I had a few more crushes during my junior high and high school days, but was never popular enough to make them more than unrequited feelings. In the eighth grade, while playing basketball, I tripped on a fast break and my right knee struck the side of my left leg. For most kids, this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but for a kid who had the same genetic condition my mother had, Osteochondroma, it was. I limped around for a couple of days and all seemed normal. Then one morning I woke up in fear—the small bone on the inside of my left knee had ballooned to the size of a tennis ball. Since my father was paying for my braces and the growth was non-cancerous, we had to put off my surgery until the tenth grade. As I battled issues of self-worthlessness, I wore my socks past my knees to hide the defect from the very same people who already called me “Brace Face”. Every crush I had in junior high I just kept to myself to avoid the inevitable.

When I had surgery in the tenth grade, and my braces were removed, I felt like a new person. There were several girls I was interested in dating at my high school and I couldn’t wait to throw my hat in the ring again. On the street to happiness though, I ran into an unforeseen road block—I didn’t have a car. It also seemed every girl I liked was drawn to the coolest guys in school—the boys who had one. What made matters even worse was that my high school was also near a prestigious private school. Not only did I have to compete with guys from my school, but also the dudes from the private school who drove around in their parent’s Mercedes and BMWs. As I watched the girls I liked, one by one, riding shotgun in someone else’s dream, I put mine on hold until I could offer the same.

I had many friends who were girls throughout my high school years, but never one I could call my “girlfriend”. It was especially hard to hear the ones I liked were dating someone else, and even tougher to witness them holding hands on their way to class or kissing in the hall. It seemed they all had big plans each weekend while I felt frozen in time. I was in touch with everything that happened around me, but at the same time completely out of touch as well. I was never bullied in school and for the most part I was well-liked, but not having a car rendered my road to popularity impassable. I then got caught up with everything around me. I watched other guys, unburdened by timing, not only get the girls they desired, but live the lives they wanted too. It seemed everyone my age had an island they went to every day, but I missed the boat and had to swim to catch up with them. Although I felt like an outcast, I never pierced my ears, got a tattoo, or even grew my hair long to carve out my own identity. I felt removed from life, and the more I felt that way, the more my grades tumbled—so considerably that I ruined any chance I had to get into a decent college.

To add insult to my feelings of inadequacy, during an event in the school’s auditorium, I won a free tuxedo from a local tux shop for the high school prom. My good friends applauded me as I made the long nervous walk to the front stage to retrieve the gift certificate, but I also heard the laughter from those who knew I had no one to go with. I gave the prize to one of my friends who actually had a date, but I couldn’t deny how much it weighed on me—that even at the age of eighteen, I still never had a girlfriend. Although I believed in true love, I couldn’t have prepared myself for the truth that now faced me—that I couldn’t even ask a girl out on a date because I had nothing to offer them. I grew up with a low sense of self, and the years spent from elementary to high school only built upon my feelings of worthlessness. Although it left me greatly discouraged, I saw the love around me and kept faith in my dream—the only outlet I had to escape my cold existence.

On the day of my high school graduation, my graduating class partied into the night, but without a ride to these festivities, I felt forgotten—left at home with my parents and a dream gone unrealized. As I sat in my room alone and thought of the fun my friends were having without me, I feared a possible outcome I never considered before—that when I died, I could be buried next to no one. On the lowest night of my life, a night I always envisioned I’d spend joyously in a celebratory environment with my girlfriend and our friends, I vowed to make good on my dream. I would prove to those women I liked, who saw no value in me, that their perception of me was pure deception—that there was more to me than just what their eyes told them. I realized I made a huge mistake during my twelfth-grade year—I had given no real thought about college or what I planned to do with my life. I believed in love so much and that I’d have it by this time, I thought it would naturally carry me to where I needed to go. The problem was I got so caught up in my disappointment when it didn’t happen, I never considered the consequences the day my future arrived.

I also lived in a port city where a six-figure salary awaited high school graduates in the form of longshoring jobs. Its high pay made college an afterthought for most of the kids at my high school, and the only college promotion the school did was for its magnet program students. Longshoring was a great gig for some people, if not for most people who lived in Harbor City. They had a strong union, great benefits, and paid extremely well, but there was a reason for that—the job came with great physical risk. The workers with their boots on the ground at times clocked in high on drugs, and if they supervised a job you were on, your life would be put in their reckless hands. There were many instances of longshoremen losing their limbs and their lives—crushed by ten-ton cans because their supervisor was too high to keep them out of harm’s way, or they were too high to stay out of it. Even though my father pushed me to be a longshoreman after high school and the harbor was just a couple of miles away, I never saw it in my dreams. If I got into longshoring only for the money, then I would be better off owning the company that shipped the goods to be unloaded off the ships and trucks, and not be its at-risk labor. If you took the money away, the job was not only dangerous but also uninspiring. You also had to work a ton of hours just to make the six-figure salary. I preferred to work in a career where there was no real limit to your income potential but also didn’t require an eighty-hour work week. I just needed to find something I enjoyed doing. Once I found that, the money would naturally follow. If I wanted the love I always believed in as well, I had to find a career that not only brought me enough money to take care of someone, but also gave me the time to be happy so I could be a provider of both.

