Unconventional Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  We arrive at Sam’s college and we’re greeted in the parking lot by an upperclassman. He shakes my hand. We exchange names. His name is Fred, and he asks if I’m Sam’s brother. He wants to know if I’m going to attend college with Sam. I tell Fred that Sam and I aren’t brothers and I won’t be taking classes here.

  Fred puts a hand on his hip. “What college do you go to?” he asks, falsely interested.

  I feel my face flush. “I don’t go to college,” I say. With a piece of luggage in my hand, I lean against the back bumper of the car. This is my least favorite part about meeting people.

  “Oh, then you work?” Fred asks, slipping his hand into a front pocket.

  I can feel him judging me. “Yeah, I work.” Three words. I have no desire to socialize with him. I glance at Sam, who stands to my right with bags in his hands. Behind him, his parents stand proudly, speaking quietly to one another. Then I bring my eyes to Fred again. I know it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover or in this case, a person by his appearance, but I judge anyway. Fred is wearing Gucci sunglasses, a sparkling silver necklace, diamond studded earrings, and designer clothing that would take me weeks to pay for. Surely, I think, there’s no way this guy paid for all of these possessions on his own. Daddy and Mommy had to have assisted. I want to ask Fred if he knows what work is, but out of respect for Sam, feeling that Fred may be some bigwig on campus, and also because I know I’m hypocritical for judging him as I think he judged me, I bite my tongue. Maybe he does work. Or maybe he leeches off his parents. I can’t be sure either way.

  “Well, what do you do?” Fred looks on me through dark lenses.

  “I’m a brother, a friend, a son . . .” I pause to let it sink in. “And what do I do for work? Is that what you’re asking?” I see him nod. “I work for my dad’s company,” I say, awaiting more prying questions.

  “What kinda company is that?” Fred asks.

  “The R.O.T.C.,” I say. As always, I smile without revealing my decayed, disgraceful teeth. I’ve never been to a dentist and only recently—roughly three years ago—started to take care of my set. Flossing, brushing twice daily, once in the morning and once before bed, and swishing with mouthwash that sets my cheeks and gums on fire. I’ve been doing everything in my power to keep from losing these brown Chiclets, but I fear no amount of maintenance can reverse the damage already done. I find it humiliating that I may have to wear dentures before the age of thirty. Or walk around toothless is more likely; I can’t afford a visit to the dentist, never mind false teeth.

  Fred’s forehead creases. He wakes from silence. “R.O.T.C.? Doesn’t that have something to do with the Army?”

  Smiling, I shift my attention to Sam. I languidly wink at him. Then I throw a stare in Fred’s direction. “The Royal Order of Toilet Cleaners. Haven’t heard of ’em?” I watch Fred, imagining the confused eyes underneath his dark lenses. “I do janitorial work, to put it bluntly.”

  Sam lets out a nervous laugh and looks at me with widened eyes. Sam isn’t part of my bloodline, but he might as well be my brother. I can tell he wants me to shut up. I’m embarrassing him, so I refrain from any more clever jokes. That’s a shame, too, because it’s fun toying with Fred, the Gucci man.

  Without cracking a smile or saying a word, Fred lifts the sunglasses from his face and sets them on his head. He looks up at me as though I’ve rolled around in manure. Because of my job as janitor, Fred—a fine representation of society—wants me to be or believes me to be an uneducated imbecile whose only lot in life is to clean up after the white-collar population of America. I’m assuming things, possibly; assumptions are, I admit, one of my flaws. I want to tell Fred that I’m not an idiot and I’m not a slave and education isn’t only about a piece of fancy paper.

  “I see,” Fred says finally, looking me up and down. I think he means “I see” literally. He can see that I do janitorial work. I’m not wearing anything fancy over my thin frame—ratty jeans, a tee shirt—and I haven’t done anything to my mop of ash-blond hair, so I probably fit his image of a janitor. He turns to Sam, dismissing me, and says, “Let’s get you moved in.” I watch as Fred takes Sam away.

