My Time With Simon E-Book

Paul Keetch

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 251

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The debut novel from Canadian author Paul Keetch delivers a "Shifting First-Person Perspective" unlike anything you've read before.

Between an unhappy wife, two narcissistic bosses, and a beautiful young stranger (amongst many others) Simon Cunningham is in for one hell of a day.

My Time With Simon is a treatise on the mosaic of personal identity, a guide to living a better life... and a love story.

"If you enjoyed Dan Millman's Way of the Peaceful Warrior, you'll love My Time With Simon." - JL (reader)

From the author:

My Time With Simon explores the idea that we are, each of us, a composite of the ideas, perspectives and opinions of those who encounter us.

Including how we view ourselves.

That "who we are" isn't fixed, but rather malleable by circumstance and perspective.

I hope you like it.

— Paul Keetch

Leseprobe

My Time With Simon

a novel by Paul Keetch

My Time With Simon

2nd Edition All Rights Reserved © 2006-2024 by Paul Keetch

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author.Hello, Simon.

Vanessa

I roll out of bed and, as usual, Simon doesn’t notice. He never does. God, how did I ever let myself marry a man like him? And how will I ever find the courage to leave? Thank god we don’t have any kids.

It’s like he’s intentionally mocking the fact that I’ve got to be at work at eight o’clock, while he, the office boy, doesn’t have to be in until nine. And he can get away with a quarter after, even nine thirty.

I not only get dirty looks from my crewmates if I arrive so much as a minute late, I’ll also get docked 15 minutes pay.

He just lies there, sleeping. I’m not sure what I expect of him, but it’s certainly more than this.

He snorts and rolls over as I walk past him and into the washroom. I turn on the water, hot, and let the bathroom fill up with steam. There’s something slightly... uneasy, about being in such a small room filled with so much fog. This is my morning ritual. This uneasiness pervades my morning—every morning—and I wonder why I’m always in such a bad mood. That and Simon’s bad breath are enough to drive any woman mad.

Stepping into the shower, the hot, near-scalding water pouring down my body, I feel a rush of excitement. This is another part of my morning ritual. From within the fog I imagine a handsome stranger in place of my drab n dreary husband. He gets out of bed, his strong, lithe body glistening and gleaming with sweat and condensation as he steps into the steamy room and joins me in the shower. His hands are strong as he pulls me towards him and I can feel him... down there.

“Vanessa,” he whispers in my ear, his breath sending shivers up and down my spine, “are you going to be much longer?”

Shit. This isn’t part of the routine. What the hell is he doing up already? And why is he interrupting my shower? I look at the water-proof clock hanging on the opposite wall, stuck to the tiles with one of those little suction-cups. I’ve been standing under the streaming water for nearly forty-five minutes. How did that happen?

“Almost finished,” I call back, not sure if he’s actually gotten out of bed yet, or if he’s just lying there, waiting until I’m done so he can jump out of bed and into the already hot washroom. Secretly hoping I’ve used up all the hot water, I rinse my hair a final time and reach around to turn the water off. Fuck him, I think, and just stand there, naked and dripping wet, feeling the air cool down.

I can hear Simon on the other side of the door... he is out of bed. There must be an office meeting or something. Either that or he’s got a woman on the side and he’s going to meet her for an early morning tryst. Never happen, a small voice says in the back of my mind. He’s too lazy to have an affair. That Simon might actually have the nerve to start an affair, let alone the inclination to plan or the will to engage in one, hiding it from me all the while, is something I’ve thought about often—wished on, to tell the truth. It’s not like we have sex any more. It would be good for him to have an affair. Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty about my secret morning ritual, or the secret glances I take at the back-end of the newest member of our crew at work. Or the time I got drunk when Simon was out of town on business and called one of those phonesex lines. If he had an affair then we could finally end this charade of a marriage. Why am I such a coward?

“Hey, you almost finished? I have to get into the office a bit early today. I was thinking we could go out together?”

What has gotten into him? I step from the shower, dripping all over the floor and not really caring. “Almost finished,” I say again, hating him for making me repeat myself. I wrap up in a long, full-sized towel and push open the door to our bedroom.

He’s still lying in bed, just like every morning. But today is different. He’s awake and lying on top of the sheets, naked. When I say awake, I mean he’s fully... awake. He gives me a look then glances down at himself, then back at me.

“Wanna... you know?”

I stand there looking at him. It’s not so much that he’s an ugly guy, but he’s let himself go. And my vision is coloured with the knowledge of our history together. When we first met, Simon was lithe and lean, just the way I like my men. But over the years he’s exercised less and less. The toned muscles turned a little flabby, and then disappeared altogether. I shouldn’t really complain, I guess, since I haven’t done a workout in over two years myself, but I haven’t lost it like he has.