Settling on the right career path was no easy task. I had no time to be wishy-washy because my father wanted me out of the house after I graduated high school. In his eyes, I overstayed my welcome so I felt pressured to go with what I felt most comfortable with, regardless of its practicality. I had always found math to be boring and cumbersome so I steered myself away from any careers that required college level math courses. My strength though was English—I always did well in reading comprehension and writing. I got an ‘A’ on nearly every paper I wrote simply because I loved to read. Being transported to a different place appealed to my dreaming and critical nature. In my senior year, I was assigned to read a book called “The French Lieutenant’s Woman” by John Fowles. When I saw parts of myself through the novel’s main character, Sarah Woodruff, it blew me away that a writer could get a male reader to relate to its female character. After I recalled enjoying this novel in high school, I took my passion for reading a step further—I wanted to be a novelist one day. I thought it was a unique way to carve out a name for myself and to prove people wrong about me. I didn’t know anyone in town who aspired to be a writer or considered it as a career choice—the reason for its allure. A few months after I graduated high school, my father wondered what I planned to do with my life, and I gave him my answer—I wanted to be a best-selling author. When I shared this very unique and ambitious dream of mine, he did what any supportive parent would do—he laughed at me. Since I needed to be knocked down another peg after all the confidence he instilled in me over the years, he then grabbed a tiny piece of chalk and wrote his prediction for my future on the small black chalkboard in the kitchen.

LANDYN DOES NOT MAKE COLLEGE

Even after all the times he called me a “failure” and how I’d never amount to anything, because I was nothing, it was still a revelation for me. Not only did my father believe I couldn’t graduate from college—he didn’t believe I could get in. Even after I sported a three-point-two grade point average from first to twelfth grade, I still wasn’t smart enough to get into college, let alone be a novelist. He never planned to pay for my college education, nor did he ever offer to—I would have to work and go to school full-time with no guarantees. Even when I was willing to put in that much work, I still failed to garner his support. It seemed a part of him wanted to see me struggle like he did—the only way to earn his respect. No one in our family ever graduated from college, but it was why our family always struggled in life—why he could never see me as an investment and only as a burden.

I was not a lazy person and always tried my best at everything I was asked to do, but my father thought I was both lazy and unmotivated. He gathered this view of me because whenever he did yardwork, I always had other things to do. He then assumed I didn’t like yardwork because I was lazy and not because I would have to pull weeds for two to three hours in ninety-degree heat. Not to mention, since my father loved working in the yard, he didn’t pay for a gardener like all the other neighbors did. In his eyes though, I was lazy for not having a passion for gardening. When I laid out a goal for myself, I was far from lazy and extremely diligent and disciplined—a few things about me I do owe to my father. Upon revealing my desire to get an English degree, he thought I was “dumb” for not taking the six-figure salary on the docks as a longshoreman. I could make all the money in the world, but if I didn’t enjoy what I did and my well-being wasn’t intact, how could my life ever be? While it sounded “dumb” to him because I wouldn’t have to spend money on a degree, I could make a lot more money over the long run if I devoted the time to my dream instead. My father didn’t give me a bad life, but I didn’t want to start a family from the same hole he did. If I had a wife with a baby on the way, I could understand it being a “dumb” decision to turn away the longshoring income. Unlike my father though, I had a clean slate to work from and one other thing—I had a chance to go for my dream.

However, my father’s methods of motivation threatened to destroy my rediscovered drive and ambition. All I ever heard growing up was all the things I could never do, and never the things I could. He wouldn’t allow me to even mow the lawn when he worked in the yard—he only let me pull the weeds and hold the dustpan for him. With little faith and confidence in my capabilities, he eventually chipped away at my ability to believe in myself. I even feared the minute I went for my dream, the very minute before I reached it, he would kick me out of the house so that I’d have no chance to prove his words nonprophetic. My biggest challenge was not getting into college, nor even getting a degree—but to somehow overcome the worthlessness he instilled in me that I believed in as much as the sunrise. I had to step outside my comfort zone and do the things others weren’t willing to do. As mandatory to life as the dawn—I had to be successful.

I first saved up enough money to buy my first car—a used 1987 gold metallic Toyota Tercel, and began my journey at a local junior college, a place I was not only accepted to, but graduated with an Associate’s degree after three years. I then transferred to California State University, Long Beach where I maintained a full-time work and school schedule. In my senior year, a mere year away from obtaining a Bachelor’s degree in English, I hit a bump in the road. I had to face a hard truth—to be a novelist, I needed something to write about, and I had nothing but a dream and credit card debt. If I had any real chance to be a novelist and to pay off my college tuition, I needed to switch to a major that provided a good starting salary right out the gate. I didn’t need an English degree to be a writer, but I couldn’t be a writer under a mountain of debt. If I wanted to be an aspiring novelist who taught high school English, I could stick it out and get the English degree. However, it would take me at least ten years to pay off my college tuition debt, and I was already twenty-five. I hated to take a step backward and was already behind all of my friends who graduated college two years earlier. Not to mention that my father made my life miserable at home because he wanted me out so badly. When a friend of mine offered me a room to rent for only two hundred dollars a month, I moved out and made my decision—to go back to junior college to take my lower division courses and then transfer back to the University to get a degree in Business.