  * * *

  Sam and his parents are at an assembly on campus for college newcomers. Darkness fell over the campus about ten minutes ago and I’m sitting in silence at the wooden desk in Sam’s dorm room, his new home, staring into space. I’ve known Sam for seven years, give or take. For the first four or so, while we were neighbors, we hung out almost every day. Memories swirl through my mind: Sam and I play wiffle ball and flag football in his backyard with the local kids; he and I build forts outdoors; talk about girls; discuss life, the future; we laugh together; cry together; and grow together.

  With a sinking heart, I lean back in the chair. I will miss Sam Nuggett. I stand and scan the room, noticing posters on a far wall that once decorated the walls at his house. The posters look foreign in this environment.

  I think of Donovan, my other best friend, and the sickening feeling I discovered when he left for college last year. I didn’t go with him to see him off, but I went to his lake house to say “see you later” before he left; I didn’t want to say goodbye because, as I’ve heard, that’s something you only say to someone you are never going to see again. I hugged him and didn’t want to let go, didn’t want him to leave. Of course, he left anyways. But I couldn’t blame him, just as I can’t fault Sam for leaving. Our paths are different.

  I turn away from those posters and sigh. I get tired of being emotional, so I look for a diversion and find Sam’s laptop perched on his bed. I grab it up and swipe my forefinger over the touchpad to bring the laptop out of hibernation. I know he won’t mind. I sit on the bed, check my e-mail, then sign in on MySpace.com, an online community where I registered last week. I bring up my page on the screen and read over the About Me section, the part I filled out: Hey. The name’s James Frost. I’m from New Hampshire, and I hope to one day get published. I like baseball (played varsity both junior and senior year), football (mostly enjoy watching it), and writing.

  Most people on MySpace give a hint about their occupation and some come right out and mention the job title—and details of their job—on their profile, but no way will I reveal my job to the world. Hey. The name’s James Frost. I’m from New Hampshire, and I hope to one day get published. I work for my dad’s janitorial company, and I can be seen scrubbing toilets with an oversized toothbrush. I chuckle to myself. There are some things about me that strangers don’t need to know.

  I sign in on AOL Instant Messenger; instant messaging addicts refer to the program as AIM. A message pops onto the screen at once: Hey James, how ya doin? It was sent by Erica, a girl who I dated for a period of about three weeks. Our little fling ended a couple days ago. Even after the alarms went off in my head telling me that we weren’t a good match, I still stayed with her until it got to the point where I couldn’t trust her anymore. There’s an old proverb that I came across: Where there is no trust, there is no love. I thought of that line when I broke up with her in Dad’s living room. I told her that she had lied to me too many times, and that the trust was gone. After she graced me with a dozen or so consecutive f-yous, she stormed out of the house and sped away. I ate ice cream and threw a solitary party. Bye-bye, Wicked Witch.

  I focus on the laptop’s screen, on the message box that I think of canceling. I don’t initially want to respond to her, especially because of the things she said to me before she left Dad’s house that day, but I start to think: Who am I gonna hang out with when I’m home? Donovan’s gone. Sam’s gone. Everyone’s gone. Except . . . I poise my fingers over the keys, then type: Hey.

  “Hey, man.”

  Sam’s voice rips my attention from the laptop. I look up and see him, DeVito-like, brown hair instead of baldness, standing alone in the doorway.

  “Hey.” I sit the laptop on the sheets, the screen aimed toward him. “How did it go? Meet anyone cool?”

 
He comes in and sits next to me. “You wouldn’t believe the girls here, man. They’re so hot.” He smiles. “It’ll be a good year.” His eyebrows dance.

  I can’t help but feel a little jealous. Sam has thousands of girls to choose from, and who do I have? Erica. The Wicked Witch. Yippee. “That’s good, Sam. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  His smile grows. “Maybe.”

  I fold my hands over my legs. “Pretty good odds, I’d say.”

  He notices the laptop on the other side of me. His eyes light up, and he raises an eyebrow. “Why are you talking to her, man?”

  I shoot him a serious look. Sorrow tugs at my heart. “Once I leave this place, who else do I have? What do you expect of me? Am I supposed to talk to my walls or paint a face on a volleyball and talk to that?”

  Sam puts a hand on my shoulder. “You can talk to me. Plus, you have your dad.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I say.

