Page 3 of I Need You to Read This
“Off to sell drugs?” Raymond snorts as she slides off her stool.
“Girl’s gotta eat her bagels,” Alex replies, dreading the copywriting she’ll be doing today for the pharmaceutical company that employs her. But she is grateful for the work, or tells herself she should be.
“Can I take this?” Alex asks, already folding up Raymond’s paper and putting it into her purse.
“Sure, sure. I was done with it anyway.” Raymond waves her off. “Wouldn’t want to rot my brain with all that celebrity news in the back.”
“See?” Janice says. “Good start, Ray.”
Alex walks toward the door, the murmur of their banter receding behind her. She doesn’t hear it though; all she can think about is Francis Keen.
TWO
Alex spends the rest of the day writing promotional copy for a new medication that claims it’s able to stop cyclical thinking. She does her best to make the little pink pill appealing, wondering how cyclical her thoughts would have to be to make up for the fact that one of the side effects listed is death.
In the late afternoon she turns in her copy to the boss she’s never met and puts on her sweatpants. It is one in a series of rituals she has made for herself that keep her sane.You can’t work in your sweatpantsis rule number one. She pads into her kitchen and pours the first of her nightly glasses of wine and a bowl full of kettle corn from the bag, one of her main food groups. With her provisions she settles back on the couch and takes out the newspaper Raymond gave her, opening it up in front of her on the coffee table. The photo of Francis makes her chest tighten for a second time.
Alex remembers the shrine that went up in front of theHerald’s Manhattan office, the piles of bright flowers and handwritten thank-you notes lining the sidewalk, all while a killer walked free. The scene described in the articles was beyond disturbing. Francis on the floor of her summer home. No sign of a break-in. No DNA. No murder weapon. No credible suspects. No witnesses.
And now, apparently, theHeraldhas moved on. Alex has tried to putit behind her, but her Sundays feel empty without Francis’s column to read. It feels like she’s lost a wise older relative. Dear Constance gave Alex something to look forward to, something to cling to in those years when she was working up the nerve to make her move to New York and then later as she navigated life here, provided a bit of motherly wisdom as she came of age in a city that was often less than nurturing. Without Dear Constance, what would have happened to Alex? She shudders, thinking of the direction her life might have taken. It’s quite possible she wouldn’t be here at all.
Alex reels at the prospect of someone new taking her beloved Francis’s place. The idea of a person doing the job poorly is somehow more terrifying than no one doing it at all. She rereads the final paragraph of theDaily’s article.
Ever wanted to be an advice columnist? TheHeraldwill attempt to replace its longtime columnist Francis Keen, who was tragically lost just last year. To apply for the position, go to Theherald/careers.net and fill in the online application form. May the person with the best advice win. Our advice to theHeraldis: good luck replacing the irreplaceable.
It was a strange choice to make it an open call, Alex thinks. It feels almost vulgar to advertise the position like that. After all, it isn’t just anyone who could match Francis Keen’s sly humor or the depth of her compassion. She reaches for her laptop and types in the address for the job listing. A link takes her to theHerald’s career page, where the position for advice columnist is at the top. She just wants to see what the questions are, she tells herself as she fills out the first part of the application. She wants to see what metrics they are using to replace her beloved Dear Constance. First, they ask for a list of basic things like name, address, prior work experience. Alex types in her information, but next the electronic form directs her to a page that looks very much like a Dear Constance column, or a series of them. There are several letters formatted the way they appear in theSundayHerald, and below them blank spaces for answering, like the essay portion of a test.
Alex starts to read the first letter. It is from a man who feels his life has no meaning even though he has two young kids, a good relationship, a stable home. But still, he is dissatisfied. He writes that he often finds himself standing outside his house at night looking up into the sky and asking himself if this is it. Is this all he is good for? Or has this very normal existence trapped him, stopped him from becoming all he was meant to be? As painful as it might be, he thinks the answer might be in leaving his wife, in giving himself a fresh start, but he isn’t sure.
