Tragic

Maybe not.  I Put "Tragic" as the title of this post because I just got done reading some notes I wrote a long time ago about a story I want to tell. It outlines a woman whose life is defined by great and constant sorrow.  Everything goes wrong for her.  It's real sad. Sniff.  Now since I can't write, I know this story will never be written properly.  So I might as well just tell the story here.

When I wrote this thing originally, I was trying to "write".  When I look at it now, I cringe.  The words I was using don't sound like me at all. Well, they do, but they sound way more douchy than normal.  "Douchy" is a french word, meaning "Showery". Say that reminds me, maybe the French don't shower that much because the word for it is "douche."

"Alors Michel, you showered again, non?"

"Oui."

"Douche!"

Yeah that's probably the problem.

Anyway - the story and my "douchy" talk. I'm just going to go back and read the thing (even though it's kind of painful) and jot down some of the more cringeworthy phrases here.  The thing is, yeah, a lot of the crap I write is crap. But it's worse when I'm trying to be all "authory." Way worse.
Ok here goes. I'll be right back ...

... the soft blonde hair of her young daughter as her mother's countenance turns obsidian and ...

What the fuck?  The thing is - this crap is in the middle of a sentence that is darkly humorous (to me. at least).  Countenance? Obsidian?  Jesus!

Also - I think I should take out the word "soft" or "blonde".  Maybe:

... her daughter's downy hair as her mother's FACE DARKENS and ...

Yeah - much better - except - downy?  Dude! Chill.

Next up:

... she could never be serious about a boy with so little ambition ...

Yeah I don't know why, but I don't like the word "boy" here. It just seems like somebody else talking.

But again, I think I can fix this sentence. How about:

... she was a real bitch ... 

Ok, I'm kidding. I don't know how to fix it.  The point is, it's just horrible, but it was kind of fun to write because this poor gal (somebody else's word) can't catch a break.

So here's the story (or some of it) without trying to "write".  It's just too hard to not suck.

There's a girl about 10 years old. Her name is Mary.  She lives in a small town near a highway. Her mother waits tables at the diner along the highway. They are poor.  Mary's father left before Mary was born.

Mary is determined to have a better life. She dreams of making her own way to success. She saw how her mother's life was ruined by putting hope in a man. A man Mary's mother never stopped believing in. That one day he'd return. She was a little goofy.  (Just between you and me - because there's no way Mary or her mother will ever find this out, but Mary's father loved Mary's mother more than anything. He had completely changed since meeting her. He had just bought a ring and was daydreaming his way back to propose when his car went over a cliff into the ocean and he was never ever seen again by anybody. But don't tell anybody I told you. It will spoil the surprise).

So Mary is a bit of a daydreamer herself. She has a secret place she goes to be alone. One day there's a boy there. Phil. After some lame, predictable banter, they become lifelong friends. Phil loves her from the beginning. But Mary will not let some guy ruin her plans. She won't allow herself to fall.

Until they're about 17 years old. She gets pregnant. Quits school (abandons scholarships).  Gets a job at the diner. Phil gets drafted. Killed (MIA, actually). She miscarries a daughter. Her mother dies of cancer. And it's all really really sad. Seriously.

One thing she does every night for 20 years. When she closes the diner, she sets a cup of steaming hot coffee on the counter, locks up, and walks home. Alone.

She does this because when Phil was leaving for the war, she asked when he'd return. He said he'd be back before his coffee got cold. A lie Mary has lived with for thousands of nights.

~~

Somewhere on a highway, a homeless man has been traveling toward the diner. He's been at it for longer than he can remember.  Years maybe. He doesn't know. His memory is not too good.  He doesn't know who he is or where he came from.  He was severely injured in the war. All he remembers is a name and a cup of coffee.  He will eventually find his way to the diner.  Instinct draws him.

Even though he doesn't know it, his name is ... Jerome.  Yeah, it's totally not Phil.  Too bad, too.  Man that'd be awesome. But even though he's technically MIA, Phil did die in the war  (Don't tell anybody - that'd spoil the surprise).

One last thing. For some reason I could never figure out, Jerome calls Ketchup "Ketch-em-up Sauce"

It's not really important, but that's where this story started from. That and a lady at the last place I worked named "Mary" who left a steaming hot cup of coffee unattended in the break room every morning.  I blogged about it before. Hang on - I'll see if I can find it ...

Ok here it is:  Mystery Solved

Oops. I just realized. That makes this blog entry part 2 of that one.  Ha - It was that long ago I wrote this. Well, this is unprecedented. I continued a "to be continued."

And you thought I'd never do it.

To be continued ...