The Former Miss Cheddarworths Grandson – Ellena Espejo #4
Seeking her given name had been no more a challenge than to find a cloudy agate in a rock bed.
Her last name, however, seemed swallowed whole by a pool ten years deep.
The character’s name was Jennifer Ibánez.
Her real name was Jessenia… something . Straining to pin it down seemed a waste, given the probability she’d changed it for any number of reasons.
He was certain someone out there would be clever enough to marry her.
In his opinion, kissing was her special talent, despite shyness she described as crippling.
Those lips were designed to grab chaos by the throat until its eyes stilled and its heart discovered peace.
Xander could still call up the sensation of her mouth on his, nibbling, caressing, her delicate fingertips stroking his peach fuzz beard.
A click of his brain replayed vowel sounds yielded by licking and drinking from her sweet, silky core.
Her breasts were soft as rabbit fur, sized to inspire the French endearment “my little cabbage”, and her areolas reminded him of sand dollars on the beach. Tasting her belly engulfed his face in steaming fresh vanilla sponge cake.
Flashing images in his mind convinced him she was drowsy but still awake when he left in the ungodly hours.
Most likely, he worked the split-shift in the morning while she had the day off, and he could barely keep his eyes open for lack of sleep.
At some point that day he stood at the hot counter and turned, looking past the coffee machine and cashiers, wishing for a glimpse of her bending over to place items from her bus bin onto the conveyor belt for sorting and washing.
As he recalled, they parted as friends and never addressed it with another word.
They didn’t continue their little trial and error or attempt dating.
Why had it just stopped? Cuddling at a party led to her tent cabin, but did not compel her to go on long hikes with him, to get ice cream at the visitor’s center, to go into town for dinner, or snuggle on the couch on movie night in the rec hall.
Of course, he didn’t recall ever asking her to do any of those things.
Thursday morning before he went to work, Xander and Aunt Cathy drove to a nursery and bought dozens of native plants for the patch of green in the front yard. Friday morning Aunt Cathy left to drive to Vegas with her book club friends. She wouldn’t return until the middle of the next week.
A scheduling quirk meant Xander had several days off in a row.
It meant less money, but more time to catch up with his life.
He gardened most of the morning, replacing thirsty plants with drought-resistant varieties.
To drench the area when he was finished, he filled the large watering can.
The sight of running water reminded him that he should also hydrate.
He drank, rested in the shade, and played word games on his phone.
While assuming he was seconds away from finishing his turn, he ignored the warnings that he had only ten, then five percent of juice left in the battery. It diminished quickly and the phone shut off. With a growl of frustration, he slipped it back into his pocket and stood up to finish in the yard.
Stirred by exertion and sunshine, after his shower he was inspired to make an amazing lunch. Singing while cutting up ingredients for a salad, he thought of putting on music and remembered the phone needed to be charged.
He headed upstairs to check the pockets in the sweats he wore earlier.
Nothing. A search began throughout the house and outside.
Even if Aunt Cathy were home so that he might borrow her phone to call it, it would not help because it had turned itself off.
Disappointment claimed the day from the joyous embrace of impetus.
After pausing to wolf down the salad he had planned to savor, he resumed checking the same spots four and five times.
Distressed hours passed with no sign of the phone.
Xander endeavored to make something of the afternoon’s residual scraps.
A thought to water the plants inside the house brought him back to the tiny shed where he’d stowed the watering can.
Lifting it, an object inside jostled and slid on the inner floor of the container.
He then recalled earlier the sound and weight of what he had assumed was a medium-sized rock in the water, before he was aware the phone was missing.
His stomach dropped. A bit of light reflected on the dead screen.
It must have slipped out of his pocket when he refilled the can, immersing the phone for at least a few minutes.
It could take up to forty-eight hours to dry out.
He rushed to the kitchen to open the back, thankful it was shut off.
Rubber outer case, SIM card, and battery removed, he piled on Aunt Cathy’s silica packet collection from the junk drawer.