  Sam appears baffled. “What do you mean? We’ll still talk.”

  I cross my arms. “I know how it goes. It happens the same every time someone goes away.” I look down at the carpet, dirt and paper scraps strewn over the surface, a janitor’s nightmare. “They give me the we’ll-stay-in-touch speech, but then their new life kicks in and they don’t have time for me anymore. I become last on the priority list, and whatever we had fades.” I think of my relatives in Nevada—Mom and Sis, brother-in-law and niece, and I feel an explosion of anger as I flash on how this occurred: the divorce between my mother and father, the segregation in our family, miles between us hindering our communication, awkward phone calls once or twice every few months.

  After a couple seconds of pondering, stiff in his upright position, Sam says, “But that doesn’t have to happen to us.” His voice discloses his concern. “We’re like family, like brothers.”

  I veil my sadness with a smile. “I know.” I hold out arms to hug my brother. “Let’s do this now, so we don’t have to later.”

  I hear the ding of an incoming message on the laptop as he wraps his arms around me. I ignore that sound. This takes precedence. “I love you, man.”

  “Love you too.” His voice cracks. “See you later.”

  A sickening feeling swells in my stomach. I hold on tightly, not wanting to let go. Grief crashes down on my heart like thunder, or maybe like a large river wave teeming with flesh-eating piranhas.

  * * *

  We’re on our way home, Sam’s parents and I, the radio on a station with talk only, and we drive by New York City. I stare out the window, thinking about the publishers and literary agencies. Their businesses are situated among those countless glimmering lights, the kaleidoscope of colors in the distance.

  I imagine I’m a fly on the wall and I see an editor laugh and cry and smile as she reads my novel at her teakwood desk. I’m invisible in an agent’s office and he, the literary expert, can’t put my novel down; the elegant prose and genius plot magnetize him. Every agent I observe wants to represent my work. They expect a six-figure deal. Predict it’ll become a best seller. I see myself at Dad’s house, walking straight to my landline phone. The answering machine blinks twelve. I listen to the messages. The publishers and agencies love me. They really love me.

  I rest my head against the window, my reverie twisting. I see Sam socialize with his new friends. He wears an exuberant smile. Around every corner, he meets a new girl. He’s not in New Hampshire anymore. He’s starting over with a clean slate. His dream has come true.

  I half-smile, feeling simultaneously pleased and miserable; satisfied because Sam got what he wanted and awful because of his departure. My buddy of all those years is no longer just a couple towns away.—

  I think of my own dream, wonder if it’ll come true, if I’ll get to start over fresh like Sam. I close my eyes and pray, pleading with the Maker. Please, I need to get published. Please, I don’t want to be alone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Another school year turns up. I find it difficult to believe this will be my third year working for Dad. This must be a nightmare I’ll wake from at any moment. The car I’m driving—a black 1989 Ford Escort, white scuffs on the front and rear bumpers, and clusters of rust on various spots of the driver’s door—evokes reality. This is no dream. I paid off this vehicle last month. Fourteen hundred dollars returned to my father. It feels liberating to live without the burden of repaying Dad, but that feeling doesn’t shrink my hatred for this ill-favored car.

  I pull into the school’s parking lot, reducing my speed to fifteen, the limit for this area. I drive toward the front of the palatial brick school. As expected, elementary-aged children stand scattered near the main entrance, waiting for their buses and parents to arrive. Some of the kids, backpacks slung over their shoulders, point at my car, laugh, and plug their wrinkled noses, like this is a garbage truck or something, and others smirk or smile as I roll by. These types of reactions aren’t uncommon. No doubt, they point and laugh because of the noisiness of my car’s loud grinding and pig-like squealing sounds. They smirk and smile for the same reason. They squeeze their nostrils with a different motive—to keep out the smell of burning oil.

