The grey sedan ambled down the empty highway in mid-afternoon, sputtering occasionally; an old man in his last years, just thankful for every last breath.
Some say we’re born to be average.
It stayed in the right lane, steadfast, while the other cars passed - the blood-red Mustangs, the shiny BMWs, the Corvettes so low to the ground, you fear they may scrape.
Some say we choose the path to mediocrity.
The windows of the sedan were rolled down, done so by its occupants with the arduous cranks on the inside of the doors. It was the first day of the road trip down the West coast, it was June, it was 70 degrees, the sun sat in the sky like a timid visitor in a new home. John was driving, a steady 58 miles per hour. Emily was snoozing lightly in the passenger seat, her feet on the dashboard, her seat tilted back at a slight angle, her mouth open in an almost unattractive way. The two had been together since sophomore year of college - it was a stately romance, one created out of necessity and comfort. They married in the courthouse. They loved each other well enough.
Emily stirred in the cracked leather seat, then proceeded to open her eyes slightly and observe the road. She’d had a dream.
“John,” she mumbled, testing out consciousness, “Do you ever think about painting anymore?”
John appeared taken aback. The two rarely discussed his painting anymore, and when they did, it was in quick reference to an old painting. He had never been very talented, just dabbling in water color and making pictures that made Emily smile at his elementary efforts.
John did not voice this opinions, but instead, shrugged his narrow shoulders and muttered “Mmm...eh.”
Emily turned her dark grey eyes back to the passing road. They were in Northern California by now, the endless stretches of road through the mountains surrounding them without consequence. Emily let her eyes slowly glaze over as her mind wandered back to her younger days in California. She used to like chalk. She used to chalk up the streets of her neighborhood with stories - not word stories, per se, but stories made of rudimentary pictures, characters chalked onto the street. And as you drove along, you could see the stories play out in your headlights. Sometimes week-long stories. Each day the road was hosed over, the next chapter scrawled onto the pavement that was so hot, you could see the waves of heat clinging to the oxygen like a mirage.
In junior high and high school, these stories morphed from pictures into words and that was the only thing that really made Emily “someone.”
John turned on the radio to end the weighted silence that had ensued after Emily’s query. Emily hated his music. Emily lit a cigarette and puffed out the window, ignoring the elevator-like jazz coming from the static stereo. John cracked his knuckles on the steering wheel.
“Stop it,” Emily said.
“Sorry,” John said.
“You know I hate when you do that,” Emily said.
John sighed. The jazz played. Doo, doo, doo, doodoodoo, doo da da. Emily sighed.
As they emerged from the hills, dusk fell quickly and John began looking for a cheap motel. Emily had fallen asleep again, her faced smushed against the window, her mouth open again. John found a motel, parked, paid, woke Emily up. She held his hand as she walked groggily to their room, paint peeling from the door like an orange.
The two brushed their teeth separately and fell asleep at ten o’ clock sharp.
***
Emily woke in the morning to John’s light, steady shaking.
“Mmmf.”
The two got ready, Emily in dress clothes and John in casual clothes. Though John worked for a modest business in Vancouver, Emily had always bothered him to let her get a job as well. Now that she had an interview at a publishing company in San Francisco, John was debating relocating to California so Emily could have the job.
They were quiet on the rest of the ride down, Emily’s teeth chattering from nervousness and John thinking about moving. Emily began to crack her knuckles. John looked at her.
“I know, I know,” she replied sheepishly.
Eventually they arrived in the city. Emily’s dull eyes grew wide at the bustling sidewalks, the street performers, the buildings that scraped the sky. John, looking straight ahead, pulled up to the curb at the publishing company, gave Emily a quick kiss and wished her luck. She climbed out of the car, teetering on her heels like a newborn foal.
Her hand on the door handle, Emily took a shallow breath, put her hand on her heart, blinked slowly, walked in. The lobby seemed to tower before her, its gaping starkness mocking her intentions before she even entered the elevator.
Her head spun. “I can do this,” she thought to herself, “I’m a writer. I know this. No, no I don’t. I got my Bachelor’s in English. Everyone who’s no one gets their Bachelor’s in English. What am I doing? Where am I? My interviewer is going to eat me alive. Kill me and feast on my naive, amateur remains. I wonder if they even taste good. Probably not. Okay, step forward. Get on the elevator. Press floor 14. Ride all the way up.”
Meanwhile, John had stopped at a diner outside of the city for an early lunch. He sat alone with the newspaper. The approaching waitress was pretty with a fierceness he hadn’t ever seen, her red hair aflame, her green eyes brighter than Emily’s and prettier too.
“Morning,” he said casually.