My interest in business grew over the five years I spent working at Frugals—a retail drug store who employed me during my senior year in high school. As I swept and mopped the floors at night and got summoned to the hand dip counter serving ten cent single scoop ice cream cones to kids and their parents, I paid attention to the person who didn’t do any of those things—the manager of the store who wasn’t intimidated by math. Each night, I watched the manager retreat to the office with his daily reports while everyone else did all the things they didn’t want to do. With my low sense of self-worth in tow, and so close to a degree in English, I feared I could end up living the same life they did—as corporate sheep.

When I informed my boss, Frugals store manager Mark Warner, of my decision to change majors and to pursue a degree in business, he implored me to quit school altogether. I could step right into a fifty-thousand dollar a year assistant management position at Frugals—a spot that would make me his right-hand man. Mark was a great boss to work for, but I saw the toll the management position took on him. In contrast to his five-foot ten inches in height, he was at least fifty pounds overweight and had thin dark hair that I never witnessed in place. He ran around the store non-stop and always wore coffee and sweat-stained wrinkled shirts. His body odor suggested he had no time to shower in the morning and large circles hung below his thirty-year old dark brown eyes on a face that rarely smiled. Although I only made six-fifty an hour and could use the significant jump in compensation to help pay off my credit card debt, I gave it very little consideration.

One day during an inventory inspection, the District Manager at Frugals and Mark’s boss, Dan Stokely, paid a surprise visit to the store. I had never seen him in person up until this moment, but heard plenty about him—he was well-known for his short fuse and no-nonsense approach. To see him visit during an inventory inspection alarmed us all because it was something he never did. And if he ever visited, he did so for only one purpose—to fire someone. When he approached me while I inputted the week’s hair products order, I thought I was next on his hit list. As he stood before me, he appeared to be in his early sixties and stood about five feet from the ground. He had an average build with pearly, thinning white hair as the color of his blue eyes was enhanced through the bifocals he wore. When he extended out his hand, I noticed he wore gold cufflinks that complemented his navy-blue Armani suit he sported over a tieless white-collared shirt.

“Lastman? Landyn?” He asked. “Stokely. Dan. Dan Stokely.”

“Yes, Sir.” I nodded as I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stokely.”

“Mark tells me a lot of good things about you.” He informed me.

“He did? Well, that’s really nice of him to say. I’m just doing my job.” I replied as my heart began to race.

“Well, it’s my job to pay attention to the numbers.” He stated. “When I gave Mark this store last year, I did so because there were less expectations here. Historically, the store has underperformed. We even had discussions about closing it down—it’s been in the red each of the last eight years.”

“That’s really interesting.” I said unsure of what “in the red” meant.

“Since you and Mark arrived here six months ago, inventory levels have dropped, sales have increased, and gross profit is up fourteen percent. At this time last year, it was down sixty-four percent. That’s a huge difference, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s pretty cool.” I acknowledged not truly knowing the significance of the numbers he gave me.

“After eight straight years of bleeding, it’s nothing short of a miracle.” He exclaimed. “Do you handle all the ordering?”

“I do.” I said as I felt sweat trickle down my arm.

“Mike told me you’re also responsible for the sale displays and for managing the stockroom.”

“That’s correct.”

“Six months ago, I couldn’t even walk in the stockroom—it was packed solid with overstock.” He said.

“Um…it really wasn’t overstock, Mr. Stokely.” I said.

“What?” He yelled.

“Well…Umm…you can’t sell anything from the stockroom. You have to get it out on the floor.” I said nervously. “I’ve worked really hard to not overorder and to make sure the merchandise is always out on the floor—not in the stockroom where our customers aren’t. I’ve had to be creative to find the space out on the floor, but I was able to.”

I did a lot at the store. I pulled the ordered merchandise off the truck weekly. Got all products on the floor in its proper spot, and made sure it stood up like soldiers. I made sure all the items on sale that week were displayed in the front of the store so they could easily be found. I also brought out the older stock, once believed to be unsellable, and set up a discounted item display for it. Since I did all the ordering, with the exception of cosmetics, I knew nearly every item the store carried. I even worked all night on inventory counts and still made it to school in the morning. Mark had a “hands-off” management style and never instructed me to do what I did—it just came naturally for me. I enjoyed my role at the store and after Dan told me he noticed the difference since I arrived, for the first time in my life I felt valued. At already twenty-five years old, I was anxious to prove I amounted to something in life.

“You should think about a career in retail management. You seem to have a natural understanding of the business.” Dan then said to me. “You should know we have an excellent management training program here at Frugals.”

“I’ve heard nothing but great things about it.” I said as I met his extended hand once more. “Thank you, Mr. Stokely. I’ll definitely give it some consideration.”

I was honored but unsure if Frugals was the right place for me—it was a high-risk position with Dan Stokely in charge. I also feared a management position would require me to work more than I already did. My work-life balance was already non-existent, and if things carried on this way, I’d never fulfill the dream I cared most about—to have a family one day born of love. In order to mask my low self-worth, I hid behind my career and the lives of others—all in anticipation of the day I could offer something beautiful to the girl of my dreams. I just had to remain patient—a hard thing to do when I witnessed my best friends find the love I always looked for. It seemed the only way I found time to meet someone was at their weddings. Although I couldn’t have been happier for my friends who found love, disenchantment took up residence in my heart with each speech and toast I made—often as the best man in their weddings. With each new love a friend found, my father’s words resonated louder within to remind me why I wasn’t worthy of love. To remind me of the circumstances behind my birth—an accident that became an obligation.

