SO LUCKY

By

Beth Thomas

You are so lucky. Lucky that the New Yorker has no idea who I am. I wrote this story, see. And in it, there is a guy that I call Bart. I realize your name isn’t Bart, but I can’t call this character Cipriano (aka Cippy) because how many Cipriano-aka-Cippies are there in the world? Everyone would know who I meant, and I might get into a whole mess of legal trouble. So anyway, there’s this guy Bart and he’s got a girlfriend who I call Mary. You probably see where this is going.

Like I was saying, you are so lucky that the Atlantic Monthly rejected me again. Because in this story, Bart and Mary start off pretty happy. Or so Mary thinks; there’s a lot going on behind the scenes. Then Bart comes home late one night, and Mary asks where he was. Bart gets so angry, he raises his hand to hit her. I don’t say in the story if he actually hits her, but you can assume he does because he’s got some rage issues, which I talk about in the exposition.

The next night Bart comes home late again. Mary gets huffy and says, “If you’re going to keep being late I’ll just stop waiting up for you.” and Bart says, “No, I’ll be home on time tomorrow night, blah blah blah,” or something like that. He promises. But the next night, you guessed it, he’s late again. Even later this time, and it really bothers Mary. She waits up even though she said she wouldn’t, and every time she sees headlights coming down the street, she thinks it’s Bart, but then the headlights pass by and it’s never him. He finally comes home at four in the morning and Mary is sitting up, smoking, which she never does unless she’s really upset, and there’s a full ashtray next to her.

Do you see how this could be bad for you? How bad you would feel if these kinds of stories were selling right now? If the Paris Review would just give me a chance? You are so lucky.

So anyway, as you can imagine, there’s a big fight between Bart and Mary and words are said and some of them are lies; Mary lies to hide her feelings and to try to get the truth from Bart like she saw on The Closer last week; Bart lies because he is just a liar. They finally go to bed but they don’t touch and they don’t speak and she hasn’t forgiven him. He doesn’t know it, but she cries all night long. She’s got the covers pulled up to her chin, trying to stay on her side of the bed, and she’s wondering things like, What’s next?

In the morning, Bart smiles and says something like, “We’ll go to dinner tonight. Anywhere you want.” And Mary agrees even though she just wants to be home. She doesn’t feel like combing her hair and putting on makeup because she figures it never makes her look any better. She still looks frumpy even when she wears a dress. She hates trying to be pretty; it makes her sad.

Mary leaves work early that evening but she doesn’t go straight home. She drives by Bart’s work to see if his car is there; it isn’t. She drives by the gym he goes to but the Accord isn’t there either. There are probably other Accords there, but not his. She drives out to the Indian casino because he sometimes likes to go play blackjack but can’t find him there either. She drives around for a couple of hours, smoking and turning left or right at streets depending on their first letter. A-M left. N-Z right. She finally runs out of cigarettes and gives up and goes home. By now she’s like five hours later than usual.

So Bart is waiting there, and he’s so mad because she’s really late. Do you see what is happening here? Do you know what’s going to happen next? Of course you do. Bart says words that most people don’t even know exist. He makes up some words by adding two horrible words together: whorebitch, slutshit, things like that. Mary cries because it hurts but she’s also terrified. He tells her to shut her manpleaser. Bart’s hands are balled into fists and he looks ready to punch something. First he punches the wall, and then he heads for Mary. I don’t say whether he actually punches her, but I’m sure you can guess. Of course you can.

And that’s the end. I am still waiting on a few responses from journals and magazines, but it’s not looking good; these kinds of stories just aren't selling right now. I’m putting this story in the bottom drawer of my desk, just in case the trends change next year. But for now, like I said, you are so, so lucky.