maintained our pace, packed close together and kicking up dust. With Joker running by my side, I got my second wind and overtook panting athletes.

Running up the first and longest hill with four hairpin turns, Red and his running mate ran side by side in front of Joker and me. Joker tried passing on the right, but they blocked him. Then Red’s running buddy doubled over and collapsed at the edge of the path, holding his stomach as if he had a cramp. Red looked back, and Joker and I overtook him.

I again remembered Coach’s words as I ran up the slope. “Change gears to shorten your stride. Lean forward and keep a steady pace.”

Joker and I reached the top of the hill, then ran down to the U-turn at the bottom.

Poop Out Hill, the steepest incline on the course, was next, and I gasped while I climbed it.

A short distance from the top, a flock of crows, startled by the runners, flapped their wings and wheeled up with screeches and hoarse caws.

After coming down Poop Out Hill, Joker and I led my team members. Red ran a few yards behind us.

We climbed the gentle slope of Reservoir Hill and ran down the steep descent to the last curve before the flat finish area.

Coach stood at the side of the road, clapping and yelling, “Kick it in. C’mon. Pick it up.”

Champ and Rabbi passed Joker and me.

Champ tripped, staggered and fell as heavily as a sandbag. He grunted as he grazed his face and hands and swallowed brown dirt. Red hurdled over Champ’s spread-eagled body and ran in first place.

“Joker, Rabbi,” I shouted, “keep going.”

I stood over Champ. “Get up. Let’s go.”

He leaned on his elbow, shaking and wheezing. “Damn.” He tried to stand but swayed as if drunk.

“Come on,” I screamed, “you’re Champ.”

He raised his hands in an expression of surrender.

The rest of the boys in my team ran past us and sped toward Red, Joker and Rabbi. Spectators at the finish area in the Hilmer Lodge Stadium cheered.

Joker sprinted and caught up to Red. The onlookers in the bleachers applauded and shrieked. Then Red increased his stride and finished first. He raised and pumped his fist.

Joker, Rabbi and two other team members finished in the first four positions for my team.

Mousey and Dat ran alongside each other, their legs moving in unison, shoulders heaving.

Mousey pulled ahead stride for stride, and the screaming crowd leapt to their feet.

“You do it, Dat,” his grandpa shouted in a hoarse voice. “Go, go, go.”

His grandfather’s words seemed to give Dat a jolt of energy. He caught up to Mousey ten yards before the finish line and leaning forward, crossed ahead of him in fifth place.

Runners who had completed the race, walked with their hands on their hips. Perspiration stained their shirts. Some boys bent over. Others collapsed onto their backs.

I held Champ’s hands, then lifted and steadied him. We were the last two competitors, and I knew I’d lost my chance of getting a scholarship.

We jogged forward and were greeted by a roar from the spectators. After we crossed the finish line, Champ fell to his knees at the side of the track, shaking with sobs and gravelly breaths, his nostrils flaring, sweat dripping from his forehead. Team members crowded around to commend us for completing the race.

Coach ran up and told the team members to walk for five minutes to cool down. Then he gestured for us to sit around him. He squatted and removed his sunglasses. “Jacob, do you still have a headache?”

“No, Coach. It went away after the first two miles.”

“Good. Dat, you gave it your all to make fifth place.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Steve, you did good to help Champ finish.”

All the team members gave Champ and me high-fives.

“The judges are tabulating the team results,” Coach said, his voice cracking. “But I know we didn’t win. Wherever our team does place, I’m proud of you all.”

“We pushed hard,” I said.

 “Yes, every one of you did. Steve, although Red won today, a Stanford scout told me he knows your stats. And he liked what you did for Champ. He said you’re an emerging talent. He’d like to talk to you.”

I grinned, and my teammates gave me fist bumps.

Coach looked down as his tear rolled into the powdery dirt.