With a full-time work and school schedule, I found a work-life balance through the people I spent my time with the most—my co-workers. One of those co-workers was Mick Jones, a wiry but diminutive brown-haired male. The year was 1990, but he sported it with a mullet that partied hard in the back but was hung over in the front. He had a diamond-shaped head that housed his light green eyes under a pair of half-pulled down natural skin shades. He also donned a sporadic brown moustache above a tiny mouth that contained two rows of mostly brown teeth. When I first met him, I thought my boss hired him through a government-mandated program because he appeared to be a slow adult or possibly disabled, but he was neither.

I rarely worked with Mick when he first started, but I heard from Mark that during his first week, he called every female customer or co-worker, “Sweetie”. After a month passed, everyone just started calling him “Sweetie”—a moniker that fit him perfectly. While he never gave the impression he would surprise us on an intelligence quotient test, we soon learned what he lacked in brain power he more than made up for with his work ethic and attitude. He not only walked a mile to work, but hustled all day when he got there—sometimes for even ten hours at a time. Then two nights a week, on his off days at Frugals, he also worked as a waiter at Charley’s Diner just a few blocks away until five in the morning. In my eyes, he was not just “Sweetie” but also Superman. The first time I got to actually work with him, I decided to make some small talk as we assembled a paper towel display. The only thing I knew about him was that he lived with his older sister whose boyfriend left her after she had his baby.

“You look a little tired today.” I said. “Long night at the diner?”

“Yeah…I didn’t get home til’ seven this mornin’.” He said in his usual soft spoken and nasally tone.

“What time did ya start?” I asked.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Do you usually get any sleep on the mornings you have to be here—after you get off at the diner?”

“I usually get an hour or two.” He yawned. “But I didn’t sleep at all this mornin’.”

“If you want to, you can pull out a chaise lounge cushion from upstairs in the stockroom to lie down on—no one can see you up there.” I told him. “I’ll cover for you if wanna sneak a nap in for an hour. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt out here because you’re half awake.”

“Thanks Land, but I’ll be okay.” He replied as he yawned again.

“Well, the offer’s on the table.” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you workin’ two jobs to support your sister and your nephew?” I asked.

“No.” He responded. “My sister works too—I only help her out if she needs it.”

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“Oh! I thought you were takin’ care of them?”

“Nope. Not really at all.” He said.

“So, that’s great you’re workin’ two jobs so you can afford a car.” I then said. “The way you’re goin’, you’re gonna have a really nice one.”

“A car? Oh no, Landyn. I’m okay with walkin’ for now.” He said.

“Oh…then you must be workin’ these jobs so you can get your own place?” I asked. “Tired of livin’ with your sister, huh?”

“Nope.” He yawned again as he cut open one of the cases of paper towels and began to hand them to me.

“Then why are you workin’ two jobs for, Mick?” I asked as I stacked the paper towels on the bayend. “Are the tips that good there?”

“The tips are just okay.” He said as he handed me the last paper towel from the case and began to open another.

“Are you savin’ up to go to school?” I asked as I exhausted all other options.

“Well, I’d like to take the ASVAB, but I’m not workin’ here and at Charley’s to go back to school.” He said as he handed me two paper towels from the case he just opened.

“Why are you killin’ yourself then?” I asked. “I go to school and work full-time but I’m never as tired as you must feel right now. Why work two jobs when you don’t really have to?”

“Oh, I have to work two jobs.” He said. “It’s because of my mother.”

“Ah! You have one of those too, I see.” I said. “You’re the son of the year for helpin’ her out like that.”

“I’m not helpin’ out my mom, Land—she died nine years ago.” He said as he held on to the last paper towel from the case. “She still doesn’t have a headstone. I’m workin’ this second job so I can buy her one.”

When he told me the reason why he came to work ready to fall face down on the cold tile floor in exhaustion, it choked me up. I then put my hand on his shoulder and kept it there for a few seconds as I spoke to him.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” I told him. “I don’t know much in life, Mick, but I’m certain you make your mom proud every day, bud.”

He nodded his head and smiled at me.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” He said as he handed me the last paper towel from the case. “I would like to keep it between us.”

“Absolutely. You bet.” I said.

As we continued to work on the paper towel display, I lightened the mood and even asked him if he ever had a girlfriend before. When he told me “no”, I didn’t feel so bad about my dream not coming true as of yet. When he asked me not to tell anyone he didn’t have a girlfriend and to keep it between us, I told him I would—as long as he didn’t tell anyone I didn’t have one either. After we finished the display, I finally convinced him to take a nap upstairs and even covered him for two hours while he got some needed rest.

From that point forward, I asked Mark if he could assign Mick to work with me in the stockroom. I did the work of two people and needed the help, and he didn’t hesitate to grant my request. I then took Mick under my wing, and taught him all I knew. I gave him pointers on how best he could manage his time and what he could do to impress our boss. Every Friday night at eleven, Mick and I were responsible for unloading thirty plus cages of merchandise off a two-trailer truck. Our shifts would start at six and last until three in the morning. Before Mick was hired, only the night manager and I unloaded the truck each week, but the night manager had to also close the store. Since the store closed at ten, it usually took them until midnight to reconcile the daily cash with the report. Mr. Stokely wanted his managers to focus on the daily closing procedures and not be burdened with the late-night shipment. This usually left me as a one-man show until “Sweetie” was assigned to the team. On the first Friday night we worked together, a new manager, Samantha Brooks, was also assigned to work with us. After I warned Mick it would probably only be us pulling cages off the truck, his facial expression morphed into one of disappointment.

