Write from a motive: Finding a message

Question

Background: I thought of this one the day before midnightpoet posted her "Fill in the plot" challenge. I was about to post it the next morning, but then I saw hers and I thought I'd save it for later, because they had a similar idea. Then I thought I'd use it one day if I get the pen passed to me in that series. And now, it's been 2 weeks since the pen was passed and the series hasn't been continued yet. So, until catlin comes back, I thought I'd give you guys something to do.

Actual challenge: Write a story around this piece of information: There is a message scribbled in a public place, such as a school desk, the wall of a public toilet, a bench on a trains station or anything similar that works in your story. The message says "This number is not for you, it's for th other girl" and underneath the text is a telephone number. The story is about the person who reads the message and what happens next. 

Word limit: There is none.

Deadline: 2 weeks (Sunday, Spetember 4th), if there are at least 2 replies by then.

Comments

Talk about bad timing - "Fill in the plot" was just continued. Ah well, hope you enjoy both of them.

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Whoops, I thought the deadline was this Sunday. Sorry folks, I'll do it right now.

Answer 1

What a bizarre day this has been. There's not a bit of anything superstitious about me. I don't believe in Karma or "vibes" or fate... or whatever you want to call it. If it's not observable, quantifiable, falsifiable, I don't believe it. I just don't. But I have to admit - today's been weird.

I got off to a bit of a late start this morning. Gulped down my coffee, ran for the bus - missed it anyway. Well, such is life. The upside is that there's a Starbuck's right at the bus stop. So, of course, today became a two coffee morning. That helped the twenty minute wait go by a bit more pleasantly, but by the time the bus arrived, I was beginning to think that maybe I should have used the Starbuck's washroom while I'd had the chance. Now I was going to have to make a pitstop at the public restroom in the subway station. Not a pleasant thought, but that's what I get for not thinking ahead.

By the time I reached the transfer to the subway my need was becoming fairly urgent and I made a beeline for the "facilities". It was even more distasteful than I remembered. Did they EVER actually clean this place? Apart from the vaguely foul odour emanating from the drains and the cracked and seeping tiles, every flat surface was covered with graffiti. Along with the predictable lewd remarks and improbable anatomical illustrations were a variety of phone numbers, odd little bits of poetry and one fairly long philosophical treatise on the true meaning of home. Well, at least I'd have something to read while I did my business.

As I sat down, trying very hard not to think about who else had been sitting there in the recent past, a tiny little bit of graffiti caught my eye. It wasn't much, but the script was beautiful and the ink, while not quite fluorescent, was oddly luminous. It read "This number is not for you, it's for the other girl" with a local phone number underneath. "Right," I thought, "it's always about 'the other girl', isn't it?" I immediately put it from my mind and ran to catch my train.

By the time I arrived at work, the office was buzzing with activity. I'd forgotten about the photos they were planning to take for a promotional campaign some nitwit had dreamed up. They wanted an "authentic" feel, so they'd decided to use actual office staff for the pictures rather than just hiring models. Really, seriously, did they think we had nothing better to do with our time? I got to work as best I could amidst the mayhem, safe in the knowledge that they weren't going to want ME in their images. Hardly the happy staffer, I was just a dowdy, middle aged clerk. So I really wasn't expecting it when the photographer pointed at me and said "No, I want the other girl. That one." My stomach gave a bit of a flutter. Me? The other girl? I'm not the other girl. He must have misread my expression because he was immediately apologetic and conciliatory, assuring me that he hadn't meant any disrespect. I told him not to worry about it, I'd just been startled, that was all. But it was more than that.

After the photos were done, I took a break and went out to the courtyard for a smoke, reminding myself that coincidence happens. Just coincidence, nothing more. But that tiny little bit of graffiti kept working it's way back into my thoughts.

Once the advertising crew had gone the office got back to normal and I managed to get almost caught up on my work. I had a lunch engagement that I wasn't really looking forward to with some old friends from high school and I considered canceling, but ended up going anyway. Why had I made this lunch date anyway? I couldn't quite remember, but I must have had some good reason, even though they were bound to be depressingly cheerful. Julie and Karen. They'd been my best friends. We'd been inseparable, but now it had been almost five years since we'd seen each other.

The restaurant was crowded, but thankfully Karen had thought to make reservations. We sat in a cozy little booth and toasted the past with our bottles of Perrier. Julie had brought yearbooks and as we pored over them I couldn't help but notice the joy that radiated from all of our pictures. Life had been good back then. We'd been so happy. Looking at Julie and Karen, I could still see that joy in them, and I wondered how they'd managed to hold on to it. It had been gone from my life for a very long time.

Julie flipped to a picture of the varsity team and there was Kent. I'd loved him so much, but not in a boy-girl kind of way. He was like the brother I never had. We'd cried on each other's shoulders when our current love interests had gone sour and provided invaluable insights into the mysterious minds of the opposite sex. I'd cried for days when he was killed in a boating accident the summer after we graduated. As I looked at his picture, I remembered how he'd signed my yearbook. "You'll always be my other girl." His other girl... the other girl. The flutter from this morning came back with a sudden stab, only now instead of butterflies, it was something bigger and more insistent trying to make itself known.

