A Colour of Confusion

A Colour of Confusion

by Stephen L. Brayton

Bob White waited for the reaction from his best friend and roommate Violet Greene. It came in the form of a creased forehead, squinting eyes, and quirked up corner of her mouth.

She raised one hand in a halting gesture as if he was going to speak. “Wait a minute. Let me see if I have this correct. You entered a writing contest.”

“Yes.”

“A short story contest.”

“Yes.”

“And the title of your short story?”

“A Colour of Confusion,” White said. “See, it’s a takeoff on colour blindness. You know how some people can’t distinguish between red and green?”

Violet waved her hand, dismissing his explanation. “Never mind that. Go back to the part you mentioned before where you told me the rules of the contest.”

“One thousand to three thousand words—”

“No, no, the other thing. About naming your story.”

“Oh, right,” White said. “The prompt was ‘Write a story with a colour in the title.’ See, it’s right here on this entry form.” He snatched the paper off the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen and handed it to her.

She scanned all the rules, which weren’t many in number. He didn’t usually submit to contests, but had signed up for weekly mailings of short story contests. Each contest gave people only a few days to write and submit a story and have the envelope postmarked by the deadline listed with each mailing. The company didn’t specify a genre, but listed five prompts for ideas.

The paper gave the word count, explained the formatting of the document, the entry fee, and the return address to submit the finished story.

Violet finished reading the rules, rolled her eyes at him, and smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. He had the distinct impression she would have liked to have thumped his head instead.

She paced the living room. From the couch to the television. From the recliner to the end table. Finally, she stopped in front of him and gave him a look he’d seen before. A smile meant to show support, but her sad eyes told him he’d done something wrong.

“Bob, I’m saying this because I care about you. Okay?”

White nodded, knowing what she about to say because she’d said it before.

“You are a goof, sometimes, and I mean that in the nicest way.”

With many incidents, he understood the error he’d committed. For instance, bringing home twelve of everything when Violet said he needed to buy a dozen eggs, soup, toilet paper, and orange juice. Or the few times he drove distracted, and Violet told him to look at the road. When he did, she became upset because he didn’t realize she meant pay attention to traffic.

One of his many faults that he’d struggled with for many years was taking things literally and only later understanding the actual meaning behind the statement. Some people chalked it up to a mild case of autism, but at least Violet attempted to help, even if she jokingly called him a dork.

But in this matter with the short story contest, he was a hundred percent certain he’d comprehended the instructions correctly. How many times had it been hammered into his mind that when submitting stories or queries to publishers, literary agents, or contests you had to follow the guidelines to the letter. No deviation, addition, or exclusion, else the acquiring editor, agent, or judge would summarily reject the submission.

So, when this contest’s rules included the line write a story with a colour in the title, that’s what he did.

But Violet said he had misunderstood.

Again.

His expression must have asked the question.

“You were supposed to write a story with a specific colour within the title. Such as, Black Sins, or Red Skies At Dawn. They didn’t mean for you to include the words ‘a colour’ in the title.”

“Oh,” he uttered, the revelation doing the same job as Violet’s palm would have done on his head. What now?

“What now?” Violet said. “Holy cow, Bob, did you already mail this?”

“Uh, yes, just this morning.”

“And you paid the entry fee?”

He nodded.

Violet paced the living room again. “We share an apartment, Bob. That means we share expenses. Rent, utilities, cable.”

“I know that.”

“Well, you just blew part of your half of next month’s rent for this contest.”

“Yes, but if I win, I get almost triple the entry fee. Plus, they’ll publish it in their online monthly magazine.”

She rolled her eyes. “If. If you win. What are the chances? How many other people send in entries?”

He dropped his chin to his chest. Violet was mad at him.

As if reading his mind, she said, “I’m not mad at you. Okay, a little. I’m more disappointed. We need to discuss these things before you make a decision.”

“But—”

“I know. You want to be a published writer. I admire you for that. You’ve written some good stuff.”

“They’ve all been rejected.”

“And what do I keep telling you?”

“Don’t give up.”

“Right.” Violet approached him. Gave him an genuine, encouraging smile. “And that’s what we’re going to do. Not give up.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to solve this matter?”

“How? It’s already in the mail box.”