So, I’m asking, begging really, for help knowing what to do. This can’t be all there is, can it?
Reading along, Alex finds herself thinking with complete clarity that this person’s problem isn’t to be found in his wife, who by his own account is lovely and patient with him, nor is it anywhere else in his external circumstances. She grows slightly frustrated with the man. His real problem, Alex thinks with sudden conviction, is his complete lack of appreciation for his own life. The answer is obvious. He has to change the way he sees himself, to dismantle the image he has of himself as some sort of unappreciated genius. He needs to start living the life he actually has. If he fails to do so, he is destined for a lifetime of misery either with or without his wife and kids. Alex has a strong sense that she knows what to do and that if she could just tell this person, he’d be able to make things right for himself.
Before she even means to, Alex is pouring herself another glass of wine and is writing it all down. Time passes in a blur of focus. As she finishes, she moves to the next one; this question is from a woman who is afraid of growing up. The sentences fall into place with the satisfying snap of puzzle pieces.
She hadn’t intended to get here, fill in all of the questions. Her finger hovers above the Submit button. She takes a last swig of wine, tilting the glass to get the dregs. The bottle is now completely empty. She can feel the regret of it already beginning behind her eyes. Before she lets herself think about it any further, she drops her finger onto Submit.Her pulse buzzes with adrenaline. She watches with her heart in her throat as all of her writing disappears. There is a moment of nothing, and then the screen refreshes and is replaced with one blue sentence against the white background:Congratulations, your application has been submitted.
She sits back and looks up from her computer, blinking into her dark living room. The clock reads nearly 2 a.m. But she isn’t tired. If anything, she feels a zippy buzz of energy. It is surprisingly satisfying solving other people’s problems, she thinks. Much easier than fixing your own.
Dear Constance,
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to leave the town I grew up in. I know that might sound silly, but it is true and I don’t have anyone to tell it to.
My mom and dad never had much in common. The few times I remember seeing them together they were fighting, or worse, silent. Now Mom has Sid, her boyfriend. They are obsessed with each other in a way that leaves no room for anyone else to get involved. I move around the house where I grew up like a ghost; no one makes eye contact when they talk to me. I know Sid wants me out almost as bad as I want to leave. “When are you going to get your own place?” he asked me the other day, looking at me over the back of the couch when I came into the house.
“As soon as I can,” I shot back at him. But honestly, I don’t know when that will be. It takes a lot of money to get a place of your own, even somewhere as cheap and lackluster as Wickfield.
I guess if I’m going to ask you for life advice you should know a few things about me. I am twenty-two and live in the same town I grew up in, even in the same house I grew up in. But I want desperately to try something new, to grow up and move away, but I don’t have the money. Maybe I’m just not brave enough.
Ever since Sid showed up when I was fourteen and Mom disappeared into him, I have been the one responsible for myself. I’ve watched my friends all go off to college while I stay here in Wickfield working at the hardware store. When I was a little kid, I remember it being kind of fun downtown, but now Sam’s is one of the only businesses left. Sam, my boss, is in his early sixties. He wears a pair of coveralls every day and can fix just about anything from car engines to screen doors. He’s owned Sam’s Hardware on West Main Street since I was a little kid and probably even before that. I started working here four years ago when I was still in high school. I like it at Sam’s. Unlike my house, it feels safe and predictable here. I like the rows of tinybins filled with different-sized nails and mixing paint colors. I like that everything has a place and that Sam can answer nearly any question. Except he can’t help me figure out the things I need to fix, like the fact I go home every day feeling miserable, that I hate it here in Wickfield, or why I am twenty-two years old and have never had a real boyfriend. I am all on my own with those.
All my life I have felt like I was at sea alone in a boat that was bound to sink unless I kept my hands on the oars. But the problem with paddling like crazy is that sometimes, just focusing on surviving makes it hard to know what direction you’re heading or if you are going anywhere at all.
I am spinning in circles, Constance, and all I want is to find a way out. Can you tell me how?
Please help,
Lost Girl