We'd all finished eating anyway, so I made my excuses and headed back for work. I have to admit I was less than productive through the afternoon. I couldn't manage to get that tiny bit of graffiti out of my mind. "I'm NOT 'the other girl'," I kept telling myself. "I'M  NOT!!" Eventually I just gave up and left early pleading a headache.

What I really needed, I thought, was a drink. Something stiff and strong and not at all like the coolers and white wine I had at home. I found myself walking past the subway station and into the bar a block further along. This was SO not like me, but I sat down at the bar anyway and ordered a double shot of bourbon. Vile stuff. Almost undrinkable, but I tossed it back anyway and ordered another. As I sat nursing the second drink I felt someone come up and stand just behind me. Oh rats! Some creep sees a woman drinking alone and takes that as an invitation. Well, I'm not interested. Don't look, turn away... don't try to talk to me...

"Marie?" The voice was soft and sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Marie? It's Ted, remember me?"

Ted? My heart gave a little leap. Ted? I turned to look and there he was. Same infectious grin, a little less hair, but still a looker. Twenty years since we'd last seen each other but with a huge hug the time just dropped away. We'd been together for almost two years in college but had eventually gone our own ways. We'd loved spending time together but just didn't want the same things from life. It had been one of those rare instances where "We can still be friends" had actually worked.

We sat and talked for hours, remembering the highlights of our time together then catching up on where our lives had taken us since then. We'd both ended up where we'd said we wanted to be, but somehow he'd ended up happy and I hadn't. Every time I opened my mouth I heard myself saying something sad or depressing or bitter. Eventually the conversation just died out and we sat in silence.

After a time, Ted looked up and asked simply "What happened? What happened to the girl who loved life and could find the silver lining in any cloud?Where's the girl I used to know? Where's the other girl?"

This time the flutter in my stomach was more of a lurch and the butterflies had become a swarm of hornets demanding attention. I ran from the bar straight to the subway. I had to get back to that nasty, smelly graffiti laden hole in the wall restroom. Someone had left a message for me, or rather, for the me I used to be, for the self I had lost so many years ago. The other me. I knew it for a fact and somehow I also knew there was an urgency that justified me running out on Ted like that.

So here I am, back on the subway, but it's a different me than the one who got on this morning. Two more stops. I have to get that number. I'm not superstitious, really I'm not, but it's for me, I know it is.

The train finally screeches to a halt and I'm waiting at the door with a sense of joy that I haven't felt in a long time. But it's too late. I know it as soon as the doors open. I can smell it. Fresh paint. After so long, why now? I'm going to cry. I know it. At least the bathroom stall will provide a bit if privacy. The door is propped open and although the same foul odours and cracked tiles are still there, every surface is gleaming white and unmarked. As I sit there in the bathroom stall with the fresh white door to hide me from the world, I let out my grief in great sobs. Grief for the self I have lost, for the opportunity I didn't recognize, for the fact that I'll never know who left a message of hope for the other Marie.

As I sit there, wallowing in self pity, something catches my eye. It's small, tiny really, and it would be an overstatement to say that I actually "see" it against the white. It's barely visible and not quite fluorescent, but oddly luminous. A number...

Comments

Oh, I like this, Kismet! Great job. =)

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I loved this. You took the motive to such depths and gave it a whole new meaning that never even occurred to me. It was a great and inspirational story and the writing was impeccable. Bravo!

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Thanks! :-)

Answer 2

Morgan sat down in one of the chairs gingerly in an effort to avoid making unnecessary contact with any part of the bus station. She looked down the wall of chairs to her left and was thankful that the only other person was also a young woman, much like herself. The walls and floor of the station were dirty and Morgan tried not to think about the smell. Some genius had scrawled a messy picture of who knows what on the floor at Morgan’s feet. Morgan moved her gaze from the floor and bent around to see the wall behind her.

This number is not for you, it’s for the other girl

555-3847

Morgan stared at the wall. She looked over at “the other girl” with renewed interest. Did this girl know that she was the subject of someone’s messy vandalism? “Hey,” Morgan called without thinking.

“Um, yes?” the girl looked over.

Morgan paused for a second, “it’s gross in here, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I wish I had taken a plane instead!”

“Me too!”

“You’re on the next bus? To Vegas?”

“Yes,” Morgan said, effectively closing the conversation by looking away.

How was the writer supposed to know who was the original reader and who was “the other girl”? Maybe if she just phoned herself, claiming to be the… no. What if the person had a camera, or some sort of other surveillance, hidden here, making sure she informed the other girl of the message with the mysterious number? What were the chances of that?

Morgan shook her head in frustration at her own cowardice. Just phone the damn number already! she told herself, pulling out her Blackberry.

*     *     *     *     *

Simone was disappointed with herself. How had that conversation gone so downhill so fast? It must have been her fault. The other girl seemed quite nice, even starting the conversation with Simone of her own initiative. Simone cursed her nosiness, asking where the other was headed! How inappropriate. And now the girl was on the phone, probably calling some friend of hers to gossip about the rude girl in the bus station… or the police, informing them of a public menace.

