Not
everything in life is what it appears to be. What you see
may not be what you get.
You
are given a chance to meet the perfect person, have a special experience, or purchase
a wonderful product. However, these solid opportunities may
not stand the test of time and may be . . .
Coming Apart At The Seems
“Atlantic
Daily Times, Clark Warren speaking. Yes, I’m a reporter. How can I help
you? You’re going to hold a symposium. The focus is on crime and voting. This
intrigues me. I’d love to cover the story. When you’ve selected a date and time
for the meeting, let me know and I’ll be there.” I hung up the phone, leaned
back in my chair, and gazed at my small oak desk in the middle of our busy
newsroom. I shuffled the papers on it for no particular reason.
A myriad of thoughts crawled through my
head. In some way, I had to get these slow moving creatures from my mind into
the computer. The headline and first paragraph of the new column I’d been
working on flowed across the top of the screen, but nothing more. I stared into
space. Maybe something would fall from heaven.
Someone approached from behind. I could
feel heavy breathing on my neck. “What the . . .?” I held my tongue, trying to
maintain my composure. But the hot, bad breath got to me. I spun around and
looked up at him staring down at me. “What the hell do you want?” I blurted.
Not shaken at all, he quipped, “You have a
spelling error in your headline.”
“Spelling error? What are you talking
about?” Before he could respond, I turned away and muttered, loud enough for
him to hear, “Get lost!”
It appeared so easy. He just left without
saying another word. But why was he at my
desk in the first place? I thought.
Twelve years I’ve been working for
him—twelve miserable years. And he’s never come to my desk before. I don’t
understand him and he’s never understood me. I can’t afford to lose my job or
I’d pick up and leave this hellhole. But that’s not possible in these tough
economic times.
I’ve been writing for the paper since I
graduated from college. And I’ve been working for George Boring since the first
day I arrived on the job. Yes, you heard me right—George “Boring.” And he’s all
that and more.
I blew off thoughts of his majesty and went
back to work on my new column. The column, which would elevate me to the next
level in my profession, focused on how peoples’ lives take crazy turns and
sometimes even fall apart as they pursue new and chancy endeavors. I’ve been
exploring the idea for over six months and want to propose it as a weekly story
for the paper. I had planned to go over Boring’s head to do this, as I
believed, if I tried to go through him, he’d block me from getting it accepted.
The ringing of my cell phone interrupted my
musings. I reached for it, pressed “ON” and heard a high-pitched, raspy voice,
“Clark, Taylor Camby here.”
“Yes. How can I help you?” I replied, with
some hesitation in my voice.
“This is Clark Warren?” the voice queried.
“Yes.”
“Clark, I hoped you’d remember me, but I
know it’s been over two years. We met at the writers’ event on the Palmer
University campus.”
“Sure, Taylor, I remember you.” But I
didn’t. However, I decided to play along. After all, I am an investigative
reporter. “Yeah, we met, but we didn’t have much to say to each other. Why call
me now?”
“I don’t want to talk on the phone. Can we
meet?”
“Well. I suppose so,” I said, almost
whispering, as my mind focused on trying to picture this guy.
“You still there, Clark?”
“Huh, yes, but I can’t figure out why you
want to speak with me.”
“You’ll understand when we meet.”
“Okay, but when and where?”
“How does ten o’clock tomorrow morning work
for you? We can meet at the café, south of the university campus?”
“All right, ten tomorrow morning. I’ll be
there.”
I pressed the “OFF” button on the phone and
returned to creating my new column. However, I still couldn’t get my head into
it. I kept wondering why this voice from the past had called me after more than
two years. What could he possibly want
from me? And what did he have to say that couldn’t be discussed over the phone?
The day marched on. I gave up thoughts of
getting any real work done. I cleared my desk, saved the draft document I
hadn’t made much progress on, printed a hard copy, locked it in my desk file,
and started for the office door.
Although a young man, at age thirty-four, I
believe in the old ways of doing things. I do use a computer in the office, but
I always make a hard copy of my work. I don’t trust technology. If it’s written
on paper, it’s harder for someone else to change. Computers can be hacked
into.