“Can I tell you somethin’, Land?” Mick asked as he motioned for me to follow him inside the stockroom.

“Sure, Mick.” I said reluctantly as I hoped he didn’t plan to quit on his first night. “What’s up?”

He then continued to lure me deeper into the stockroom until he stopped behind at least fifteen cases of Bounty paper towels and well obscured from anyone’s view.

“Do you think anyone can hear us in here?” He whispered to me.

“I don’t think anyone can find us in here.” I whispered back. “Are you okay?”

“I have feelins’ for Samantha.” He confided.

“You do? Really?” I blurted loudly as I tried to hold in my laughter. “Are you sure?”

“Landyn! Shhh!” He loudly whispered to scold me. “Of course, I’m sure—she’s beautiful.”

I didn’t want to minimize his feelings for her, but if they were both Disney characters, Samantha was Maleficent, and Mick was Bambi. Not to mention, she was also built and roared like a diesel truck while Mick was constructed and purred like a VW bug. Mick’s feelings for her caught me by complete surprise simply because they couldn’t have been more different from each other. I tried not to laugh, but when I imagined the bedroom scene—Samantha with a whip in her hand as Mick emerged from the closet with a ball in his mouth, I almost lost it.

“How long have you liked her?” I asked.

“Since the moment I laid eyes on her.” He said as his eyes trailed off to somewhere behind me.

“So…for about three days then?” I calculated as I looked behind me to see where his eyes went.

“Pretty much.” He said as I turned to face him, his eyes back on me.

“Do you think about her a lot?” I asked.

“I often do.” He replied. “Pretty much all day long.”

“Seriously? All day long?”

“Landyn! Shhh!” He said as he shook his head with his eyes closed. “Yes, I’m dead serious.”

“So, over the last seventy-two hours all you’ve thought about…is Samantha?” I whispered.

“Yes. I think I’m in love with her.” He whispered back as once again his eyes drifted off behind and above me.

“You what?! You love her?!” I partially whispered.

“Yes.” He said as his eyes returned to me again. “She’s the woman of my dreams.”

“Samantha.” I sternly whispered.

“Uh-huh.” He replied.

“Samantha?” I whispered again.

“That’s right.”

“The Samantha out there?” I said, pointing to outside the stockroom.

“Yes, Landyn. The Samantha we work with.” He said as his eyes then trailed off behind me into space yet again. “I love her very much.”

“Hey, Mick. Over here, buddy.” I whispered as I snapped my fingers.

“Huh? Oh, sorry.” He said as he returned back to earth from the cloud that hovered above and behind us somewhere in the stockroom.

The oddity of their pairing overwhelmed me when I considered that the “man” in Samantha provided a clue into who would rule the relationship. Sweetie would want to court her, but I knew the resistance he faced with Ms. Brooks. I then got myself together and tried to put myself in his shoes. I had no right to judge what made him happy or who he had feelings for. I just believed he could do better than her, and I was certain she would put him through the ringer. The very moment Sweetie called her “Sweetie”; she would chew his heart up and spit it out. Although I wanted to steer him away from her, the look in his eyes told me he didn’t tell me these things for my opinion.

I blamed Mick’s feelings for Samantha on myself. Friday nights was usually a tough night for me to work on—a night usually spent with friends. I had to work on the weekends though so I could attend my classes on the weekdays—to earn my degree the quickest way possible. I also worked full-time to retain my medical benefits and make enough money to escape my father’s regime. At twenty-five, I expected to be in love and building a life with someone. I felt that each Friday night I worked, I missed out on a chance to find that. How I lost a potential soulmate every Friday night I spent at work—to someone who probably didn’t deserve her. As those lonely Friday nights left me distressed, I opened up to Mick about it. In turn, he confided in me about how much he wanted to meet someone too. I then shared with him the bands I liked to listen to on these nights at work on my portable Walkman CD player. I leaned on the music of Boston, Journey, REO Speedwagon, Air Supply, Def Leppard, and The Scorpions to help get me through the lonely nights. When I learned Mick enjoyed them as well, we brought in our CD’s to share that helped us work through the early Saturday morning. No matter what I thought of Mick’s feelings for Samantha, I was certain of one thing—he felt the same thing I did each time I had a crush. It was a rare feeling and I loved the way that felt too much to take it away from him—especially when a dream was all I had too.

“Okay Mick. What are you gonna do about this?” I asked.

“Well…I was hopin’ you could…you know, kinda help me out?”

‘Help you out? You don’t need my help. This is your show, Mick!” I said as I patted him on the back. “Just put on your “Sweetie” charm, and see how she responds.”

“I’m too embarrassed to talk to her.” He said as his eyes fell to the floor. “I was hopin’ maybe you could kinda get us together some way.”

“I’m not sure if I could ever do that though, Mick. She has free will.” I told him. “Do you want her to know how you feel? Is that what you meant? I can help you with that, but do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Yes. I want her to know. She’s my dream girl.”