The next step should have been to email his aunt, however the PIN to her computer was coded in a text on the phone.
His device covered so many uses, need for the laptop had been rare.
It was inaccessible, as was Aunt Cathy, or taking the bus anywhere without the TAP app if he wanted to avoid wasting his limited cash.
There was very little to do other than wait for the phone to dry and hope for the best. He spent the evening in bed with the writing of his long-ago lover.
Monday morning, he dared to reassemble the phone and charge the battery. A deep breath filled his lungs as the screen at last flashed on, warming up. At least ten voice mails were from Olga. He played the most recent.
“Xander, my sweet, I better hear from you by noon today. If I don’t, not only will this opportunity be gonzo, but I’ll have to reconsider our agreement. Ignoring my calls is not a good look.”
“Oh shit!”
He called Olga.
“Xander. Where the hell have you been? I was calling you all weekend!”
“I’m so sorry! My phone got immersed in water and my aunt is out of town. Let’s just say I found all the bugs in my contingencies. I promise you it will never happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. So, what time is it?
Oh dear. I hope you are ready to head out the door because that audition I was telling you about is today , and they want something off book.
Have you memorized any soliloquies? Even a lively story a grandparent told too many times would work.
What matters is under five hundred words and no umming or struggling your way through.
And be able to succinctly explain how it challenged your perspective. ”
“I believe I have something that will work.”
He was wide open to the world’s abundance when he found the piece he would use.
In improv class they taught being present by intentionally listening for sounds one’s ears filtered out.
It was the only kind of meditation Xander could manage when overwhelmed.
Sitting on the bus, imagining his heart unlocked and exposed to magnificent, positive possibilities held by the future, he listened to the noise all around: the bus engine, people chatting and laughing, the driver grumbling about traffic.
He continued the practice while waiting his turn in the room; the window-penetrating birdsong and dog barks it usually highlighted were shrouded by boisterous conversations. Once calm, he wondered what the movie was about, and how perspective-changing soliloquies applied to selecting the actors.
A woman in jeans and a baseball cap holding a clipboard called out, “Alexander Somerset?”
Xander stood up; pumping through his heart, a metaphorical blend of a deer and a patient told their oncoming truck and life-changing disease were now ready. The woman said, “You’re up.”
He nodded and headed toward the stage, whispering the first line of the piece as a prompt. “I always liked Jake, I always liked Jake…”
He took his place on the marking tape center stage, swallowing hard. The casting director’s voice sounded like a school principal: cheerful, yet without time to piss away.
“Hi there! Please state your name.”
“Alexander Somerset.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alexander Somerset. We’re looking for someone whose artistry can convey a new perspective learned in extreme circumstances. To that end, what will you share with us today?”
“A passage from a book called The Former Miss Cheddarworth’s Grandson, by Verity Azul del Cuervo.”
“Not familiar with that one. Could you briefly describe how the passage challenged your assumptions?”
“It showed me how society’s standards covertly influence us, regardless of how conscious we are to society’s oppression.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
“Thank you.”
With a step, a glance, a deep breath, Xander dove into transformation. The actor surfaced, declaring, “I always liked Jake.”
Both fists slipped into pants pockets.
“He was a really nice guy…but there’s a moral difference between ‘nice’ and ‘good’.”
Conjuring the setting of ten years ago, a hand referred to the apparition stage right: Jake—whose real name was Dave—playing his guitar.
“He fondled his wheat-stained Martin while we lounged around the campfire. No songs, only pinching and tugging at strings. Gentle twangs followed by quieter notes like jaunty little ducklings scurrying after their mother.” Fingers waggled to illustrate musical offspring.
Beyond the attentive poker faces in the first row, stage lights blinded him to other seats even when a heavy door opened and clunked closed.
Someone rushed down the aisle unseen and plopped into a seat behind the CD, disrupting lines of dialogue in Xander’s head.
He paused, praying to Dionysus it would appear dramatic and not as a dry-up.
No umming or struggling your way through…