“Well?”

He’s so pathetic I almost give in. Then I remember my gleaming interloper, and I laugh at him, without saying a word. It is not a kind laugh, and I can see the insult appear on his face, like the red, hand-shaped welt of a slap. He doesn’t say another word, but I can hear the thought that’s on his mind as if he's screamed it at me: ‘Bitch.’ And he’s right; I am a bitch, at least with him. But I deserve a better life than he’s giving me, and I believe he deserves it.

He rolls off the bed, trying hard—and failing miserably—to conceal himself, his arousal, as he moves. He is so pathetic, and I am embarrassed for him. You can be sure that my other man, the one that lives in my fantasy and who replaces Simon in all of the critical areas of my mind, would never skulk like Simon does. He would stand up tall, proud of himself and his body. He wouldn’t lie there and ask me if I want to ‘you know.’ He would take me in his strong arms and carry me to the bed. But not Simon.

He pulls the washroom door shut behind him and I hear the water turn on as I remove my towel and dry off. He’s probably masturbating in there, which is what I should have done, except he interrupted me. God, he’s pathetic.

He must be serious about leaving together, because the water turns off much more quickly than I thought it would. I hastily throw on some clothes so that we don’t have to both be naked in the same room, at the same time. It’s always so uncomfortable.

Thinking this, I walk out of the bedroom as he opens the bathroom door.

“Why are you going in early?” I call as I leave the room. I don’t really care, but it’s polite to make conversation with your husband in the morning, and I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that he’s starting an affair. I wonder absently if I should have had sex with him.

“Some delegates are coming in from China this afternoon and there’s still a lot of preparation to do. Do you know how many things we do here—hand gestures, habits we’re not even aware of—that could seriously offend the Chinese?”

“No.”

“It’s just part of their culture, I guess, but you wouldn’t believe the number of things we need to be prepared for. We’ve even hired a consulting firm to come in and help us prepare. We’re putting the final touches on the office this morning.”

This is the most interesting conversation we’ve had in the last year. “Really? People actually get paid to do that?”

“Oh yea. Big bucks, too. We’ve already paid them almost $100,000 and we’ll end up paying about $175,000 by the end of it all.”

“Doesn’t seem worth it, does it?”

“If we land this account we’ll make almost a billion dollars over the next ten years. I’d say it’s worth it, yea.”

Condescending bastard. Without even thinking about it I’ve thrown two bowls of cereal together and am just pouring the milk when he comes into the kitchen, fully dressed. I nod toward the table, which he takes to mean, ‘sit-down,’ when in fact I meant, ‘get some spoons, will you.’ He ambles over and gives me a light kiss on the cheek before moving to his seat and I am left with my own red slap-mark rising on my skin, and two bowls of cereal in my hands.

I drop them on the table, splattering a bit of milk as I go, and turn to get the spoons, but I grab forks instead.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just because I spilled a bit of milk doesn’t mean anything.”

He looks at the forks in my hands, then back up to my face, then back to the forks. I realise what he’s looking at and my blush deepens. I turn and put the forks back in the rack and replace them with spoons, which I drop on the table in a clatter. He keeps looking at me for a minute longer, then picks up the spoon and starts eating. He doesn’t look up until he’s finished every last bit, including licking the milk out of the bottom of the bowl. I’ve married a twelve year-old.

I drain the last of my own milk, tipping the bowl up and drinking from it like a glass. My grandmother used to scold me when I did that as a girl, and I take a certain amount of pleasure knowing that I can get away with it now. I picture her, up in heaven, or wherever you go when you die, rolling her eyes as she looks down on me, drinking from a bowl like a commoner. What she doesn’t realise, what she never realised, is that I am a commoner. My life wouldn’t have turned out like this if it weren’t true.

I grab both bowls and drop them into the sink. By the sound of it, one of them may have cracked, but I don’t have time to worry about it now. I glance at the clock on the stove and see that I’m running behind. I have to make up four minutes or I’ll get docked on my pay.

“I need to leave in about three minutes, if you’re still planning on leaving with me.”

He stands up from the table. “Great, I just need to brush my teeth.” He walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. There will be no sharing of the basin, not this morning or any other. Not if our lives depended on it.

Not for the first time, today or otherwise, I wonder why I married him. I remember when we first met and started dating: he was so interesting and dynamic, so good-looking. I was interesting then too, and I wonder if I’ve changed as well? Not nearly as much as he has, that’s for sure.