Simone’s head swam with possibilities as she watched the girl on the phone. Her face had gone from excited to pale and ashen in seconds. Simone looked away. She was exceeding her boundaries again. If the girl had taken offence to Simone’s innocent question, she would hate to think that Simone was watching and perhaps listening to her private phone conversation.

“NO! NO! NO! I’M SORRY! PLEASE, NO!” the girl yelled, interrupting Simone’s thoughts.

The words sent shivers straight down Simone’s spine. The girl continued screaming, but Simone didn’t look over at the other girl, afraid of what she might see. Her eyes stayed trained on the wall across the station, directly in front of her until she heard what she imagined was a bang.

Simone cautiously looked over to see the woman running from the station, screaming nonsense.

“NO! NO! NOT THEM PLEASE! I PROMISE TO…” the girl ran out of earshot.

Simone ran to follow but was stopped when she saw a small fire on the ground. She picked up the burning Blackberry and after a moment the fire went out and it crumbled in her hand.

Comments

I like how you made it an even bigger mystery than it was. I almost wish this was a continue-the-story type of challenge.

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Thanks Spots! That would be a good challenge. Where everyone continues the story. haha, maybe next time!

Answer 3

I walked through the restaurant sarcastically singing the country song, “Did I Shave My Legs for This?” It might sound like I was on some date that turned out to be pathetic, but that was not the case- I work at the restaurant. I wait tables, and I take pride in doing that better than anyone else employed there.

My friend ,Alex, and I walked past the tables that night flirtatiously tossing our hips to and fro in attempts to garner a little more attention and hopefully a few more dollars in tips. We were getting a lot of attention and the tips were rolling in.

Our boss was in a particularly good mood that night. He turned us loose to dance and act provocatively around the customers….which went over quite well. Alex and I could have written a book on how not to pick up a girl after only a few hours of work.

As we would pass by one another, we would share another lame pick up line we had just heard from the patrons. Neither of us had ever gotten so much attention from the guys. Perhaps they were all inebriated. Perhaps it was the fact that the lights were turned down lower. Perhaps it was…never mind- I was hott! I would definitely have dated me.

Anyway, table 207 had 7 guys packed around a table big enough for about 4, and I had their attention. I would use my most sensual voice, my sexiest walk, and would bat my eyes seductively as I interacted with them.

“Are those real,” one guy asked me as I placed the salt and pepper shakers on the table.

I replied, “Of course, Sweetie,” and poured some salt out on the table. “Look, see the salt. They’re real alright.”

The guys erupted in laughter and began to give the poor fellow grief. I walked away in full strut and laughed to myself, knowing I would have been in shock had someone just done that to me.

It was nearing time to close the restaurant and the manager announced last call. I walked by the table and saw that there was handwriting on the cup in front of one of the men. The cup had a phone number scribbled on it and something else written beneath it.

The writer of the note handed me the cup and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Baby, you look good and all, but you are built a little too strong. I like ‘em fragile…like her. That’s my number on that cup. The note on it is to you. Your name is Jessie…isn’t it?”

I smiled and said, “It sure is.”

I walked over beside Alex and said, “Oh my gosh. This dude just handed me a cup with a note on it.”

Alex died laughing and whispered, “Uh-oh, looks like you got it going on,” and started giggling.

I said, “Read the cup.”

Alex looked down and read:

Jessie,

My number is 555-7439. You’re hot and all, but this letter is for the other girl…the brunette.

Alex passed out on the floor. As Alex hit the floor, the manager turned the lights on. The man who was so infatuated with Alex ran over and saw his beautiful server lying on the floor. He grabbed the back of Alex’s head to try to free up an airway, but his grip was a little too strong and he pulled off Alex’s wig….and found out that Alex is a man.

Oh, the ridicule that guy got from his friends when they saw what had transpired. I laughed too as I pulled off my wig and tried to rub lipstick off my lips.

The angry man walked over and punched me right between the eyes. Alex and I were both revived at about the same time by the medical crew that came to transport us. It was the best Halloween ever…concussion and all!

Comments

hahahahahahahaha! Oh my goodness, that was hilarious! haha! I loved it, 7dutch7!
The only thing I have to criticize is that when you say there is handwriting on the cup, it confused me. Maybe specify that it is a plastic cup (or styrofoam, whatever you were going for) because I was wondering how a person would write on a cup. This is just my own opinion, though.

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I agree that it was funny and a nice twist at the very end. I didn't mind the handwriting bit at all, but there are a couple of comments:
1. The ellipsis in this sentence "He turned us loose to dance and act provocatively around the customers….which went over quite well." didn't quite work for me. Although, I think I know why you put it there and I guess it got the right tone across. I'm not saying you should remove it, just giving feedback as one of the readers.
2. There was quite a long intro. I didn't put a word limit, but I think this story would benefit from one that would force you to edit it down. Basically what I'm saying is, I've seen you write great and this was average.
3. There were a couple of typos, mostly around punctuation, but no big deal.
All in all, I like the idea, but I think you can do better.