The Crick, The Crack, and The Cord

Danny and I were sitting across from each other at the dining room table, typing away, occasionally looking up at each other to see if the other one was stuck. I could feel it every time he looked at me. I’d deliberately keep typing, even if knowing he was watching made the words harder to reach. I’d just keep typing up whatever random words came to my head, or I’d type out, I’m typing, I’m typing, I’m typing all the words so Danny doesn’t know my brain has momentarily paused its creative capabilities. 

We’d made a bet—well, really, I bet him—that we could take the same exact prompt and I’d come up with a more original, more sellable story. The way we’d find out is that we’d submit them to the exact same agents and we’d even help each other write the query letters and synopses and everything. Just to make sure they’d have equal chances of getting published. It was what would happen next that I knew I would come out on top. 

Danny and I met in college, in journalism school of course, where most writers meet each other if they end up married, don’t you think? That’s what I’ve noticed anyway. Maybe it was just the Columbia kids who thought they really got each other, understood each other’s uniqueness in a way no one else could. Anyway, we started dating after we got paired up to do an investigative report, and we decided—you’ll love this—we decided to look into who’s dumping all those bodies in the Chicago River. 

I know, it’s a crazy thing to look into. My momma said I was going to get myself killed, and I almost did, but not because I was almost whacked off. Danny and I didn’t find much actually, nothing substantial. So I said, “Let’s take your dad’s kayak down the river and see what we can find. Let’s just watch people. Maybe we’ll see someone doing something suspicious.” 

We did four, five nights in a row, and we didn’t see anything unusual outside of a few couples making out under that big building that slants forward over the river, with the red sculpture in front, and a couple of fish that came swimming around our kayak to see if we’d brought them any food. I watched those couples and those fish for a long time, thinking one of them was desperate for air, and one of them was not. I told Danny to look, “look at the way that guy’s practically sucking her face off!” And he did, and he made a face like he was disgusted, and I thought, well, now I know, Danny’s not an exhibitionist. He’s probably alright to marry. Then I thought about the fish, and I wondered if they could see the couple, and then I had a brilliant idea. I said, “Do you think the fish see who’s dumping those dead bodies in the river?” And Danny turned around and looked at me, and then his eyes got real big and he screamed. 

And then I woke up in the hospital. 

Apparently, we floated further than we thought while we were staring at the people and some boat and its drunk driver ran into our kayak, split it in half, knocked me out, and I ended up hitting my head on something under the water. Danny said he thought I was going to get caught in the boat’s engine so he dove in after me, and the only reason I’m alive today is because he got me above the surface before I drowned. 

I was in the hospital bed, hooked up to beeping machines and feeling like I did have water in my lungs for far too long, and still all I could think of was how great of a story that would be. I said, “That’s our story, Danny. That’s it. The Dangers of Drunks on the Chicago River.” I think I even tried to move my hand, like I was seeing it on a front page, on a marquee. But I was still pretty weak then. I said, “Well, you’ll come up with a better title.” It was all mapped out in my mind right away, right there. I told him to get a pen and a piece of paper, which he had to press the nurse call button to get, and because I was laid up he had to do what I said, on account of me being close to death and all. I told him everything, gave him the whole outline, even some clever quotes, and made him write it all down. Then I said, “Now go write that article, I’ll be fine. Go. Go!” I was excited. We were going to nail that project.

I got better and went home, and since Danny and I were already dating, he kind of moved in for a while. Just until I got better, he said. But I liked having him around. I thought, this is a glimpse into our future. Me and Danny, Danny and me. He took good care of me during that time.

A week after Danny turned in our article, he came into my bedroom where I was reading—some Pulitzer prize novel I thought was a load of shit and shouldn’t even have been considered for such a lofty prize. I didn’t have any humility back then. Danny sat on the bed and said he had something to tell me. I said, “Did Merkel like our article?” I practically threw that book down, I was giddy. By the way, we called that professor Merkel because, well, she looked like the then German Chancellor. Doughy cheeks, severe suits. I wondered if she was a prime time anchor reject, or if she’d just always known she should stay behind the keyboard. Danny shook his head. It took me a minute to transition my thoughts, I thought he was reading my mind and reprimanding me with that shake, but no. He was telling me… 

“What do you mean?” 

“She didn’t like it.”

“Oh. She loved it.” I got it.

“No. Garlene, I’m really sorry.” 

“What ain’t you telling me Danny?”

“I didn’t write that article.”