“We have to find a way to get that entry from being sent. Then, you write another story with the correct title or change the title of what you’ve written, and we mail that.”

Bob thought about the skeleton of the plan. “But it has to be postmarked today.”

Violet lightly popped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Bob. You can reel off a thousand words in no time. I’ve seen you do it. You get into… into what do you call it when you just tune out the world and write?”

“The zone?”

“Right. The zone. That’s all you have to do this afternoon. Get in the zone and get this story done. Like I said, just change the title. Then we head back to the post office by closing time.”

The anticipation and excitement he felt when he wrote the short story began coursing through him. However, it stopped with a pang in his heart. “But what about the first entry?”

Violet grabbed her key ring and tugged on his arm. “Come on. We’ll get that story if we have to hold up the post office.”

Bob stopped in mid stride and almost toppled over. Violet steadied him, put a hand under his chin to lift his gaze to hers. “I didn’t mean that literally,” she said.

He internally sighed with relief.

***

“What mailbox did you use?” Violet asked as she neared the entrance to the apartment building’s parking lot.

“The one at Loblaws,” Bob said. “I picked up some groceries afterward.”

Violet accelerated left but snapped her head toward him. He caught her suspicious look.

“I followed the list you wrote,” he said. “One pound of hamburger. Bananas, bread, and toothpaste.”

She still gave him the look.

“One pound of hamburger. Only. Not one pound of bananas, just one bunch. One loaf of bread and two tubes of toothpaste.”

She stared at him a second more.

“I’m learning,” he said.

“Okay.” She turned back to the road. Bob was surprised Violet could drive while not focusing on what was in front of her. Maybe he should tell her to watch the road.

The dashboard clock read 12:05 when she pulled into the main entrance to Loblaws. Bob pointed at the mailbox near one of the porte cochere supports. Brakes screeched when the car lurched to a stop. Violet threw the gear into park, hopped out of the car, and raced around the front. Bob met her at the mailbox.

The squat mail container was maple leaf red and splattered with letter-number combinations in myriad blues and whites. A slot at the top for envelopes. A blue sign below with white letters stated Post – Canada / Canada Postes.

Below that, the door the mail carrier unlocked to retrieve the box’s contents. On the door, a small print sign listed the collection times. Noon, Three PM, and Five PM.

Violet uttered a wet, disgusted sound and looked at her watch. “We just missed it.”

“Can’t we go after the carrier truck? Ask the guy to give us back the letter?”

Violet shook her head. “No. I read an article that once they get the mail, it’s theirs. Actually, we took a chance we’d catch him before he collected it from the box. I think when you release it, it’s the post office’s property.”

“So why—”

“I took a chance,” she whined.

“What now?”

Violet ran back around to the driver’s door. “We go to the local post office branch and see if they can intercept it when the carrier brings in his haul. Maybe they’ll give it to us.”

Violet pounded the steering wheel when she wasn’t able to exit the lot as fast as she wanted. Scores of people coming and going from Loblaws blocked her progress. “What’s going on? You’d think the weather guy had forecasted a blizzard tomorrow and everyone decided to stock up on food.”

While Violet negotiated the aisles to exit the lot, a faint thought niggled in the back of Bob’s mind. He tried to bring it forward. Almost had it. A newscast he’d listened to on the radio. Something about recent legislation concerning… what? Not a weather report…

He almost had it when Violet swerved into the post office drive, four blocks from Loblaws. No other vehicles in this lot. She parked cross-wise on the yellow lines, again jerked the gear into park, and pushed open the door.

She beat Bob to the front entrance. When he caught up to her, she stood, shoulders drooped, head hung, face wearing a dejected expression.

“What?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, only gestured to the door. A sign taped to the inner pane of glass listed the hours of business, but underneath was another handwritten notice.

Due to the recently passed national holiday of Prime Minister’s Day, the post office will close at noon to allow families to celebrate. We apologize for any inconvenience.

A holiday. That’s what the newscaster was talking about. Prime Minister’s Day. It had recently moved through Parliament with the first observance being the next day, Saturday. Because the legislature had passed it so quickly to let federal workers out early, many offices had been caught unaware. Instead of taking off the entire Friday, many opted to close at noon.