There was a time when I really loved him, unlike now when I am barely able to stand him. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t love him. So why did he have to go and change? The problem with men is that they don’t know who they are; their identities are defined by the people in their lives, instead of the other way around. It’s like Joe Pesci says in that movie, Lethal Weapon, “They fuck you at the drive-through.” That’s what men do. You have a look at the menu, find what it is that you’re interested in and place your order. Then you drive up to the delivery window, pay for, and receive, your food, only to find out once you’re well on your way, when it’s too late to turn around and go back, that you didn’t get what you asked for. Not even close. Tuna, when you asked for chicken, or some other shit.

He is almost finished brushing his teeth. I can hear him hacking and spitting to get the toothpaste out of the back of his throat. He has this super-sensitive gag reflex and can’t stand it when he swallows a bit of toothpaste. It’s surprising that he hasn’t given up on brushing entirely and simply replaced his real teeth with dentures. That’s the kind of man my husband is. He regularly pukes just from brushing his teeth. I used to think he had a drinking problem, that he was sneaking it behind my back and puking in the morning. Then one Sunday, after we’d spent the evening alone together—again—I heard him throwing up again. He didn’t have a drop to drink the night before.

The door opens and out he comes. It’s about time. I’m going to be late for sure, now. I told him I wanted to leave in three minutes and he goes and takes five in the washroom. I rush past him, not sparing the time to even glare at him and quickly brush my own teeth. I don’t have the same problem he does, and I’m finished inside a minute.

“Let’s go,” I say, pulling on my overcoat. It’s drizzling out and I don’t want to get my uniform wet. “I need to leave right now. I’m already late as it is.”

“Sure, sure. Don’t sweat the money, Vanessa. I’ll make it up to you.”

Really, how? What an ass. He has no idea what goes on in my life, and he doesn’t really care. I lead him out the front door, not bothering to reply. This is our life together. He talks, I fume and we each go off to work. He’s so pathetic.

A cab is turning the corner as we walk down the steps together and I quickly put my fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp whistle to catch the driver’s attention.

“I’m late,” I tell him, stating the obvious. “I’m going to catch a taxi and see if I can make it on time.”

“Won’t the taxi cost you more than the 15 minutes of docked pay?”

“That’s not the point,” I tell him. I’m already opening the back door to the cab, throwing my stuff onto the back seat. “I have to go.”

Without a kiss, a look or another word, I jump into the taxi after my belongings and pull the door closed. As we pull away from the curb, I turn back and see him watching me. He has this dumbfounded look on his face, which turns into a grimace as he tries to smile goodbye. He raises his hand as if to wave to me, but I don’t return the gesture.

The wiper blades make a clunking noise as I turn to face forwards and start my day.

Jimmy

I’m really in luck today. Mr. Cunningham is standing on the sidewalk, just outside his house. I pedal harder so I can reach him before he walks away or back inside.

“Mr. Cunningham!” I call to him. “Mr. Cunningham, wait up a second!”

He turns to look at me. I don’t think he recognizes my voice even though I’ve been delivering his newspaper every Saturday and Sunday for the last three years, since I was twelve. I’ve talked to him about a thousand times, for sure.

“Mr. Cunningham!” I pull up beside him, skidding a little on the wet sidewalk. He looks at me for another second before his eyes seem to clear up a bit and he gives a little smile.

“Hi Jimmy,” he says slowly. “Didn’t recognize you there at first.”

Yea, because there are so many kids out in the rain on a Wednesday morning, all calling your name. Jeez, what a dope. I’ve always liked Mr. Cunningham, he’s a really nice guy, but man he’s a little slow sometimes. He always gives me a good tip though, so I can’t complain too much.

“What’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk to you about your yard. Christmas is coming up and I’d like to make some extra money so I can buy some nice presents for my mom and dad. I was wondering if you needed any help with your yard. I only charge ten bucks an hour.”

“I don’t know, Jimmy,” he starts. “The yard isn’t looking too bad this year.” I’ve heard this before though, and I know exactly how to hook him in.

“Okay, Mr. Cunningham, if you’re sure. I just thought that since you and Mrs. Cunningham haven’t been away very much, you might be planning to take some time off together. I could definitely help you out with your yard while you’re away and because you’ve been so good me with your newspaper subscription, I’ll give you a deal as long as you promise not to tell anyone else in the neighbourhood. I’ll do the work for eight bucks an hour instead of ten.” I’ve been reading some of my dad’s books on selling and negotiation.

“What do you mean, you’ve noticed we haven’t been away much?”

“Oh nothing, Mr. Cunningham. Just that I deliver your paper every Saturday and Sunday, and you’re always here. Plus, you know, I ride my bike around the neighbourhood and see you guys around. I mean, I see your car in the driveway. Say, Mr. Cunningham, how come you don’t drive your car to work every day?”

