A Long Time Comming

Lecturing about the success of others had dented Josephine’s ambition. She grew in contempt of speaking and glorifying the success of other writers. Her own success lied on the fact that she spoke about them in the first place, but that was her job; to teach about the greats and how and why they were so great. Her students never looked like they cared, and Lord knows Josephine barely cared either. During today’s class they were talking about the “Lost generation” of writers; a niche and odd bunch of troubled souls. Most of them died miserable deaths, but even then, they were still remembered for what they were: writers. They once started as writers and died as writers; that’s what seemed to make them so special. It’s not every day that someone follows their dreams, reaches the top and dies after a few years. It's mostly the opposite: they follow their dreams, fail and die after a prolonged and miserable life.

Josephine was sunken in her head again. The rows of young faces stared at her, waiting for the orchestra master to start flinging her arms and do her thing. It was not the first time she zoned out on her class and most waited until she got her mess together.

“Um, when did I stop speaking?” she sighed.

“You mentioned Ernest something-something” one student in the back replied.

“Hemingway. Yeah. Good.” Josephine’s head was still in a swirl and she struggled to find a way to continue. “You know, how about we just leave it here and wait out the rest of the class?” No one bothered to refute her offer and within a minute all the students had pulled out their smartphones. Josephine went back to her desk and opened her laptop. She had multiple emails that read as follows:

Dear Josephine,

We really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to consider your story. While "A Raging Light" ended up not being a right fit for us, we realize that there are no shortage of other venues that you could have sent it to, and it means a lot to us that you thought to send it our way.

Wishing you the best in your writing endeavors,

Julie Marickson

Managing Editor

Litbreak Literary Magazine.

They all said the same, more or less. Every rejection email tried to make you feel better by saying it could have been accepted somewhere else, just not there. It was the relationship equivalent of saying “It’s not you, it’s me,” but she knew what they meant. “It’s good, just not that good, sorry,” and they were right by all accounts. Her writing had not improved and most of the time she was forced to submit her work in draft form; It was that or not sending them at all. Life had been like this for a while now. Josephine taught class, checked her email, found the rejections and wore a happy face back home for her husband. He was a pharmacist, pragmatic in nature and the reason she decided to start teaching. Both of them were now around their forties and were thinking of buying a house, start a family. Nowadays, the idea only caused dread in Josephine. Not because living or having a family with William was terrible, but because she still felt—unaccomplished. Maybe unsatisfied would be a better word, but the truth was, she did not know herself.

The zipping of backpacks snapped her out, her students were ready to leave. She dismissed them with the wave of a hand and a strained smile. Some walked, some ran out the door. According to the laptop, there was still twenty minutes before her next class, but Josephine was feeling sick to her stomach. If she had to talk about the same glorious masters of writing once more, she’d throw herself into a garbage bin and light it on fire.

Whether the universe sensed her determination to quit her miserable job and wanted to test her, it’s hard to say. As Josephine was ready to leave her classroom, the director of the English Department, a stuck-up academic from Cornell opened the door. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hayes. I hope you’re doing well.” He always spoke in this well-mannered tone that you know by God was not how he spoke with his buddies at the bar. Such a gentleman. “I am glad I found you here.”

“Why.” She didn’t try to hide the bitterness in her tongue.

Edgar placed his nasty bottom on the corner of the desk. “No doubt you have heard the news. I am retiring, and soon.” Josephine already knew where he was getting at. Thinking at what he would say next was enough to make her go off. “At the department, we have been considering long and hard about who my successor would be, who would be the most appropriate individual to take my place? And, I have to tell you, Mrs. Hayes, I find no better suited person than yourself.” By this time, she was ready to pounce at him. “So, I am officially offering you the position of future director of the Department of English in this amazing institution. As the more casual would pen it, ‘do you want the job?’” Edgar stood so proud of himself, so happy to pass down such an honor to his otherwise, sad subordinate.

“No.” was all she responded, getting up from her desk and heading for the door before it was too late.

The director’s face froze. He wasn’t expecting that sort of answer from a lowly English teacher. “What is your problem, Mrs. Hayes? Are you on that time of the month? Do I need to come back at a later time? Is that it?” And that’s where it started.

Josephine stopped dead in her tracks and closed the door behind her. She took a deep and extensive breath, shutting her eyes for a second and opening them again. They now glared at Edgar the same way wild cats would glare at anything smaller than him. “My problem?” She started. “You want to know my problem? Let me paint a picture for you, Edgar: I wasted four years of my life studying creative writing, two years for a MA in history on behalf of my ‘practical husband,’ and six years for a PhD in teaching just to end up as a High School teacher. And guess what? Guess what? It's not even what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to write, for Christ sake. Write! But instead, here I am, groveling in my own misery, listening to a pompous man offer me his position in this dump. So no, I don’t want the job and no, I’m not on my period!” And she rushed off the premises while Edgar kept repeating how she was fired and how he would report this to his superiors. But Josephine didn’t care. Her path was set, written in stone, and the biggest challenge was yet to come.