“But you want me to communicate that to her?”

“I was hopin’.” He said as he brought his eyes back up to me.

It sounded like he had given this some real consideration, and he even gave me a role in it. Although I lacked even a common person’s expertise in match making, he clearly counted on me to come through for him.

“I don’t know if I can get you guys together. It takes two to tango, ya know.” I said “But I may be able to make her aware that you like her.”

“That’s all I need, Landyn!” He responded with excitement. “It’ll mean the world to me!”

“Alright then, let me think of somethin’.” I said without a clue how to accomplish the feat. “How soon do you want her to know how you feel about her?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I repeated in disbelief. “Sweetie, you’re killin’ me.”

“But I can’t take it anymore, Land. It’s drivin’ me craaaazy!” He exclaimed. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t even do number two.”

“You can’t eat, sleep, or do number two?” I asked as I tried not to laugh. “You don’t sleep as is… and you’re ready to blow too?”

“Land, please keep it down. I’m really embarrassed. I got it really bad.” He scolded me and whispered again. “I’m lovesick.”

“Okay, alright. We’ll have you poopin’ again in no time, bud.” I said with a smile. “Now, listen. When you’re sweeping the store tonight, stop off at aisle two and pick out a good cologne from the free samples. Splash a little on you, then come see me. Got it?”

“Stop off at aisle two and pick out a good cologne.” He said as he nodded in agreement with himself. “I can do that.”

“There’s like twenty colognes to choose from over there, but make sure you pick a good one.” I said. “Then come see me—I got an idea.”

Mick excitedly nodded and patted me on the back. The store now carried Obsession, Drakkar, and Polo Sport—all fairly popular colognes back in 1992. I then walked out into the general store area and noticed him weaving quickly in and out of aisles with a long dust broom in his hands. I wasn’t sure if the floor was actually being swept at all, but Mick had a bigger fish to fry on this night. I stood on the lookout for Samantha to enter the office, which was right outside the stock room. Fifteen minutes before the store closed, I saw Samantha enter the office to start her nightly closing procedures. I immediately ran over to Mick to let him know it was time to head over to aisle two and to meet me in the stockroom afterwards. When he appeared at our rendezvous point five minutes later, the smell from his cologne of choice slapped me in the face.

“Uh…Mick?” I said as we met at our spot in the stockroom—the same one we met at a half hour earlier.

“Yes?”

“Um…did you use the whole bottle?” I asked.

“No. There’s still plenty left—see?” he stated as he put the half-used bottle up to my face. “I like the way it smells so I’m gonna buy it.”

“I told you just a splash—not to douse yourself with it.”

“It is a good cologne though.” He whispered as he closed his eyes again. “I just needed to put a little more on to make sure I smelled good—I’ve been fartin’ all day too.”

“Sure, that makes a lot of sense. Oh hold on, I just got a call—let me take it really quick.” I told him as I brought my cell phone from out of my smock’s pocket and put it to my ear. “Hold on just a second. Hello? Who is this? What do ya want? Oh…you wanna talk to Mick Jones? Hold on.”

“Who is it?” He asked. “Is it Samantha?”

“No…it’s someone from Old Spice.” I told him as I covered the phone. “They’re looking for a new spokesperson.”

“Really…it’s for me? What’s Old Spice?” He asked.

“It’s that good cologne you drenched yourself in.” I said as I put the phone back in my pocket. “Didn’t you see any Jovan Musk or Brut by Faberge over there?”

“Old Spice is a good cologne! You even get a gift with it!” He told me as excitement filled his eyes when he showed me the miniature ceramic lighthouse with a clock in the middle of it. “Those other colognes can’t be any good—they don’t give you anything.”

“Oh, well…I guess you learn something new every day.” I resigned. “Okay, Samantha is in the office by herself right now. Go up there and see if she needs you to do anything else, but you’re only goin’ up there to do one thing.”

“To have sex with her.” He stated as he tried to finish my instructions.

“You wanna have sex with her when you have a three-day poop lodged in you?” I asked.

“You’re right.” He said. “It’s best to save that for another time—like tomorrow.”

“Mick, you’re getting way too far ahead of yourself here. This is a lot like baseball—you have to step inside the batter’s box first before you can slide into home, okay? You’re only goin’ up there to make small talk with her.” I instructed. “That’s your mission—just to start a simple conversation.”

“Small talk? Like what?” he asked as he farted. “Whoops—sorry, Land.”

“Like…you know, ask her some questions about herself. Somethin’ like do you have any big weekend plans? How’s your son? Did you play the lotto? It’s up to three million dollars—that sort of thing. Keep it light but fun.” I instructed as I held my breath at the same time and waved away the foul odor he produced. “Whoa—need a second here. My GOD Mick, that was awful. I think my eyes are watering. Okay, where was I? Oh, don’t talk about yourself unless she asks you a question—make it all about her. Pay her a compliment of some kind. Tell her that her hair looks pretty when it’s greased up that way. You like the way her green smock matches her eyes. You know…somethin’ that makes her feel good about herself. You want her to associate you with good feelings so when she sees you, she’ll want to talk to you because you make her feel good about herself. Can you do that?”

“Should I ask her out?”

“No—not yet. We’ve gotta ease into this.” I advised. “You need to make her feel good about herself first. Then when you ask her out, she’ll be more likely to say yes because you make her feel happy.”

