Writing Practice: "I have to tell you something"

Joshua turned the radio off as the deejay announced the next song. He didn't feel like listening to Mariah sing about making it through the rain. Manilow already did that two decades ago, he thought, and in a much better way.

The storm raged all day. It had snuck in through the backdoor, suddenly making a southwest detour just when everyone up north had umbrellas and raincoats prepared, and everything was suddenly wet and windy. Joshua got caught in a freak downpour on his way home from work. And being one of hundreds drenched mercilessly that afternoon was of no comfort to him. He didn't want to be any more ill than he already was.

It was only last night when Stacy said again, "I have to tell you something." Whenever she'd do that, Joshua would feel that emotional click deep in his chest, a safety net for some kind of bad news. If it isn't her going out of town to visit her parents--her ex-boyfriend lived just across the street--it would be about one of her many dreams of having a baby, with Joshua not being the father. He had wanted to propose to her many times before, but her strange subconscious fixations on other men disturbed him.

* * *

Again, last night. "I have to tell you something, Joshua."

Stacy was on the other end of the phone, and Joshua caught the familiar monotone she'd use over and over.

"Remember that dream I had about having a baby with this man I've never met?"

"Maybe," Joshua answered. "You've dreamt about having four babies with four men you've never met."

"Well, I did meet him... one of them. Yesterday afternoon."

Joshua didn't know whether to hang up, hang himself, or laugh. "So you met a guy, presumably in the rain, and you swear you've dreamt about having a baby with him."

"Yes, his name's Bob."

Thunder rumbled.

Bob? Joshua thought. The man of my girlfriend's dreams is named Bob? "So what are you trying to tell me?"

"I just want to tell you not to worry. I didn't tell him that I had a dream of having sex with him--he'd think I was nuts, right? He had an umbrella, I didn't. He offered to take me across the street, and I agreed. He introduced himself before we parted, and that was that."

"You're not breaking up with me?"

Stacy let out a silly chuckle. "Hell, no! I'm just sharing what happened to me! I used to think that it was all hogwash. You know, meeting someone from a dream. While he was walking away, I just smiled. It was silly and wonderful and odd and exciting and all that..."

Joshua just let her talk for the next few minutes, allowing her to unload the pent-up exuberance. Joshua would find it charming on a normal day.

* * *

Almost noon, and the storm showed no sign of letting up. The weatherman--bless his soul for his confidence--said the storm should make its way out of the city by the next morning.

Joshua's mailbox bled bills. More for the collection, he thought, though some of the neatly-enveloped brochures and notices had wet spots from the rain, while others had creasemarks from careless stuffing. The mailman must have been in a hurry.

Out of habit, he separated the mail by logo--credit card, credit card, coupons, phone, magazine subscription, credit card. Those he couldn't outrightly identify he tossed into a large box beside his computer table. Above the box was a wide cork board on which he created a collage of other unidentifiable mail, a blanket of tacked-on glossy documents that had no clear creative sense of logic save whim.

The phone bleeped, disturbing his ritual. Joshua plopped the rest of his mail on his computer table, grumbling to himself over the disturbance of his peace, when he had the sudden urge to look at his collage. He stepped back about ten feet from the right by four-foot board, and surveyed his handiwork like a critic to a painting.

And then he thought of Stacy. It reminded him of Stacy, the collage. Or was it more about the three-year relationship that seemed to have no direction and yet, strangely, seemed to compound in chaotic beauty? In there were the vibrant colors, the myriad textures, the prickle pegs of tacks and clips, the cascading sheets that seemed endlessly falling yet frozen.

By the time he turned away to get to the phone, the ringing stopped. But Joshua wanted to answer it, hoping to hear her voice again, rattling about something he had wanted to tell him. He could always call back, he thought. He always could.

The clock signalled 7:30 am, accompanied by the soft rumble of thunder. It was then that Joshua realized that he wanted to tell her something, too.