I firmly plant my elbows upon the dining room table, prop up my chin to elevate my mind and try to think:
How and the hell did the needle of my creative compass get so out of whack, and where and when did my distracted mind go so damned astray?
It’s no more than I can figure. There really isn’t a thing I can put a finger on—except for maybe this typewriter—if I even tried. There have been a few slight setbacks from my own expectations, but no disillusionment with myself whatsoever. Sure I’ve had my fair share of problems throughout life, though it's nothing to write home about.
And as near as I'm able to tell, I like to think that I've led a pretty fair to midland existence, yet one day, when it came time for me to move on from everything, I realized I wasn’t the same man that I used to be.
Led Zeppelin blares in the background. My cellphone chirps at me. I ignore it without a look by pressing the silence button.
It is quite possible that the seed of my creative schism had been planted within me a long damn time ago, however minuscule or microscopic if was, it had to amount to the blossoming of something that mattered to me. But over time the gap between me and my expectations slightly widened, eventually taking me farther away from the sight of who I thought I was supposed to be.
And yet, if I were to think in terms of a mental solar system, and if I were to suspend my imagination for a brief moment and orbit around it like a comet, I should be somewhere between Jupiter and Saturn. A little past all that and I ought to be seeing Uranus sometime soon.
And beyond that—let us see—was there anything whatsoever left to find?
COOKING SOMETHING UP
I stand up from the table to stir the spaghetti boiling rapidly away on the stovetop when the phone chirps at me again. I ignore it. Another moment or two and the spaghetti would be done. I stomp around to a favorite album spinning away on the record player. Perfect spaghetti cooking music I thought. The phone chirps again and again.
I hear it chirping away, yet I tell myself to ignore it. Let the spaghetti finish cooking first. It’s almost done. Besides Plant, Page, Bonham, and Jones are moving along through the climax of one of my favorite songs.
But on second thought—a distracted thought—I figure I should turn down the flame, gently stir the spaghetti, lower the volume on the vinyl player, and stomp my way into the other room, trusted tongs in hand to pick up the phone.
So I did.
Unknown ID. That's great, I think.
It occurs to me however, that it might be someone I do not know wanting to try and sell me an extended warranty for a car that I do not even own. Or could it be someone with the word of something a little more promising, a side hustle so to speak.
So I answer the call.
"Good morning sir, I was wondering if you would allow me just eleven minutes of your precious time,” speaks a beautiful voice from the void on the other end of the line.
"Pardon me?” I utter back in surprise. “What’s that again? How may I help you?"
"I said, I just need eleven minutes of your time sir, that’s all I want.” The woman repeated herself.
I carry no recollection of ever hearing this woman’s voice before. This is the voice of someone I do not know, or maybe I used to know. Who can say, but it was a soft, low, descriptive voice that changed the outcome of my entire day.
"Please pardon me in advance ma'am, but whom might you be trying to reach?” I put on my most polite customer service voice.
“What difference does it really make which half of you I'm trying to reach? All I need is eleven minutes of your time. Eleven minutes is all it takes to come to an understanding,” she tied up the matter at hand short and sweet.
“Come to an understanding?” I ask into the void.
"Of all the elephant sized feelings that you feel,” says the woman succinctly.
I stretch my mind back around towards the kitchen again. A plume of steam rises with grace from the pot of spaghetti. Led Zeppelin is about to conduct another crescendo.
"So, I’m cooking something up right this minute. Spaghetti, if I may be exact. It’s about to be done, and it might be ruined if I talk to you for even a minute. So I’m going to hang up the phone now, okay?”
“Spaghetti?” The woman spouts off in disbelief. “It’s 11:11 in the morning. Why would anyone be cooking spaghetti this time of day? It seems so out of whack, wouldn’t you say?”
“Out of whack or not, and forgive me if I sound rude, but what is it to you?” I mumble slightly annoyed. "I barely had breakfast late last night, so I was hungry for supper this morning. And as long as I do the cooking, when and what I eat is left to my own business to mind. Is it not?”
"To each their own. Hang up the damn phone then, and I'll try again.” She spoke in a peculiarly harsh and shushing fairytale like voice. The slightest of an emotional shift in tone and her words turn me on to another frequency altogether.
"Now you just wait one minute,” I stammer into the phone. “If you are selling something, go on ahead and give up on trying to call me back. I hardly have any time to worry about things that I have not any need for.”
“How do you know that I don’t know that? Just get on with it.”
“You know that? But do you know what it is that I should get on with?”
