Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,12

what she would call “ER worthy.” Two days later, the fever had passed, but my depression hadn’t.

You know in the movies how they do that cool time lapse where hours on a clock spin by like seconds? Yeah, well, I want you to imagine that . . . but imagine each day feels like a second.

I was disgusting. I barely left my bed. The lights never came on. I would hardly move, maybe to go to the bathroom, but even that felt like an impossible task. I showered once a week if my mother managed to make me. I would sleep for sixteen hours a day. Then I wouldn’t sleep for three days. I couldn’t tell you if it was day or night, let alone the day of the week. I felt hopeless. Not even sad. Just nothing. I couldn’t even cry. The thought of writing was an unimaginable feat. It was a depression so low and flat that I couldn’t even envision suicide as a solution.

I felt like a fucking cartoon character because every time I saw myself I was wearing the same goddamn outfit: boxers, a white undershirt, and a burgundy robe. Plates of half-eaten sandwiches lingered on the floor, encircling my bed, piling high, and finally being taken away in the blink of an eye, just like those time-lapse montages in movies.

Along with the sandwiches, the mail piled up. I had more mail than I had ever cared to receive. Every once in a while, my mother would barge in to express that I had received another letter from a publishing company. She would tell me to open it, but quite honestly, I didn’t care. I knew what it was and I could hear Lola taunting me in my head—another rejection letter.

She was so sweet when we were together. Was I truly the failure she depicted me as?

The clock spun, the montage continued. Winter turned into spring. Then one day, it came to a halt.

“Flynn!” my mom yelled. “Today is the day you are going to shower, shave, put on some clothes, read this letter, and rejoin society or, I’m sorry to say, I’ll have to throw out your things.”

My mother had never spoken to me this way.

I couldn’t tell if she despised me or loved me so much she felt compelled to make such grave threats—threats she was prepared to act on, given her tone. I don’t know why I got up, but I did. I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I pissed and turned on the sink and shower. I opened the door and emerged a fresh, clean-shaven man.

I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize what I saw—a handsome, functioning member of society. But I wiped my eyes because I felt quite the opposite.

“Eggs are getting cold!” Mom yelled.

I clunked down the stairs and took a seat in the kitchen, my eyes squinting from the bright sun shining through the window.

“There’s my boy!” my mom said. “I can see your face, Flynn. I love that face.” She had a big smile. I grabbed one of the many identical letters from our little mail area next to the rotary phone by my mom’s recliner.

Another rejection letter. “We regret to inform you . . .” I opened another letter. “We have considered your manuscript, and while there are elements of promise, it is not right for us at this time . . .” I felt the weight of my body returning to its depressed state. I slid my hand across the table, grabbing one last envelope.

On the front, it had my name.

Flynnagin E. Montgomery

465 Cedar Ridge Lane

Baker City, OR 34652

I opened the letter.

TO: Flynnagin E. Montgomery

FROM: Ed Nortan III

Dear Mr. Montgomery,

As you have not supplied a contact number or email, I have been forced to send this the old-fashioned way, via postal service. This is one of several attempts at communication, and I remain hopeful it will be received.

The concept for a realist novel set in a suburban supermarket, and its execution in your initial sample pages, are enough to validate what I first saw in you: great promise. The plotlessness of the work is part of its allure. Anyone can write about mythical worlds, murders, heists, and far-fetched romances. But this—this mimics how life is lived, in all its boring and profound uneventfulness. I think it will resonate with readers in a special way. The timing is perfect as well—the market has undergone a transformation, and contemporary, edgy, authentic young voices are