I thought my ears popped. There was so much tension in my head. God, going under had really messed with me. “I thought you just said, you didn’t write that article I told you exactly how to write.” 

“I didn’t write it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t relive through you almost dying, Garlene!”

That’s when I knew. Well, I always knew, but that’s when it was confirmed. Danny was never going to be the hero in our relationship. Unless I was dying, of course, but I hoped that would never happen again. 

“What did you write instead?”

“I made up some bullshit about people dumping bodies into the river.”

I laughed. One of those big, shouty “HA!”s that comes out when you don’t really think something is funny, but it still catches you off guard. I looked him square in the eye and said, “Get me my laptop. I’ll write it.”

I emailed that article to Merkel exactly one day later and said, “In case you hadn’t heard, I almost died a few weeks ago. I know this is a partner project, but my side of the partnership was incapacitated. Please accept my late work.” 

I just wanted to prove that my idea was better. 

Well, I got half a confirmation. Merkel wrote back and said, “Excellent writing, but there’s no investigation here.” I didn’t even care. I wanted to write stories, not news articles. I took that as proof I could tell a better story than Danny. He’d gotten a “Reads flat. What are you trying to prove?” 

Ever since then—and that was, oh, fifteen years ago now?—ever since then I’ve told Danny that I could write a better story than him and I’ve tried again, and again (and again) to prove it. Thing is, he never took the bait. 

I guess the second pandemic and all the sitting at home reliving the trauma of 2020 got to him, because in April, right after we got all that rain, he finally walked up to me and said, “Garlene, I bet I can write a better story than you.” 

And boy, I was ready. I said, “Ground rules. We use the same prompt. No more than seventy thousand words. We help each other with the editing, the querying and all that other stuff so we have an equal chance getting in front of agents.” He agreed, and that night we started working. 

Oh, and we drew some prompts from a jar. That way it was fair. He said he wouldn’t use the one I offered at first, end your story with two characters reconciling, because he said I’d probably had it mapped out for months. He wanted a fair chance. I said okay, and I admired him for that. He always did like to be fair. 

Every night we sat across the dining table in that apartment where he took care of me after I’d almost died. Every night we were there tapping away at our manuscripts. In a month, we’d gotten through our first drafts. Then we printed everything out and swapped manuscripts (I took out all that “I’m just typing so Danny doesn’t think I’m stuck” crap before I printed it; he was never the wiser.) A week later, we swapped them back and went to work on edits. We made a list of agents. Danny started a spreadsheet to keep track of all of our submissions, and I started drafting query letters, synopses, audience descriptions, all that stuff. This is why I’ve always known I’ve had one up on Danny. He’s got an analytical brain, and me, mine is admittedly all over the place but it’s got a good imagination. Danny thinks about things in terms of check boxes and processes. I think of things in terms of people and change. 

Then, at the end of June, we started querying. Danny sent his story out to agents using his pen name, Daniel MacIntyre. I sent mine out to agents using my real name, Garlene Evans-Willy. I’ve always wanted to see my name in lights, if I’m being honest.

After that, it was just waiting. Now remember, all we were trying to do was to see who got the most positive responses, whose story caught the most attention. Who got the most praise. Neither of us was thinking we’d actually get published, at the time. 

The responses started coming in. One for Danny, a rejection. One for me, another rejection. Two for Danny, one rejection and one request for the full manuscript. One for me, another rejection. A month later, Danny had received thirty one responses, including seventeen requests for the full manuscript, and nine of those had asked him to set up calls. 

I’d received four responses. All of them were rejections. 

I was mad. When I tell you I nearly burned the whole building down and threw my laptop into the courtyard, I am not exaggerating. I really thought about it, I was that pissed. There was no way Danny’s story was better than mine. I’d read it. I knew it was shit. 

For days, I slammed the door when I left the house. Refused to clean out the litter box or make dinner. Wouldn’t speak to Danny without issuing some curse word as an adjective, even if it was asking him to get some fucking toilet paper, please. I knew I was throwing a hissy fit, but I didn’t care. My story deserved better than that. 

On the Friday before Labor Day, I got an email from a name I didn’t recognize. Well, I’m really good at forgetting things that make me mad. It was one of the agents I’d queried. A female, Melinda Joseph. I thought, that’s a literary name if I ever heard one. I opened it up, and read just about the nicest email I’d ever read in my life. It said:

Dear Miss Garlene Evans-Willy,

Thank you for your recent submission of The Crick, The Crack, and The Cord. It was absolutely delightful, a stunning and perceptive analysis of the ways we sabotage ourselves to find community. I’d like to speak with you to learn more about your work. Please choose a time using my calendar link below. 