As the door started to close behind me, I
did a quick about face and hustled back to my desk and grabbed my mini digital
voice recorder out of the top drawer, checked the batteries, and stuffed it
into my jacket pocket. “Might need this tomorrow morning,” I mumbled.
Rather than go into the office the next
morning, I decided to go straight to the café to meet Taylor. While voice
recorders can prove helpful, I always carry my trusty pen and paper to
meetings, which could turn out to be actual interviews.
I arrived at the Posh Café and Bistro about
ten minutes before ten. The well-dressed young man, black suit and black and
white striped tie, at the reservations counter, showed me to a small table for
two toward the back of the café. Not remembering what Taylor looked like, I
gave him my name and Taylor’s and requested that when Taylor arrived he be
directed to my table.
“Can I get you something while you wait?”
he asked in a polite, high-pitched voice.
“No, nothing for me right now,” I
responded. “Thank you.”
I sat back and watched the young man return
to his post at the front of the café. The odor of fresh ground coffee brought
back memories of visits to my grandparents’ house. I closed my eyes and began
to daydream. My mind flittered from one beautiful scene to another in my
grandparents’ country home. I lost sight of both time and place. And then . . .
“Mr. Warren, Mr. Warren,” the young man’s
voice rang out.
Startled, I returned to the reality of the
moment. “Yes.”
“Mr. Warren, your party went to the
restroom and will join you in a couple of minutes,” the young man sputtered, as
he turned and walked away.
I pulled myself together and waited for
Taylor to make his appearance. I surveyed the room, but didn’t see any men
coming my way. All I saw was an attractive brunette woman in a navy blue
business suit and matching high heels, about my age, exiting the restroom area.
I began to look away. However, the allure of this beautiful female caused my
eyes to shift back to her. I thought to myself, She appears headed in my direction.
Then she stopped at my table and began to
speak in the high-pitched, raspy voice I remembered from the telephone
conversation with Taylor. “Clark Warren, I’m Taylor Camby.”
Oh my,
I thought. “Good morning, Taylor, eh Ms.
Camby.”
“Taylor is fine, Clark. May I sit down?”
“Why yes. I’m sorry. You caught me off
guard. I thought I was meeting a man, but you’re not . . .”
“Well, you’re almost right.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“You did meet a man two years ago, at least
in external appearance. At that time, I had begun the process to make the
appropriate physical changes to become a woman.”
Not wanting to say the wrong thing, I
remained silent.
“Clark, we did meet at the conference, but
that’s not the reason I wanted this meeting today. I spoke to your editor, George
Boring, last week and he suggested I speak to you. He told me he would give you
a heads up about my call.”
So
that’s why he came over to my desk yesterday. Now I regret being so rude to him.
“Well, Taylor, what do you want from me?”
“Mr. Boring said you’ve been developing a
new weekly column for the paper. He didn’t have specific information on the
topics it would address. However, he said he considered you a talented reporter
who had the unique ability to come up with new ideas and ways to present controversial
material. I told him what I wanted to discuss with you was, indeed,
controversial. In my profession, as a religious leader and writer on
theological and moral interpretation of human behavior, sexual reassignment
surgery will raise a few eyebrows. What I didn’t tell him was that I’ve been
frightened to death about the changes I’m making in my life.”
“You’re a religious leader?” I mumbled.
“You heard me right. I’m afraid of how my
congregation and religious readership will receive what many might consider
blasphemy. I don’t want my life to fall apart when I ‘come out.’ My congregants
have not seen me as a woman. I dressed this way today in order to entice you
into writing my story.”
I sat there trying to grasp what I’d heard.
However, what kept popping back into my mind was that George Boring knew I
existed and thought I was a talented writer.
My God! Nothing appears, as it seems.
George Boring’s take on me isn’t what it seems. Taylor Camby’s life, with this
new twist, isn’t what it seems. And my financial situation in this crazy
economy certainly isn’t what it seems.
Now, it made sense to me why Boring thought
I had a misspelling in my headline. The state of my world gave birth to my new
column’s direction and title, “Coming
Apart at the Seems.” And the topic for my first piece, “Taylor Camby:
Remaking My Life,” had indeed fallen from heaven—a gift from God.
Copyright
© 2011 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
