Where What Fits
I told you I was treble.... an exercise in fiction
Pt. 1 Summer
Gretchen could never make herself stop brushing her teeth. She always had to be told, by a well-meaning loved one. In childhood, her sister Kate took responsibility. In college her roommate and close friend Ashleigh took responsibility. When Gretchen was married, her husband John was always telling her to stop brushing. “You’ve been at it for almost twenty minutes! Don’t you think your teeth are clean enough?” And Gretchen would usually say, “Oh, I wasn’t paying attention.” And she would rinse and drink water and head for the bed.
Gretchen was a creator of collages. She also had an affinity for an infinity of craft magazines and origami. One day in July, Gretchen was invited to spend the night with one of her friends on her friend’s parents’ property. Her friend Kristen’s parents had built their dream house on a corner lot. This corner of grass was surrounded not by streets, but by the cove of Lake Superior in Michigan. Across the cove she could see a small village with just a few restaurants, venues, and a pie shop. Every Thanksgiving the town would take their classic cars and get in line for the pies. Kristen couldn’t vouch for the quality of the pies (She had a good recipe), but everyone got one because it was the tradition.
While at this lovely house, Gretchen found a scrapbook her daughter had made for her mother. “Kiss the Cook,” it said. It had a bunch of photos of her mother in the kitchen cooking, and little anecdotal memories from family members about her mother’s best dishes or their favorite memories. It was a great concept with an even better result, and it even matched the blue curtains in the kitchen. As she lay in bed that night, Gretchen dreamed of sewing beautiful bags and oven mitts, painting, and designing clothing. She might start a sketchbook for these ideas.
Gretchen and Kristen met up with a group of friends the next day to eat at a local restaurant. They went thrifting in anticipation of a concert. Gretchen wore a light yellow graphic t-shirt, blue and white striped bell bottoms, and black sneakers (tennis shoes). Her friend Kristen wore a black and white skirt hitting a little below her calves. It had a subtle polka dot/paint smudge pattern. She also wore a graphic t, red and blank, with white booties (Ankle boots). She tied on a white and red polka dot headband.
At the vintage/thrift store where they shopped, Kristen asked, “Excuse me ma’am, hate to interrupt you. Do you have anything new?”
They all got a good chuckle out of that, but the clerk appreciated her manners and discussed ‘new arrivals’ from an estate sale. Most of the options had a 50’s or mid century modern vibe fashion-wise.
Holding up a mustard yellow floral vintage dress, Kristen smirked, “I told you I was treble!”
Gretchen without missing a beat responded, “Note-torious.”
Before the concert they baked a strawberry basil pie. Kristen had her ipad on a cookbook stand as she cut butter into the pastry flour. “Thank you for ironing out the details Gretchen! I’m sorry I didn’t do that first!” They smiled, because “investing” in a brand new ironing board cover was something they joked about when they first moved out. Sewing one might be the answer…
They were seeing what was basically a Beatles cover band with a few radio hits. They kept the lyrics happy and upbeat and strayed from vulgar content or word choice. The opener was a younger Bob Dylan- Bob Marley- James Taylor Mash-up. The theme and motif of the music that night was “Wear What Fits.” Exhausted after dancing her heart out to a quick beat, Gretchen fell asleep with a grin on her face.
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Pt. 2 Winter, a few years later
Gretchen, once bundled, began to walk the cozy streets of her neighborhood. She had wanted to explore since moving, but she was waiting for a milder day. Lights for the upcoming holidays sparkled in the streets. Snowflakes and Christmas trees shone from storefront windows. She saw miniature Santas and not-so-miniature Santas. One window display in particular caught her eye. A polar bear stuffed animal surrounded by sparkling blue snow accompanied the book “On the Night You Were Born.” The intricacy of the display, with its very real fake snow, paper snowflakes, twinkling fairy lights, and veritable recreation of the North Pole caught her fancy and she walked in the front door. What greeted her made her do a double take. She longed to linger, lose time and lose herself.
This was a bookstore, but it was not an ordinary one. Once past the breezeway with on-sale books in two adorable old wagons, she entered the main double doors. It was very large and spacious inside. There were two floors, set off by an extravagant red and green staircase set back in the middle of the back of the store. She immediately caught sight of at least seven uniquely decorated and well-lit Christmas trees, and she was sure there were more. Lights, garlands, and ribbons adorned every beam and awning. Intricate, rustic holiday displays overflowed with handmade gifts and decorations, some by the store’s own patrons.
She began to browse titles from used to new, taking in the various sections to see if anything caught her eye. She immediately spotted many of her favorite authors, backlist titles among hot new titles and recent releases, getting all the buzz from blogs and very recent podcast episodes she had heard. Dog treats sat next to adorable stickers on the front counter, and the lady sitting at the register caught Gretchen’s eye.
The clerk’s eyes widened with pleasure as a young man approached the desk. Her nametag said Miriam, and she had an oval face, brown hair, and a warm aura. The young man stated plainly, “I’m looking for a book for my brother-in-law. He’s a graphic designer with an interest in ornithology. He’s recently widowed, he’s an avid jogger, and he likes mysteries and cookbooks.” Miriam took him to a back table where she had “just the thing.”
Gretchen watched in fascination, stunned to hear of someone else who had experienced the death of a spouse. She stumbled into her favorite section, Memoir/Biography and lapped up the handpicked titles like a thirsty Golden Retriever. She picked up a book written by someone from Oregon. It said, “I miss the ocean breeze. Back home, you can hear the waves crashing. It’s quiet, but in a way that feels full, like the world is breathing with you.”
Her eye caught a lovely cafe in the back corner, and she realized a strong coffee would be the perfect thing right now. She passed several displays of local items- ornaments, pottery, magnets, and toys- as she approached to order a kettle of cinnamon spicy tea. She slipped on the brown sleeve with a drawing of a coffee cup and the word “Java,” charmed by the atmosphere and all the tiny details and touches that make sitting in this cafe something she planned to make a regular habit. It was roomy and quiet, with a few people ordering the occasional latte, but no one taking a table this early in the morning. The customers came and went, but she was relieved to have the place to herself. She peeked into some cookbooks, in search of a good recipe for dinner that night, hoping a recipe for Emerald salad would make her soul happy and knowing it would not.
A brief glimpse of a memory caught her off guard. The idyllic Christmas environment triggered an uncomfortable feeling. Having nothing to watch when she was going through the trials of grief, her friend would sometimes invite her over for a clean movie night, but among their few options were Happy-ending Hallmark romance movies that her friend picked out. She watched in painful grief at the bright scenes of Hawaii, people in love, witty repartee and cliche romantic situations. Looking back, it had been entirely inappropriate to her situation. She had buried this secret for several years, not knowing where to file it. Now it was coming to her in full force: her friend had been insensitive by wanting to watch those with her during that time. Watching these perfect fairy-tale like romances made her feel disconnected from her own reality, in a way that made her feel extremely pressured to just move on when she wasn’t ready. Gretchen forgave Natalie. Her bitterness was not aimed like an arrow in her friend’s direction, but that didn’t make the wound any less bitter.
The Adventures of Gretchen (untitled) will continue at a later date…
Until then, please go and read this post on The Substack post, The Future of Fiction.. to quote,
traditionally, fiction writers practice their craft by getting critiques from their peers in workshops. but sub stack offers an experience more akin to an open mic night at a stand-up comedy club. You can feel in real time whether your fiction is working- whether it’s landing with the audience you’ve built. And that response allows writers to adjust their stories accordingly, until they’ve found a style that’s both true to their voice and genuinely compelling for the reader.
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