“I think I got it!” He exclaimed.

“Okay, but let’s practice really quick.” I said. “Pretend I’m Samantha—pay me a compliment.”

“Ummm…Hi Samantha, your greasy hair looks really pretty tonight.” He said to me.

“Uh, you know what—my bad.” I told him as I recognized my error. “I think it’s better to leave out the greasy part and just say her hair looks pretty.”

“But you said her greasy hair looked pretty though.”

“I think I gave you an example of what I would say to her.” I said.

“So…you think her greasy hair looks pretty, too?”

“Uh…sure it does—sometimes, but I’m not interested in dating her, Sweetie—you are.” I said as I tried to change the person of emphasis. “It’s time to get up there! Position yourself so you can see me through the office door’s window—I’ll be standin’ and listening in from right outside the office door. I’ll give you a thumbs up sign when you say somethin’ good. If I don’t give you a thumbs up sign—think of somethin’ else to say. Remember to keep it light and fun. Basically, be the “Sweetie” everyone loves. Just be yourself! You can you do that, right?”

“Better than anyone!” He exclaimed.

“I sure hope so. Okay, try to air yourself out before you go in there, and whatever you do—don’t let one loose.” I advised one last time. “Hurry up before she leaves to lock up the store. You have about ten minutes.”

“How do I look?” He asked as he pressed down the brown curls that hung over his forehead.

“Great! Hurry!” I said as I nudged him toward the office door. “I’ll be right outside.”

He looked like he was on the back end of back to back eight-hour shifts, but he wanted her to know how he felt “tonight”. He had come this far and there was no turning back now. If she responded negatively, I could at least steer him away to protect his heart. If she responded positively, then we could work on the next step—a date. I watched him from a corner obscured from Samantha’s view, just outside the office door. After he entered, he positioned himself so I could see him through the door’s window as he hovered directly behind her. He then glanced back at me for security, and I flashed him my right thumb to acknowledge he was in my view. I stood there in great anticipation of what he planned to do, but after a minute passed and then another, I still hadn’t heard a single sound from either of them. At the three-minute mark, I saw movement when Samantha slowly turned her head to peer backwards—with the kind of facial expression people made when they smelled someone’s flatulence. A minute later, things took a turn for the worst—she started to choke as Mick’s Old Spice now attacked her ability to breathe. After it became apparent they had the same number of things to say to each other that two mannequins did, I then changed from an encouraging friend to a home plate umpire. When I used my thumb accordingly, to let Mick know to get out of there, he then blew me off and put his hand on her shoulder instead. Then, after a six-minute performance that would leave a mime envious, he decided to finally speak to her, but through the store’s intercom.

“I…I…I love you!” He announced as his voice echoed throughout the entire store.

After those words were said, I saw through the large security mirror, the store’s remaining customers peer up into the heavens, and then hightailed it back into the stockroom. Samantha knew Mick and I often worked together, and if she saw me near the office, she would only accuse me of a scheme I couldn’t have drawn up even in my wildest imagination. As I waited it out near our prior sanctuary, Mick soon appeared.

“I did it!” Mick proudly exclaimed as he put his hands in the air like Rocky Balboa.

“You did? How’d you do it?” I played along.

“Well, I kept it light and simple—just like you said to.” He responded. “And she knows how I feel now.”

“Well, now that even your next-door neighbor knows how you feel—can I ask why you told a girl, who you’ve never gone out on a single date with, that you love her?” I asked as I tried to reason with him. “Were you gonna ask her to marry you, too?”

“Should I have?” He asked with genuine concern. “I only let her know my true feelins’, Landyn. Was that so wrong?”

In his own way, he did keep it light and simple by not saying anything but “I love you.” While his announcement to not only Samantha but also everyone within earshot was a bad call, it came with an innocent heart. Mick was as noble as any literary character ever imagined, but his goodness went unappreciated in the real world. Any such profession of affection from the wild hearted would only be judged and feared—never perceived as a respected act of honor to be revered. The music of Air Supply, REO Speedwagon, and Journey only let the dreamers of love like Mick, a genuine guy in a world of counterfeit people, down. I even felt complicit as I sent him off into this world, knowing full well of its rash judgments. All for the price of being true to himself and taking on the world the same way I did. I only knew what he told Samantha ruined his chances because it’s what the world told me.

Some people claimed to wear their heart on their sleeve, but Mick truly did. He put it all on the line with Samantha simply because he refused to live a dishonest life. He couldn’t lie to someone he cared about and thought he would be rewarded, and not judged for it. Mick didn’t want to conform to societal tendencies though—it’s why he ignored me and went his own way. He also didn’t believe the road to true love should require tactics of any kind. He adhered to a policy that simply stated “Here is my heart, I care about you enough to not play games with you—we are adults. Sure, it might make things less exciting, but if you think our relationship will bore you all because I knew time was promised to no one and I wanted to maximize the time I spent on this Earth with you before I left it, then maybe you’re not the one for me.” Of course, I was certain he was unaware of my rationalization for his actions, but how else can one rationalize love at first sight? Mick only needed me for one reason—to help him make sense of his feelings. It’s the only reason why he wanted Samantha to know how he felt—so he could make sense of them. Regardless of what I advised him to do, he was going to follow his heart anyway, and when he got on the intercom, he declared his independence.