Of course, mail carriers still had to fulfill their rounds to the end of the day, but Bob didn’t think they could hang around the back door waiting for the truck to come. Did they drop off mailbags throughout the afternoon or after the last pick-up time? Either way, Violet and he would look suspicious, and with what Violet had mentioned about the letter already in the post office’s possession, legally, no employee could return the entry envelope.

“Well, at least there’s one good thing,” Violet said.

“What?”

“Your submission won’t be postmarked until Monday. Too late for the contest. The judges probably won’t cash the check. May even return it.”

***

They headed back to the apartment where Bob was in a funk for the rest of the day. He was sure of two things. Well, pretty sure. First, when the contest entry reached the contest company, they’d see it postmarked too late and reject it. Second, even if the story had reached the judges on time, they would have rejected it because he hadn’t followed the rules. Or rather, he had, literally, but not what they meant.

Sunday came and went, as did Monday. Bob idly wondered what would happen to the entry. Would he receive the returned check or notification that the contest facilitators hadn’t cashed it? Maybe they wouldn’t even open the envelope because of the incorrect postmark date and just chuck it all into the waste can.

Tuesday, he received the latest contest offer, but couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm to try again with another story.

More days passed and the debacle of the incorrectly titled story faded as nothing came in the mail. Bob and Violet settled back into their regular lives.

The following Monday afternoon, Bob arrived back at the apartment later than usual. Overtime demands on a special project. He found Violet sitting on the couch, morose, sighing heavily.

“Something wrong?”

She raised her head to give him a doleful look, then resettled her gaze to the floor.

“Someone at your stupid contest cashed the check,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Yeah, I looked at the bank account this morning. The payment for your story entry was deducted.”

“How? The entry didn’t go until three days after the deadline.”

She shrugged. “The problem is, you didn’t win, and we’re out a lot of money.”

“Sorry,” Bob said.

She raised and dropped one shoulder again.

“I’ll make it up,” Bob said. “I promise. I had to work overtime tonight, and I’ll be getting more OT for the next week or so. It’s that project I told you about.”

“Yeah, but rent’s due at the end of this week, and you don’t get paid until next week.”

“We’ll find the money somehow,” Bob said. “Don’t give up.”

She glared at him. “You can’t use my encouragement for your writing on me. We’re talking about real money here, not some publishing dream.”

“Hey!”

She waved a hand. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dismiss your writing.”

“I’m gonna get published one day.”

She nodded. Bob turned to the counter. A stack of mail looked like Violet had tossed it upon the counter without care. He pawed through the envelopes. Fliers for local retail stores. The latest television show magazine. A postcard advertising amazingly speedy internet and cable.

One envelope caught his eye because it was addressed to him and the return address said…

“Hey, what’s this?” he exclaimed. “This isn’t the usual weekly contest. I get those on Tuesdays.”

“What?” Violet asked.

“It’s from the story contest.” He snatched the silver letter opener from the nearby desk and carefully inserted the point into the opening on one end of the flap. “Maybe word about my entry.”

“Probably another form rejection letter,” Violet said.

Setting down the opener, he withdrew a single tri-folded sheet embossed with the contest company’s log. Tucked into the folds was an ocher colored rectangle of paper.

Bob’s eyes widened when he read the letter.

“Oh, my…” Words trailed off as he was too stunned to speak.

“What?” Violet asked. “Come on, what did they say? ‘Sorry. Thanks for your effort but you were too late’?”

He smiled and read aloud. “‘Dear Mr. White. Due to the recently passed legislation regarding the new Prime Minister’s Day holiday, we weren’t able to adjust the deadline date for the contest that ended on the 21^st. Therefore, we decided to allow an extra day to receive entries.’”

Violet sat up straighter. “You mean they accepted the story?”

Bob held up a hand. “Wait. There’s more. ‘We want to extend congratulations on your winning the contest for that week with a very unique story. The judges discussed whether to reject it because some thought you hadn’t followed the submission rules on that particular prompt. However, others thought that it was the committee’s fault for not properly wording the prompt. They decided to accept the story and yours was voted the winner. The prize check is enclosed.’”

Violet squealed in delight when Bob held up the check and his smile widened. “We’re in the green, Miss Green, and I think we’ll be able to make the rent payment for next month.”