Blog Chapter #1 – Trapped
My name is Sam Rutherford but that is irrelevant in the story I’m about to tell. What’s in a name anyway? You can call me Sam, I don’t mind.
Who I am is the preeminent question I would ask if I were you. Pretty much nobody, I’d say if asked. Just a guy trapped inside a story of abandonment, addiction, and foolishness. Selfishly, I have to smile when I say that. As a narrator, good stories are so few and far between and my… oh…my do I have a good one on tap for you.
How did I get here? I was hoping you might know. What I remember continues to come in bits and pieces, like flashes of light, but the memories that have taken root are vivid and exact, like I was just there, like it was just a moment ago.
I’m in a bookstore, why, I don’t know. I remember feeling upset, thinking there had to be a specific story that would enlighten my mood, or at the very least, leave me with the feeling of real life exploits.
In the bookstore, my mind was humming with realization and contempt. Most stories begin rather lackadaisically, I thought, with no real emotion or feeling for the reader.
Almost as if I am peering through a looking glass, I can hear myself say, “There now, on the shelf in the classics section; there’s an example of what I mean.” “A quaint journey into a day long past,” read the enticement on the front of the book jacket in question. “I mean, what is that? What’s the deal with all the clichéd stories about the past? And how ‘bout we focus on the here and now. I got the classics in school. Challenge me with the future for a change.”
From what I can remember, I was searching for something to capture my thoughts and hold my interest for longer than two minutes, it seems. “Why do so many books reflect only on the past? Here's another about the antebellum South and a boy named Tom. No wait, it's Huck.
Anyway, my point is this; where are the real stories about people you and I know? Complicated stories you tell at the dinner table to a wide-eyed gallery of your family and friends. Nothing too fancy or lengthy but simple tales wrapped in reality and delivered to the reader with a passion. I want to read about characters I can relate to and instances I can understand in places I will probably end up some day. I want to believe the story and venture guesses about the outcome even after the last page is turned. And here's the kicker, I want these stories to be told candidly and not portrayed in some Hollywood spectra-vision, black-and-white, no wait…rose-colored cinema scope, slow motion, odd-angled, spectacles that garner the Academy Award nominations I hate. I need to relate.
The last memory I have is of a book covered in a shiny blue jacket with a picture on the cover of a girl looking at the sky and mouthing something as a train went by underneath her. I concluded she was in the city when the picture was taken but she looked so alone, so tortured, so weathered. I grabbed the book immediately and found a seat between a hippy and what looked like a professor sitting in a light brown leather sofa chair. You know the kind, glossy leather with deep button holes. Anyway, I sat quietly and pondered that picture. In the bend of her eye you could see a tear. I opened the book.
And that’s all I remember. The rest, as they say, is the dysfunctional life that is Annie Heights. And she is the story.
Annie Heights was your average girl, in your average town, with your average everyday life. I mean, how could you write it any differently. Some people strive to be in the affluent one percent but really, most of your every day folks are average. Sure you got your movie stars and your millionaire businessmen but what good is making all of that money if you have no time to spend it. And for that matter, what good is being unemployed if you have nothing to spend. It is a unique duality, indeed. One that Annie knew all too well. Married right out of high school, Annie did her part to help her husband pay the bills. When I say she did her part, I mean, she would work a job for a little while and then quit. A few months later, she would repeat the cycle.
But, nevertheless, Annie, more times than not, had a job which fit into her average life rather well. Hers was a life of normalcy sprinkled with an occasional trip to the islands or night out on the town and for some time, she seemed happy.
Now let me stop you for just one minute and ask a simple question. Who doesn't know someone like Annie Heights? Come on, think about it. A girl, married out of high school really young. A successful husband who pays all the bills while providing a secure roof over her head. There was absolutely nothing for Mrs. Heights to worry about except the little issue of her wild oats and misspent youth (foreshadowing people, foreshadowing). So who knows what happens next? It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.
It's quite funny how this story begins actually. Not that all the details of Annie Heights are funny. Some are tragic, others are just plain strange, perhaps fulfilling the age old adage that truth is stranger than fiction. Well in this case, what else could one conclude? I mean, how often to you find yourself engrossed in a fairy tale. Well maybe not a fairy tale, how's scary tale sound. Here is what I know.
The chick over in the corner is Annie Heights. For some reason, her husband just left in a hurry and she's late for work. I've been here five minutes and it's obvious they are not your average happily-married couple.
I've already looked around the house. I do that sometimes. Houses can tell you a lot about people. This one is small but extremely tidy. My guess is Annie's husband is a clean freak. That can cause some domestic distress, you know. Anyway, Annie just doesn't look like a clean freak. Her husbands name is Renald. Your guess is as good as mine on this one. Maybe he's French or Cajun. She calls him Renne most of the time.