“Did it feel right to you, Mick?” I asked.

“Everything did.” He told me with his eyes directly in mine.

“That’s all that matters.” I smiled.

“Thanks, Land.” He said as he started to run away from me. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where ya goin’?” I asked.

“I gotta go to the bathroom.” He yelled back at me.

“Ah, Mick!” I yelled as I fought to wave away another foul odor mixed in with the Old Spice he wore.

As he released himself in a way I didn’t really need to know about, I thought of ways to minimize the damage his honesty caused. I knew Samantha planned to rip his heart out all because he chose to put his on the line, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. When I noticed she was still in the office, I paid her a visit to see if there was a way to salvage any chance he had left. After I unintentionally slammed the office door upon entering, she immediately turned around.

“Sorry about that.” I said as she scowled at me. “The handle slipped right off my hand.”

“You scared the crap outta me—I thought it was Sweetie again.” She said as she pointed her finger at the top of the safe. “Can you hand me that, please?”

“Sure.” I said as I grabbed the green cash bag and handed it to her. “So…what’s shakin’?”

“What do ya mean?” She asked.

“I heard a little birdie chirpin’ a few minutes ago. It sounds like you have a person in your life who thinks you’re pretty special.”

“Who? Sweetie?” She asked. “And that was no little birdie—more like a Jackass.”

“I’m not gonna ask you how you know what a jackass sounds like, but I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him to tell you, or everyone else, how he feels. I’m certain he’s a little embarrassed about it all, especially if he couldn’t tell you directly how he felt.”

“The little pecker was right here and didn’t say a word about his feelings but yelled it in my intercom instead?” She said. “Now you know what a jackass sounds like.”

“Why don’t you go out on a date with him, Samantha?” I asked. “What have ya got to lose? I bet you’d have a lot of fun!”

“No way.” She coldly replied. “I’m not datin’, Sweetie.”

“Why not? He’s a great guy, Samantha.” I countered. “He’s a hard worker. Has a good attitude. Would move heaven and earth for you. He’s responsible—the little pecker even works two jobs! He has integrity and character. Hey, he might even have a big pecker! Who knows what you’ll find…out? What’s there not to like about him?”

She then swiveled her chair to face me, but before she could say anything negative about him, I cut her off.

“Okay, we both know he’s not perfect.” I said. “But who is?”

“Alright I’ll tell ya what—I’ll go out on a date with him.” She said.

“You will? Really!” I said with excitement. “I mean…that’s great. I’ll have to check with Mick, of course. I kinda did this behind his back, but I’m sure he’d love to go out on a date with you.”

“I’ll go out with him.” She stated. “But on one condition.”

“One condition? Uh…what condition is that?” I reluctantly asked.

“If you can change your shift tomorrow.” She countered.

“You want me to swap out my eleven to eight shift?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“For what time?”

“For a six to three.”

“Well, I had plans tomorrow night with my friends, Samantha.” I said. “We’re goin’ to the Metallica-Guns n’ Roses concert at the Rose Bowl. We already have tickets and I got Mark’s approval two months ago to leave early tomorrow night—at five. I’m leavin’ straight from here to the concert. I promised Mark I’d make up the hours on Sunday.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I think you misunderstood me.” She said.

“Oh? How so?”

“Six in the morning to three in the afternoon.” She clarified,

“What?” I said as I shook my head at her. “That’s not fair—you know I get off at three. Factor in my drive and I’d have to be back here in two hours. That’s impossible!”

“Exactly!” she laughed as she swiveled her chair back around to work on her paperwork.

The nerve of her, I thought. A date with Samantha would have made Sweetie’s lifetime, and given him so much hope. I was already working on little sleep as it was and had two finals during the week—the reason why Samantha made the offer in the first place. Where Mick once stood minutes earlier, I now stood there paralyzed, unable to think of a response—just like a mannequin.

“You still here?” She sarcastically observed as she turned her head around.

“Okay, you’re on.” I said. “If I do this, you can’t change your mind.”

“You can’t be a second late.” She stated. “If you’re a second late—no date.”

“I’ll be here.” I exclaimed.

I then stormed out of the office, and marched right over to Mick as he readied the stockroom for the night’s shipment.

“Here’s the deal.” I said. “That thing up there told me she’ll go out on a date with you.”

“She will?” He chirped excitedly. “She loves me too!”

“Why wouldn’t she?” I said, annoyed by Samantha’s challenge. “Here’s the catch though. I have to be back here at six—otherwise, the date won’t happen. I can’t even be a second late.”

“But Land, you’re always late.” He asked as his eyes hit the floor. “How are ya gonna be able to…”

“Hey, I’m not always late, ya know!” I cut him off as I patted him on the back. “Chin up!”

“I know, but don’t you have a long drive here?” He asked as I watched Samantha exit the office to approach us.

“I’ll find a way.” I told him when Samantha stood next to us. “If I were you, and since she’s right here—ask her where she’d like to go.”

As Samantha glared at me at the same time Mick’s smile widened, I winked at her when I walked past them to use the restroom. As we unloaded the truck that night, he thanked me several times with a smile that never vacated his face. When I left the store at a little after three in the morning, I did something I hadn’t done in at least ten years at the time—I prayed to God I’d make it on time.

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