“Well good morning there, sweetheart, anything I can get for you this morning? Coffee, pie? I’m off work already but I can take a table with a boy as handsome as you.” She grinned, her teeth slightly crooked in a way that made her almost more attractive than less.
As John ordered his food as nonchalantly as possible, Emily waited outside the office of Susan Mackay, editor-in-chief. The name plaque on the blurred glass door was intimidating as hell. She cracked her knuckles now, glad John wasn’t around to notice the hypocrisy.
Abruptly, Ms. Mackay opened the door, catching Emily in the middle of knuckle-cracking. Emily blanched, smoothed out her skirt, and stood to shake her hand.
At the diner, John had his food - a simple turkey sandwich and fries - but his waitress, off work and free to go, was sitting across from him with the same meal. Her name was Addie, she’d lived in this town forever, she “never ever ever ever” wanted to leave.
The country station was playing over the old speakers back by the kitchen.
“I love this song,” John gushed.
John had never heard the song in his life.
Addie let her foot touch his under the table.
“I love it too,” she smiled.
Emily nervously followed Ms. Mackay into the office and sat down in a polished leather chair.
“So Emma, tell me what experience you have in the field of publishing,” she said, peering over her glasses.
“It’s Emily,” Emily mumbled, almost imperceptibly. “And, well, I majored in English. I got several pieces published in my university literary journal...” She trailed off.
“No internships, no freelance jobs?” Ms. Mackay inquired warily.
Emily took a deep breath. It seemed the correct words weren’t there, but she could sure as hell try. “Listen, Ms. Mackay,” she started. “I’ve lived my life stuck. Stuck in the middle. And even if you offer me a job that’s at the very, very bottom I would be okay with it. I just can’t be nothing anymore. I need to get out of Vancouver, live in the city, and be somebody.”
John and Addie had eventually touched on the topic of small towns, how much each of them loved the close feel. John didn’t mention Emily. He didn’t feel the need. Both he and Addie’s meals were gone, but she stayed right there and he couldn’t seem to walk away from her green eyes.
Ms. Mackay gave Emily a once over and narrowed her eyes, causing wrinkles to crease up the sides of her face. Emily didn’t know what else to say. And suddenly, she knew she didn’t have to say a thing. She asked Ms. Mackay for her writing pad and began to draw her pictures. But these weren’t mere chalk drawings, these were Emily, these were Emily’s life. And as Emily traced the story of her life along the pad of paper, the older woman began to see.
After this, Ms. Mackay led Emily to the door.
“I can’t give you much, but I can give you my story,” Emily said.
Ms. Mackay nodded, said she’d call, gave her a nod and a handshake. The pad of paper sat at her desk, more words than she’d ever seen on one sheet of paper.
It was late afternoon when John realized he should probably go. It seemed difficult to extract his body from the booth where he sat with Addie, but he did. He said his goodbyes reluctantly, but as he was walking out the door, Addie ran up behind him. Kissing him lightly on the cheek, she handed him a napkin with a phone number scrawled on it, smiled her crooked-toothed smile, and waltzed away.
Emily waited on a shiny green bench outside the publishing office for a half an hour before John returned, speeding up to the curb and waving her over.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Lunch,” he said. “Sorry.”
He did not ask how her interview went. The napkin in his pocket felt like it was burning his skin.
They drove back to the motel in silence, again.
As they lounged at the pool for the rest of the day, Emily thought about the job. Moving would be difficult. John getting a new job would be difficult. Even if she’d impressed Ms. Mackay with her picture stories, she thought, there was no way she’d actually be able to do the job as well as she’d implied. It was all a farce! Everything she’d said, she’d sold herself. There was no way that she, Emily Gilberston, could ever rise up in that company. As the sun seeped into her body, she suddenly felt suffocated.
John thought about Addie. If Emily got the job, they could move here. And every day, he could eat lunch at that diner, and every day, Addie’s foot could brush up against his leg under the bright red table. Emily would never know, she’d be busy with work, she’d have no idea.
And then later in the motel room, Emily’s cell phone rang. And she answered timidly, in the bathroom, out of earshot. And of course it was Ms. Mackay. And of course she’d gotten the job, of course.
Emily paused for a moment.
“Ms. Mackay, something has come up,” she started. “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time today, but I’m unable to take the job.”
She hung up before she could hear a response.
John looked up expectantly as she walked back into the bedroom.
“Who was that?” he asked.
She put on her best sad face. “Sweetie, I didn’t get the job. Sorry to drag you down here.”
“Oh. That’s too bad,” he said. He let his head fall back into the pillow.
Emily undressed and put on a nightgown.
The two lay in bed together, the tick of the air conditioning console the only sound to be heard.
Some say we’re born to be average.
Some say we choose the path to mediocrity.
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Submission Name: The Path to Mediocrity is Paved