I’m getting off topic, and that’s one of the first rules of negotiation: stay focused on the goal. But it’s so strange, I mean, here’s this guy who obviously has a good job, nice clothes and a nice house, and his wife is pretty good-looking. She’s no Mrs. Abernathy, up the road, but she’s got a great pair of legs. But he’s always taking the bus to work.

“My office doesn’t have parking,” he says, which I guess makes sense. “Besides, gas is so expensive right now and driving is really bad for the environment. I should do like you, Jimmy, and get a bike to take to work.”

“Yea,” I say. I’m losing him. “About the yard, Mr. Cunningham, how about we just give it a try. I’ll only charge you seven bucks an hour—but you can’t tell anyone else, cause if they find out they’re paying more, they’ll be mad at me—and we’ll try it out for one weekend. Four hours a day for two days is only fifty-six bucks. I promise you’ll have the best looking yard on the entire street.” I try and wink, but end up blinking instead. Gotta work on that one.

He laughs. “You’re very persistent. Your dad’s in sales, isn’t he?” I nod. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he says. I’m not sure what he means by that. I’ll have to remember to ask my dad. But right now, I’m about to land my first big fish, so I gotta concentrate. I can hear the city bus on the other side of the hill, closer to my house. It’s going to be here in a couple of minutes and then he’ll be gone.

“Listen, Mr. Cunningham. Let’s do this: I’ll come by on Saturday and work for four hours—if you don’t like my work I won’t come back on Sunday. And if you really don’t think I did a good job, you don’t even have to pay me for Saturday. What do you think?”

“Boy, you sure are persistent,” he says again, still laughing. I don’t think he’s laughing at me though, so I grin right along with him. I can sense my victory. Mr. Cunningham really is a pretty decent guy. He’s getting a little pudgy around the middle and he’s losing his hair on top, and dad sometimes calls him a ‘dork’ but I think he likes him well enough. I’m not quite sure how he got Mrs. Cunningham to marry him. He must have a big wang. That’s gotta be it. He scratches his leg with one hand and looks at the watch on his other arm.

“I’ll tell you what Jimmy. You come over on Saturday morning, say around ten o’clock, and we’ll have a look at what needs doing. You can do some of the work and I’ll do some of the work. You can be my apprentice. How’d that be?”

“That sounds great, Mr. C,” I tell him, grinning wildly. The bus is coming down the hill—the timing couldn’t be better. “Like I said, Christmas is right around the corner and I just want to earn some extra money so I can get my parents and my little brothers some nice presents this year.”

“Okay, I’ll see you at ten o’clock on Saturday then,” he tells me, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and flipping to his bus pass. “You’re going to have to earn your eight dollars an hour though Jimmy.”

Eight? My last offer was seven! I wonder if he forgot. The bus pulls up and the driver opens the door for Mr. Cunningham. He gives me a grin and then gets on the bus, showing the driver his pass as he steps on, then folds it back into his wallet and puts it into his pocket. As the bus starts to pull away from the curb Mr. Cunningham is walking back along the aisle, looking for a seat. He looks out the window at me, grins again, and gives me the thumbs up sign.

He’s not a bad guy, I think. Not bad at all.

Eric

I go for another sip of coffee, forgetting that the extra-large cup in my hands is already empty. I’m so tired, both literally and figuratively. Exhausted literally from another night out at the bar with the boys, trying to pick up girls who don’t even know we exist—and who would probably call the cops if they did—and figuratively tired of all this shit. The world has gone to hell in a handcart, and nobody seems to notice... or give a shit.

The guy getting on the bus at the Rottman stop is soaked from the rain through and through and he doesn’t even have an umbrella. It’s like he didn’t even notice that it’s raining outside. I’ll never understand some people’s kids. He’s literally dripping on everyone as he walks down the aisle, and he’s not even paying attention to where he’s going. He’s looking at some kid on the sidewalk, sitting on his bike. Must be his son.

The kid gives a quick wave and a grin and mounts up on the bike and rides off in the rain. He’s not wearing a rain slicker or anything else either. Incompetent parents. It’s no wonder the world is so shitty.

I think about my parents. They’re both dead now, killed in a car accident. My father was drinking and driving... again. At least he didn’t hit another car. Ran straight into a concrete footing down under the Riverside Bridge. The cops said that they died instantly, that they didn’t feel a thing. But I went down there, after they’d cleared the scene and finished their investigation. Leading away from the spot where the car hit the footing, on what I can only assume was the passenger side, was this... stain. It was like whoever made that stain was trying to pull themselves along, causing a smear on the pavement. It’s like someone was trying to get away from the burning wreck.

