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.