Annie’s constantly on the phone; I'm guessing her current conversation is going on at least an hour. She kind of paces as she talks, walking back and forth and twirling her auburn locks of curly hair. When the telephone cord stretches as far as it will reach, she turns and walks in the other direction.
Annie’s talking with her mother I surmise…I’m good at that sort of thing…you know, guessing who’s on the other end of the phone from one side of the conversation. I keep hearing her say "I don't know what I am going to do, you just don't understand, I don’t know how much longer I can take it, and he keeps pushing and pushing me." Her tone is hurried and sarcastic.
So it sounds to me like Annie wants a divorce? I guess you could say that is pretty typical these days. No one wants to stick it out anymore and I guess Annie is pretty much one in the same.
While Annie ponders life changing issues with her mother, let's peek in on her husband, Renne.
As we speak, Renne is pulling his late model SUV into his parking spot at work. Renald Heights appears in dark green letters on the parking space under the red word "Reserved." Now that's a good sign. The guy has his very own parking spot. He must have some clout. You can't say the same thing at home. Renne gets out of his car and ventures into the rotating doors of corporate America. Well at least at work he will get some respect. Who knows, maybe things will turn around for these two. But you know, that would make for a boring story….back to Annie.
While wiping the sleep goo from my tired eyes, Annie finally hangs up the phone. The tail end of the conversation was far from telling to say the least so I chose to ignore it mostly. Annie is a gabber. Something like a telemarketer. I am sure mom would have loved to get a word in edgewise. But not today, no today Annie is really fired up. Surprisingly, she hums an eerie tune as she exits the house. Something of a tone deaf “Hotel California.” Tone deaf humming, now there’s a unique character trait.
With Annie gone for now, I can finally sit back and reflect for a moment as the morning whittles itself into the afternoon. Maybe I’ll take a nap.
But first, let's review our story thus far. We got two one-time lovers, married even, living under the same roof, one of whom is unhappy with the relationship and wants out while the other works to cover the bills. We also have a house, one dog, one cat, and an unforeseen future. I told you in the beginning how it ends, but it’s the middle that you will want to read. The middle is where the dysfunction meets the drama. And it’s in the drama where the real story unfolds.
Wake me when she gets back.
My name is Sam Rutherford but that is irrelevant in the story I’m about to tell. What’s in a name anyway? You can call me Sam, I don’t mind.
Who I am is the preeminent question I would ask if I were you. Pretty much nobody, I’d say if asked. Just a guy trapped inside a story of abandonment, addiction, and foolishness. Selfishly, I have to smile when I say that. As a narrator, good stories are so few and far between and my… oh…my do I have a good one on tap for you.
How did I get here? I was hoping you might know. What I remember continues to come in bits and pieces, like flashes of light, but the memories that have taken root are vivid and exact, like I was just there, like it was just a moment ago.
I’m in a bookstore, why, I don’t know. I remember feeling upset, thinking there had to be a specific story that would enlighten my mood, or at the very least, leave me with the feeling of real life exploits.
In the bookstore, my mind was humming with realization and contempt. Most stories begin rather lackadaisically, I thought, with no real emotion or feeling for the reader.
Almost as if I am peering through a looking glass, I can hear myself say, “There now, on the shelf in the classics section; there’s an example of what I mean.” “A quaint journey into a day long past,” read the enticement on the front of the book jacket in question. “I mean, what is that? What’s the deal with all the clichéd stories about the past? And how ‘bout we focus on the here and now. I got the classics in school. Challenge me with the future for a change.”
From what I can remember, I was searching for something to capture my thoughts and hold my interest for longer than two minutes, it seems. “Why do so many books reflect only on the past? Here's another about the antebellum South and a boy named Tom. No wait, it's Huck.
Anyway, my point is this; where are the real stories about people you and I know? Complicated stories you tell at the dinner table to a wide-eyed gallery of your family and friends. Nothing too fancy or lengthy but simple tales wrapped in reality and delivered to the reader with a passion. I want to read about characters I can relate to and instances I can understand in places I will probably end up some day. I want to believe the story and venture guesses about the outcome even after the last page is turned. And here's the kicker, I want these stories to be told candidly and not portrayed in some Hollywood spectra-vision, black-and-white, no wait…rose-colored cinema scope, slow motion, odd-angled, spectacles that garner the Academy Award nominations I hate. I need to relate.