The wet dad is standing right next to my seat, near the back of the bus. The bus is full, but it ain’t that full—he better not sit here.

“Is this seat taken?” Shit.

“Nah, go ahead,” I mutter, readjusting in my own seat so that he’s got room for his briefcase and shoulder-bag. He sits down with a squish and I can just friggin tell that he’s gonna drip all over me and I’m gonna get to work looking like I goddamn pissed myself.

“Coffee,” he says, nodding at my cup. I shake it to indicate the empty state it’s in. He reaches down between his legs and unzips the big shoulder bag he brought on with him. I glance down and can see a laptop computer, a change of clothes and some miscellaneous stuff that I can’t identify with my quick glance. He rummages around inside for a minute, looking back up at me and giving a small grin, before returning his attention to his feet.

“Here we go.” He pulls out a large thermos and unscrews the cap. I can smell hot, fresh coffee wafting out. “Want a refill?” he asks, holding out the thermos. Maybe this guy ain’t so bad after all.

“Sure, thanks.” I take the top off my Starbucks cup and hold it out for him to pour. “No need to fill it all the way,” I tell him, smiling for the first time since hauling my ass out of bed. “As you can see, I’ve already had quite a large hit this morning.” He smiles back and fills my cup about half-way. His thermos is one of those ones where the cap turns into a cup, which he uses to pour his own shot of morning courage. I’ve never understood those thermos cap/cups. When you’re finished, and you put it back on, doesn’t it leak all over the place? I guess it’s better than spending $5 every morning.

He takes a sip and gives a sigh. I know how he feels and take a swig of my own.

“You don’t normally take this bus,” I say. “At least not around this time of day.”

“Nope. Gotta go in to work a little early today. Big meeting, lots of preparation. You know.”

I have no clue, but I’m not about to let him know that. “Yea.”

“What about you? This your normal time?”

“Yep.”

“Off to work then? Or just coming home? I see lots of people on my regular ride who are just coming off the night shift.”

“Jus’ heading in.” I take another swig of coffee. Not as good as Starbucks, but not bad. Not bad at all. “I work on the paint line at Hoffman’s, the auto parts plant. You know the one?”

“Yea, that’s just over on...”

“Hoffman,” I finish for him, laughing. “They named the street after the plant years ago, when it was one of the only businesses in that part of town that was actually making any money.”

“Right.” He grins. This guy is alright and I’m feeling a little badly about making fun of him earlier.

“I’m Eric,” I tell him.

“Simon. Good to meet you, Eric.” We shake.

“You too. Thanks for the coffee, I really needed it.”

“No worries. So what do you do, working on the paint line at Hoffman’s?”

“We take the finished parts, in batches, hang them on a line and send them through a power washing unit. You know, to get off all the grease. Then they come around and either go through an automatic paint unit—powder paint—or they’re spray-painted by hand. It all depends on the part. Then they go through the oven to cook the paint on and we take ‘em off the line, inspect them, and prep them for shipment to the auto plant. We mostly make gas tank fittings for trucks.”

“Sounds like a decent job.”

I roll my eyes. If he only knew. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “It all depends on your version of ‘decent’ I guess. It can get pretty monotonous, hanging the same parts on the same line, day after day.” I don’t tell him we have to go out at lunch and smoke some grass just to be able to make it through the afternoon. It’s that boring.

“I bet it pays okay, though, doesn’t it? I always thought that union jobs were pretty high paying, good job security, all that.”

“You watch the news and read the paper too much,” I tell him in all honesty. “We’re not a union plant, so we don’t get the job security. If we refuse overtime more than twice in a quarter, they’ll can us so fast. It’s pretty crazy actually.”

“That’s not legal, is it?”

“Legal is what you can get away with. Listen,” I say, reaching up and pulling the rope to tell the driver to pull over at the next bus stop, “thanks a lot for the extra shot of coffee. I really needed it this morning. This is my stop coming up.”

“No problem, Eric. It was good chatting with you.”

I stand up and squeeze past him into the aisle. We’re getting close to the stop. “Yea, you too. Simon, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, listen. Have a good one man. Maybe I’ll see you around again sometime. I owe you a coffee.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, like he thinks I actually meant it literally. “Maybe we’ll run into each other tomorrow? I think I’ll be heading to work early all this week.”

“Cool, man. Take it easy.” The bus pulls up to the stop and the door opens. I step out into the rain. I really don’t want to go to work today, but that extra shot of coffee might actually get me through the first hour without killing myself... or anyone else.

Sara