I entered this in a contest on Figment.com in which the topic was 'opposites attract.' I knew that all the entries would be about the bad boy, good girl kind of thing and I really wanted to take a unique approach! So, I wrote this one! There was a word limit and I have had some feedback that it feels rushed, which is probably due to the word limit. Anyways, I ended up in the top 10 and am looking forward to hearing if I placed or not! Happy Reading!:)
Sometimes you find the most success in the most unexpected
places, with the most unexpected people, at just the right time.
During my sophomore year in high school, I’d desperately
been trying to find a job; my parents had been killed in a car accident and
left me with my single aunt, who struggled enough on her own. I tried everywhere, but having reading
books, writing books and holed up in a corner daydreaming about books I was
going to read and/or write as my hobbies, no employers seemed too interested
except a sales clerk who told me I should have some volunteer experience to
make me at least an option. That’s
how I found myself at the Beverly Care Lodge for seniors. The volunteer coordinator, Mrs.
Reynolds had been super excited for me to join the team and had the perfect
senior in mind for me. “Everybody
raves about Mr. Gus Thatcher!” She exclaimed, leading me through the hall down
to wing B, “He is so friendly and has so many great stories, I know you will
get along great.” My heart thumped
heavily and I cringed inwardly, wondering if it was too late to back out and
run away to my familiar bedroom hideaway.
My mind was racing over all the reasons why this was a bad idea. Even if I did have the courage to carry
on a conversation, what would we talk about? Here was an old man, his life would soon be over and there
was no way he remembered what it was like to be my age. Then there was me, shy, awkward Bailey who
either hadn’t had many life experiences or was too afraid to talk about
them. I cast one last look back at
the door, just as Mrs. Reynolds smiling said, “Here we are!” her knuckles already rapping on the door,
before she peeked inside and told Mr. Thatcher that he had a special
visitor. “Come on in, Bailey,” the
coordinator smiled, opening the door wider and ushering me inside. Cautiously, I stepped inside and
offered up a discomfited wave. The
old man sat in his rocking chair, a card table perched in front of him and a
game of solitaire splayed upon it.
His hair was snow-white, balding on the top and his skin was wrinkled
and thin. He lowered his glasses
to the end of his nose and looked me up and down, before nodding and then
smiling. Mrs. Reynolds left us
alone then, leaving me standing awkwardly in the entryway, until Mr. Thatcher
beckoned me over, “Well, come on in girl, let’s play a card game. Which games do you know?” I sat down on the edge of his bed, on
the other side of the table and shrugged.
It was safe to say I was an awkward person. When it came to interpersonal skills, I was in the
dark. I preferred to just sink
into the background, pass by unnoticed, because it was just so much easier than
having to answer questions about my life.
I clutched my bag, hoping he’d just go on with his game and I could get
out my book and read. Instead, he
folded away the deck of cards and rocked back in his chair. “Do you ever speak, girl?” he asked
curiously. I blinked at his
bluntness and opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was, “umm…”
He laughed then, filling the whole room with sound, his
potbelly bubbling up and down with every chortle. I found myself with a little grin on my face and when he saw
it he brightened, “Ah! There we
go, finally! Tell me about
yourself, girl.”
“I like to write,” I answered quietly, “I am working on a
novel.”
“What about?”
He’d asked, so I proceeded to tell him of the plot between a boy and
girl who fell in love on vacation.
Gus frowned and rocked slowly back and forth. Finally, he leaned forward and looked
me in the eye. “Girl,” he started,
“don’t you want to write about something meaningful, something with substance?”
I was taken aback by his bluntness, but I realized he was
right. I did want to write
something that would make people think, change their perspective.
“Like what?”
I’d asked and he smiled excitedly before beginning with,
“Back when I was young…”
I grabbed my coiled notebook and jotted down every word he
spoke as fast as I could, so to not miss anything.
It continued like that for months. I found myself looking forward to Saturday when I could hop
up on his bed again and hear him telling me of life as a little boy during the
war and him having to get a job milking cows at the neighbor’s farm so he could
get paid with food for his family.
He told me of when his older brothers went off to war, but his mother
wouldn’t let him go because he was too young and then hearing the news that his
brother, Harold, had died in action four months later. He recounted of meeting his best
friend, Charlie, in third grade and the time they hopped a train to California
when they were twelve to go surfing.
He’d lean back in his chair and smile as he remembered the three years
he played basketball in high school, finally winning the city championships his
senior year; him voted as MVP.
The more he told me about his life, the more I found myself
opening up to him. I told him of
the struggle my aunt had to provide for us and I told him about my parents and
the day I found out they’d been killed when I was fifteen. He listened, because he understood and
right before my own eyes I witnessed the formation of one of the world’s
greatest friendships.
“On October 5th, 1936, I met Arabella,” He told
me one day, sliding an old, black and white photo across the card table, “We
got married the fall after senior year and stayed together for 71 years before
she passed on.”
I admired the smiling photo of the young couple in my hands,
“Gus, I thought you once told me that love stories had no
substance.” He chuckled, but
slowly shook his head,
“The stuff you read of in books, that’s what has no
substance. It’s just one person’s
dream of perfect love, but real love, well, it has imperfections, and that is
what gives it substance.”
Those were the last words that filled the very last page of
my coiled notebook. I shut the
cover and looked over at Gus. We
were both smiling, exactly on the same page.
Right before summer holidays, the last Saturday in June, I
excitedly skipped into Gus’s room.
Surprisingly, he was lying in his bed, looking tired. His skin was graying and worn. He smiled when he saw me and patted a
spot on the bed beside him. I sat
down and pulled out a book from my bag.
“Life on Rewind, written by Bailey Spears and Gus Thatcher.”
I read aloud for him, “We wrote a novel!”
I bent down and gently kissed his cheek, his skin warm and
soft as he smiled fondly, his eyes closed.
Sandra Jefferson, the editor of Life magazine stared at me, astonished. Her mouth was open slightly. Life on Rewind was
sitting on the desk in front of her.
When she’d asked me what inspired my writing, I’d told her about Gus,
because even though we’d started out on different pages of life in an
unexpected place, the journey between us, two unexpected people, had proved
that opposites really do attract.
I was the shy, awkward, seventeen year old afraid to stand out and then
there was Gus; outgoing, funny, full of life and at the age of ninety-four, he
was still young at heart. But our
paths had crossed, at the exact right time and through seizing the moments we
shared, I’d had the chance to fulfill my dreams, and Gus got the opportunity to
tell his story one last time. It’s
in the most unexpected places, with the most unexpected people with which you
can find the most unique perspectives that give you the keys to life.