“That you’re not worried about things that you have not any need for, of course. So finish your spaghetti and let’s get on with it."
“Who and the hell are—“ my temper launches forth through the phone. All of the sudden it fell silent on the other end. I was cut off. Hung up on, too abruptly to have done it myself. Some stranger had pressed all of my buttons with just one little finger.
THE SPAGHETTI INCIDENT
Left hanging and a little hangry, I remember the spaghetti. I toss the phone across the room upon the couch and stomp my way back into the kitchen.
I turn off the flame. I strain the spaghetti to top it off with a hearty tomato gravy that had been on a simmer since the dawn of time. I eat it. It’s an overcooked mushy mess thanks to that goddamn distracting phone call.
None of this is much a matter of life-and-death though. Nor am I one to fancy a mood that fusses too long over the subtle art of perfectly cooked spaghetti al dente—I’m way too damn hungry to care. I simply listen to Zeppelin about to send it again as I eagerly dispose of every last strand of spaghetti into my growling stomach.
I finish eating and tidy up the dirty dishes. In the meantime the tea kettle builds up with its own crescendo. I take it off the heat before it gets a chance to think about whistling dixie. I drape a Zen teabag from over the side of a mug to let it soak away in the warmth of aromatic serenity. But as I gingerly sip my tea, my thoughts turn back around to that distracting phone call.
So we could come to an understanding.
What on earth did she mean? And who on earth was she?
What the hell I tell myself, what do I care about understanding some strange woman’s feelings anyways. What possible promising goodness could come of it? What matters now is that I find something to do that helps keep my mind busy working on the dream.
Yet as I return to the couch to work on the book, a glimpse from the corner of my eye upon the phone sets my mind spinning in circles again.
Just what were those feelings that would only take about eleven minutes to come to understand about?
I mean seriously, eleven minutes to come to understand a lifetime of feelings?
Come to think of it, she specified precisely eleven minutes right off the bat. Seems she was rather certain about that exact amount of time. As if ten minutes weren’t quite enough and twelve minutes were too damn long to understand anything, which the same sometimes goes for cooking the perfect spaghetti al dente.
What with these thoughts running through my mind, I lost all ability to focus on what I was doing. So I decided I would do some pushups, some sit ups, and perhaps go run eleven miles. Because lately whenever things get muddled up with the swings of my mood, I have to run it off for everything to work out.
After pushing and sitting myself up over and over, I was thirsty and found my way back into the kitchen for some water, when the phone started chirping relentlessly again.
Here we go once more I think out loud.
For a moment, I ponder of ignoring it altogether and keep on trucking along to where my mind was headed in the first place.
But you never know, so I retrace my steps back to where I was and pick up the phone. If it’s that woman again I’ll say I’m in the middle of eating spaghetti and hang up.
WORKING THINGS OUT
The call however, is from my writer friend.
"How are things going?” He asks.
"They're alright,” I answer with relief.
"What have you been up to?”
“Working things out.”
“Anything wrong?” A slight tension summons from his invasive voice. He always knew that my mind was unsettled when I said I was working things out.
"Not a thing. I just feel like working out, no particular reason,” I say as I switch the phone over into my opposite hand. “Is there something that you need at the moment? I'm kind of busy."
“Yes it’s about a gig. A possibility of a side hustle.”
"Go ahead."
"Can you write creatively, or could you write poetry if you had to?”
“Poetry!” I shout back with surprise through the phone. “What’s this nonsense about poetry?”
“Well, apparently it’s a rather promising publication where someone I know works. They used to put out this semi-popular daily fiction for all walks of life, and they’re looking for someone to lighten the load, as they’ve been in a bit of a rut lately. You know, too much work, not enough inspiration to go around kind of thing. The work is easy but the pay not-so-much, but if things work out like you want, they may string you along until there is some real editorial work to be—“
“Now you hold on a damn minute. I’m looking for something more along the lines of mentally manual labor. Something that makes good use of my hands. Just where did you come up with this idea of me being a creative writer?
“Well, I remember you liked to write on the side when you were younger, like high school and whatnot.”
“For the high school newspaper, yes, I wrote things like, such and such last place team spelled their way through a conundrum to come back and win the spelling bee. The physics professor slipped down the stairs straight into the principal's favorite chair. Stupid articles like that are all that I wrote. Not poetry though. I have not the slightest clue about poetry.”
“Not real poetry, just the kind of inspirational quotes and poems people of all ages might like to read. They don’t even have to be that good. It’s not like they are expecting you to write like Ginsberg, Kerouac, Bukowski, or Shakespeare for that matter, just whatever you can work out in your mind and make do until you earn your creative dues.”