  I turn a corner, away from the horde, isolating myself, and park the car near a side door. I’d get this piece of junk fixed but I don’t possess the proper funds. I brought this ole block of metal to a repair shop last week and they quoted me a price of eight hundred bucks. The manager looked at me as though I had ten heads when I laughed and told him I’d have to pass. According to him, I need new front and rear brakes and some other parts indecipherable to me. I can’t afford to sink hundreds of dollars into my car. Bills—like car insurance, gas, rent, food, editing fees owed to Arthur, and my laptop that I’m still paying for through a credit card—give me little choice in the matter. I could get the car fixed and charge the bill to the same credit card, but I don’t wish to fall further into debt.

  I yank the keys out of the ignition, body tense, frustration washing over me. There’s a baseball bat in my trunk—a wooden Louisville Slugger, thirty-four inches—which I used during practice in my Varsity baseball days. I’m tempted to pop the trunk, get out of my car, take hold of that bat and, allowing my hatred for this vehicle to feed my strength, swing like a madman at this joke-of-a-car. I would take delight in releasing my frustration on this inanimate object, but to bash this car would only draw attention to me. I don’t crave attention. Not that type. The perception people have of me is negative enough already—imbecilic janitor who drives a noisy car from hell. I don’t need to provide them with more ammunition by beating my car to a pulp in broad daylight. Imbecilic, psycho janitor who drives a dented, smashed, noisy car from hell. I shake my head, opening the driver’s door, drop my car keys into a front pocket, and proceed to the building’s side door. As I step through into the vestibule, I accidentally brush up against a departing teacher. “Sorry about that,” I say, standing still.

  She doesn’t stop or even glance back in my direction. She darts out the door, leaving one sharp word in her trail: “Yep.”

  I turn to the door as it slams in my face. Did she think I purposely ran into her? Did she expect that from me? Maybe she had a bad day. Maybe she was in a rush and didn’t have time to talk. Possibly she didn’t think I was worth her time, this person responsible for cleaning up after her.

  I step out of the vestibule and onto the faded green hallway. I stroll down the hall, peeking in the classrooms as I pass. Nothing new today. Another day in paradise. The floors, carpeted or tiled, littered with dirt and dropped pens, pencils, crayons, markers, crumpled pieces of paper and more, cause outright disgust in me. To an outsider, it would appear that at some point throughout the day, bombs containing writing utensils and paper exploded in each room. To me, an insider, it’s evident that the children behaved as their usual disrespectful selves and the teachers, as in days prior, held no control over them. If only teachers were allowed to bring back rulers like in the days of the knuckle-swatting nuns.
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  I get to the last room at the end of the hallway and notice Mrs. Fredricks sitting at her desk, her crooked nose deep in paperwork, wearing a customary scowl on her crinkly face. She reminds me of a nun, with only the penguin getup and ruler missing. I avoid the classroom and retreat quietly to the center of the hall, the place of my closet. I unlock and open the door labeled JANITOR and roll out the cleaning cart—containing a vacuum, bathroom supplies, and an attached wastebasket. I push it up against the adjacent wall.

  First step is to round up the garbage. I grab an unused, oversized garbage bag from the cart and start in the classroom across from Mrs. Fredricks’s room. As I approach the wastebasket next to the teacher’s desk, I notice a new poster on the wall to my left, above the room’s sink. Mister Hutchins, the teacher who molds young minds here, must have hung this poster earlier today. From my spot in the middle of the room, near a couple student desks, I find the poster effortlessly readable. In large bold letters across the top, it says I WANT TO BE A . . . Underneath, photographs appear in four separate columns. The top left column portrays a doctor with a stethoscope around his neck. The top right depicts a female dentist with a giant, cartoonish toothbrush in hand. Bottom left, the image of a male chef grips a spatula. Neighboring that, a police officer smiles, gun in his holster, his hand raised, frozen in a wave. Below the four photos, the words WHEN I GROW UP finish the poster’s message.

  I step closer to the poster, pondering this thought: No kid ever says I want to be a janitor when I grow up. I peruse the images on the poster once again, then glance down at my trash bag. Anger knifes through my body. How did I end up here? It’d be easy to pass the blame onto my parents. Neither one of them pushed me to do much of anything. Their guidance was, to put it nicely, scarce. In hindsight, their parenting was far too lenient. Nonetheless, I can’t blame them. I ought to take personal responsibility for the outcome of my life. We are all products of our own choices.