The last memory I have is of a book covered in a shiny blue jacket with a picture on the cover of a girl looking at the sky and mouthing something as a train went by underneath her. I concluded she was in the city when the picture was taken but she looked so alone, so tortured, so weathered. I grabbed the book immediately and found a seat between a hippy and what looked like a professor sitting in a light brown leather sofa chair. You know the kind, glossy leather with deep button holes. Anyway, I sat quietly and pondered that picture. In the bend of her eye you could see a tear. I opened the book.
And that’s all I remember. The rest, as they say, is the dysfunctional life that is Annie Heights. And she is the story.
Annie Heights was your average girl, in your average town, with your average everyday life. I mean, how could you write it any differently. Some people strive to be in the affluent one percent but really, most of your every day folks are average. Sure you got your movie stars and your millionaire businessmen but what good is making all of that money if you have no time to spend it. And for that matter, what good is being unemployed if you have nothing to spend. It is a unique duality, indeed. One that Annie knew all too well. Married right out of high school, Annie did her part to help her husband pay the bills. When I say she did her part, I mean, she would work a job for a little while and then quit. A few months later, she would repeat the cycle.
But, nevertheless, Annie, more times than not, had a job which fit into her average life rather well. Hers was a life of normalcy sprinkled with an occasional trip to the islands or night out on the town and for some time, she seemed happy.
Now let me stop you for just one minute and ask a simple question. Who doesn't know someone like Annie Heights? Come on, think about it. A girl, married out of high school really young. A successful husband who pays all the bills while providing a secure roof over her head. There was absolutely nothing for Mrs. Heights to worry about except the little issue of her wild oats and misspent youth (foreshadowing people, foreshadowing). So who knows what happens next? It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.
It's quite funny how this story begins actually. Not that all the details of Annie Heights are funny. Some are tragic, others are just plain strange, perhaps fulfilling the age old adage that truth is stranger than fiction. Well in this case, what else could one conclude? I mean, how often to you find yourself engrossed in a fairy tale. Well maybe not a fairy tale, how's scary tale sound. Here is what I know.
The chick over in the corner is Annie Heights. For some reason, her husband just left in a hurry and she's late for work. I've been here five minutes and it's obvious they are not your average happily-married couple.
I've already looked around the house. I do that sometimes. Houses can tell you a lot about people. This one is small but extremely tidy. My guess is Annie's husband is a clean freak. That can cause some domestic distress, you know. Anyway, Annie just doesn't look like a clean freak. Her husbands name is Renald. Your guess is as good as mine on this one. Maybe he's French or Cajun. She calls him Renne most of the time.
Annie’s constantly on the phone; I'm guessing her current conversation is going on at least an hour. She kind of paces as she talks, walking back and forth and twirling her auburn locks of curly hair. When the telephone cord stretches as far as it will reach, she turns and walks in the other direction.
Annie’s talking with her mother I surmise…I’m good at that sort of thing…you know, guessing who’s on the other end of the phone from one side of the conversation. I keep hearing her say "I don't know what I am going to do, you just don't understand, I don’t know how much longer I can take it, and he keeps pushing and pushing me." Her tone is hurried and sarcastic.
So it sounds to me like Annie wants a divorce? I guess you could say that is pretty typical these days. No one wants to stick it out anymore and I guess Annie is pretty much one in the same.
While Annie ponders life changing issues with her mother, let's peek in on her husband, Renne.
As we speak, Renne is pulling his late model SUV into his parking spot at work. Renald Heights appears in dark green letters on the parking space under the red word "Reserved." Now that's a good sign. The guy has his very own parking spot. He must have some clout. You can't say the same thing at home. Renne gets out of his car and ventures into the rotating doors of corporate America. Well at least at work he will get some respect. Who knows, maybe things will turn around for these two. But you know, that would make for a boring story….back to Annie.
While wiping the sleep goo from my tired eyes, Annie finally hangs up the phone. The tail end of the conversation was far from telling to say the least so I chose to ignore it mostly. Annie is a gabber. Something like a telemarketer. I am sure mom would have loved to get a word in edgewise. But not today, no today Annie is really fired up. Surprisingly, she hums an eerie tune as she exits the house. Something of a tone deaf “Hotel California.” Tone deaf humming, now there’s a unique character trait.
With Annie gone for now, I can finally sit back and reflect for a moment as the morning whittles itself into the afternoon. Maybe I’ll take a nap.
But first, let's review our story thus far. We got two one-time lovers, married even, living under the same roof, one of whom is unhappy with the relationship and wants out while the other works to cover the bills. We also have a house, one dog, one cat, and an unforeseen future. I told you in the beginning how it ends, but it’s the middle that you will want to read. The middle is where the dysfunction meets the drama. And it’s in the drama where the real story unfolds.
Wake me when she gets back.
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