I picked a time for that afternoon. It was open. I thought, why not? 

Melinda Joseph spoke like her only job was to keep someone unhinged from completely flying off the rails: real even-toned, full of “Yes Ma’am”, and “I’ll describe it in detail, please stop me if I am not making sense.” By the end, I was almost in love with her. I kept thinking, I want this lady on my team. Maybe it was because she was the only one who seemed to want to be on my team, but I wasn’t that aware at the time. That’s just me looking back, thinking about things. 

Anyway, she answered all my questions and I answered all of hers, and she seemed like she was about to make me a nice big offer when she said, “Garlene, I have to ask you something rather personal.” 

I said, “Shoot.” I was ready. I might have even rubbed my palms together, or tapped the tips of my fingers together, like an old cartoon billionaire. 

She said, “Are you absolutely set on using your given name?”

“Yes. Wait, what?” I'd answered a completely different question. I didn’t understand what she was asking me. Melinda kept on.

“It’s just, with a name like yours, I have to be honest, the book is going to be a hard sell. You’d do better with a pseudonym. A pen name. Something like… Charlotte Clybourn. You know, something that rolls off the tongue.” 

“Garlene rolls right off my tongue,” I said. But my brain had already taken off. I almost hung up on her. I said, “Melinda, I will let you know but I have to think real hard about that, okay? Yep. Alright, Buh-bye.” 

That night, I stayed up until two o’clock in the morning. I created a new email address: charlotteclybournauthor@gmail.com. Why waste a good name? I emailed my story—the same exact one—to all those agents using the name Melinda came up with. Then, I went another step further. I gave myself another pen name: Martin J. Robertson. Just to see what would happen. 

I had to know.

I gave it time, I wasn’t expecting much. Surely, those agents would catch on, wouldn’t they? Two weeks later, I had my answer. Charlotte Clybourn had received exactly eight responses. But Martin?

Martin had received forty responses, including twenty two requests for more information. 

I waited for Danny to get home from his run. I sat there real smug on the couch, my eye on the door, ready to bounce up as soon as I saw it open. Around five o’clock, I saw that doorknob turn. I jumped up and said, “It’s not you, it’s me!” 

Danny looked at me confused, then horrified, and I realized what I’d said. “No, not that, dummy. I love you. Look.”

I flung open my laptop. “You know why I didn’t win our contest?”

Danny still hadn’t left the doorway. 

“Come here! I gotta show you something.” 

I opened both email boxes. He was still standing there and I just couldn’t wait for him. I brought my laptop over there and held it in front of his face. “Look. See this? Charlotte got a quarter of the responses Martin got. You won, because you’re a man. I mean, it’s 2033 for Christ sake!”

Danny’s mouth was open. I knew he didn’t care about winning or losing, really. But he sure was shocked. Still, he said nothing. I was expecting him to say something like, “Wow, Garlene, that’s crazy! We live in a crazy, patriarchal world that’s always trying to keep you down!” I tucked my laptop under my arm and looked at him real expectant. 

He just shut his mouth and shook his head, like he was trying not to think too hard about the meaning of a dream about aliens asking to borrow his toothbrush. 

Then, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small black box. To my absolute surprise, that man got down on one knee—not easy for him at this age, because he was already almost forty at this point—and he said, “Garlene Evans-Willy, or Charlotte Clybourn, or Martin J. Robertson…” 

I started crying already, because he’d remember both of those names right away. That was how his brain worked. 

“I can’t imagine living my life without you, even when you get so mad at the world that you take it out on me, but especially when you are bound and determined to prove me wrong.” He was looking at me like I was a literal angel, come straight down from Heaven. “And especially when you are true to yourself. Please, will you marry me, and be yourself with me for the rest of our lives?”

I said, “Of course I will.” And I kissed him and made him put the ring on me, and we hugged for a long time. 

We called my parents and his parents, and told everyone the good news. They were all happy for us. More than a few of them said, “It’s about time.” 

Later that night, when we got into bed and I lay there admiring my new diamond, I had an itch I just had to scratch. I put my hand down and I looked straight at Danny and I said, “I won.”

And Danny, bless his heart. He looked straight back at me and said, “You did.”

 And I didn’t even care if we weren’t talking about the same thing.