"Everything I do will come to a head sometime soon. If those things fall through though maybe I’ll consider this thing.
"Oh? Okay.” Have it your way wise guy. But hey, if I may, what day is it today?”
"I don’t have a clue as to any certain celebrations that are of concern, as far as I know it is just another day.” I say from a simple thought. “Why do you ask?”
"You know why,” as he starts in with a new tone of voice. “Maybe you don’t really need to be so worried about a side hustle, maybe feeding people’s soul while keeping their belly full of delicious food for a living is all you're ever going to be meant to do.”
"Please fucking enlighten me?” I spurt out.
Yet another surprise? Is everyone in this universe out to shake me up over the phone today?
"Why shouldn’t I be looking for a different line of work? Another couple months and my soul might very well dry up, or better yet burn out for good from all the repetitive work over the past twenty some odd years. This is no time for idle hands.”
“You’ve got a handle on things. You always do. You and your odd creative habits keep your hands plenty busy. Besides, are you not blessed enough to put food on the table? To be able to provide you and the boy with a perpetually full plate?”
"Of course, but I don't always know what I'm going to do next,” I say with complete honesty. "Let me see how I feel after I work everything out.”
“Oh, one more thing by the way before you go on and get on with it. Did you hear the news this morning about that crazy hot woman from Nevada who somehow helped an elephant escape from a traveling roadside zoo that was passing through?”
THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM
“An elephant?” Caught off guard, I realize I’d forgotten about the call with that strange woman a short while ago. “No, I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Sounds out of whack right?” What would make her feel like she needed to help an elephant escape from a a zoo? The nerve of some people these days. Right? And get this, according to the local news they might be hiding out close to you.”
I give an off the cuff reply "what and the hell is going on these days," switching the phone back to its original hand.
“Well, if they’re somewhere close by," I continued, "my guess is that they’re probably hiding out in bluebird sanctuary just over the hills and not so far away from here. You know the one that's walled up by the wilderness? There is plenty of room to roam for a beast as big as one of those damn things. You know where I’m talking about don’t you?”
"I’m afraid I have no clue about any bluebird sanctuary,” says my writer friend. “Never once have you mentioned—“
“Sure, I have. You just never listen.” I stop him short.
"You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t recall you mentioning it. I have to run now though, words to write and souls to feed kind of thing. But keep an eye out for that elephant. I hear there is a pretty significant reward for whoever finds the damn beast and gets it back to where it belongs.”
"Okay. Hey one more thing, I’ll do it.”
"Do what?”
"I’ll try my hand at the creative writing thing.”
"That's great! Let me know when you are ready, and I’ll get you all set up. I promise you, you are the right fit for the job. It’s right up your alley.”
"I’m ready to get on with it now." I said, before hanging up on him without a warning.
I put on my worn out running shoes, stretched out my tired limbs, and went for that run. I knew exactly where I was going for the first time in a long time as I climbed a few hills, and ran far far away. Farther than I ever expected. And as I finally came to a clearing, the bluebirds were chirping along to a song of celebration, and there stood a woman with her back facing me, her gaze locked in on the wilderness before her.
“Excuse me ma'am. Sorry if I'm a sweaty mess and out of breath, that was a lot longer of a run than I expected, but you haven't happened to see an elephant roaming around anywhere out here have you?” I asked her as my lungs gasped for more air.
“He's roaming around free as can be out there somewhere," she said with a slight nod of her head towards the wilderness.
“Really? How & the hell did you—?" I stopped myself short shockingly amazed that I recognized the voice.
“I can't say for sure, as you're the one who cooked all this up. So tell me sir, how was your spaghetti?”
"It was okay. A bit too mushy and overdone, but it did the trick nonetheless," I said from a place of embarrasment. "But enough chirping about me. How are you?”
"I’m fine, but I still need eleven minutes of your time.”
“We'll have all the time in the world to talk about those bluebirds in your eyes as soon as I track down that damn thing roaming around out there in the wild. But in the meantime, do you like spaghetti?”
"Perhaps I do.”
"Well here, I cooked up this mushiness just for you.” I said with a wave that said, see you later.
“Wait, where are you—?"
As I start to run again, the bluebirds chirping away, picking up the pace in the direction of where my heart is headed, who would've ever thunk, that eleven minutes is the perfect amount of time to almost understand these feelings that I feel of mine, or maybe, however long it took you to read this story, and not just the time it takes to cook the perfect spaghetti al dente.
Til the next time...
—Ryan Love
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