#

William had to understand, she hoped he would. There was no telling how he’d react to the news of her unemployment and worse yet, how that came to be. Practical to the end, she could already imagine him looking up job interviews where she would meet another Edgar. However, the life she had would change, Josephine made it her sole priority to never see another classroom in her life. The only desk she would adopt was her own; the only pen she would pick up, would be her own and the only paperwork she would accept, were that of her editor’s. Now it was a matter of breaking the news to her husband. He apparently didn’t hear her park her car up the driveway since the front door was locked; William always unlocked it before she got back from work. Josephine fumbled with her keys, her hands still nerve racked after going off on her boss. Her mind raced, thinking of all the ways her husband would react, but before concluding anything, a loud pop activated her fight or flight reflexes. Out of nowhere, people got up from behind the sofas and yelled, “surprise.”

  Most of Josephine’s friends, those from before high middle school had flown in from out of state. William had called them in two weeks prior and settled for a time and date she would be gone from the house. Her husband ran around the house, fixing drinks, food and chatting up on a few neighbors that showed. She was left with talking with her old friends for what felt hours. Josian, although unmarried, worked for some big corporation as a computer engineer; Anna was a mother of two and on the wait for the next; George became a curator in an art museum and Iris often went to the Congo and other parts of Africa on behalf of some charity. In general, they were all accomplished and happy with their lot. Josephine spoke little during the entire thing and the party began to feel like a parade of her unaccomplished life. When they asked what she was up to, she would casually reply, “Oh you know, teaching kids and all that.” The party, alongside the multiple faces around her, their chatter and their movements became white noise. Before she knew it, Josephine was sending her friends off by the front door.

Her husband was still in the living room, untangling a pair of balloons with the words, “Happy Birthday” and “You did it!” She stared at him for a while, his back behind hers, until William noticed.

He tilted his towards her, still working on the balloons. “How was the party, Hun? Surprised you, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it.” Her voice must have sounded off because William quickly picked it up and turned.

“What’s wrong?” He said. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m--no, I’m not feeling alright. I need to tell you

something.”

His face grew very worried, the kind that someone makes when they think they're ready for a crash. He said nothing.

 “I quit my job.”

“You what!?” William’s response was immediate. “What happened?”

“I went off on Edgar. Told him how much I despised him and the school.”

Her husband flushed with rage, “Did he touch you, Jos? I swear I’ll get him if he did! That slimy man.” And then, as if he only heard the first part said: “That’s alright, Hun,” and he hugged her. “Don’t you worry, we’ll find you another job, in some other school where that creep won’t bother you. Promise.”

But hearing the word ‘school’ again frustrated Josephine. There was no way he would put her in another one. She gently pushed him away, “I don’t want to teach at another school, Will.”

“A college then? Some private place? I know a few friends that could get you an interview at FSU. Just say the word and--”

“I don’t want to teach either. I’m sick of it. Sick of rotting away in a desk like some mindless megaphone.”

William seemed muddled. “I mean, do you want to do secretary work, administration or?” Just tell me what you want to do.”

For a moment, Josephine hesitated, unsure on how to phrase what she wanted. She chose to be direct and simple, straight to the point. “I want to write.”

“Like for some magazine--?”

“No. I want to write, like an author.”

William tried to utter a question but struggled to sort his thoughts. “You want to write a book?”

“Short Stories.”

“Don’t you already do that?”

Josephine felt the anger bite and insert its venom. “Oh sure, because I have all this free time just lying around. Let me just pick it up from the floor. Oh wait, it's covered by the mountains of paperwork from work and you.” Immediately after she said this, Josephine’s throat felt a knot tied around it. What she meant to say was how all her time was spent on work and him, leaving her scarcely any time for her own things, but she phrased it terribly and was going to pay for it.

William looked as if he was shot on spot. “Really? So, I’m part of the problem? Gee, I’m sorry for being so much of a damn nuisance.”

“Will, that’s not--”

But he was not letting it slide. “No, no. By all means, go write your damn novel.” And he started walking upstairs until only his loud stomping could be heard.

It had to be around twelve in the morning before Josephine built the courage to go to her bedroom. All the while, she spent the time downstairs, thinking about how she would find William. Her thoughts were plagued with the image of him packing up a bundle of clothes, ready to leave; that very image made her get up from the couch. She wanted to make her dreams come true, but she also wanted Williams to be in her life. If he was packing, she had to stop him, somehow. Making her way upstairs, she opened the door to their bedroom to find the room in dark. Her husband was in the bed, she could vaguely make out his body underneath the sheets. Part of her felt a sudden relief but knew that anything else was uncertain. Josephine carefully slid underneath the bed sheets. She looked at the back of his head, knowing he wasn’t asleep; William snored like a bore. Saying something was hard, trying to find the right words was harder, but she didn’t have to.

William said something muffled by the sheets.

“What?” Josephine whispered. He then rolled over to her.

“I said alright. If this is really what you want, then I’m with you.

“You are?”

“Yeah, but you need to promise me something, okay?”

“Anything,” her sparkling eyes would have said yes to anything at that point. “Just tell me.”

“I get first reading rights, period.”