Len was telling me that Cal texted instructions to Len.
She wrote for him to be on alert for the delivery of a package, which Cal wanted to be delivered to me as a surprise.
I listened to Len’s word-for-word description of the text message and blow-by-blow description of when he received the messages.
What did Cal send me? I couldn’t help wondering.
Even though I was standing there -still holding this package in my hands—listening to Len’s inventory of messages he was reciting. I was standing there as if I were ‘stunned.’
Len answered that question a second later in his message recital.
Whatever was in the package was something “to help get Dez out of her writer’s block and in a more organized state of mind” as Len so bluntly regurgitated Cal’s text.
I was so intrigued! A package. A gift. A surprise. I felt like a kid.
Just as I had placed the box onto the kitchen table to FINALLY open it, I heard Lenny suddenly sniff the air, repeatedly and loudly.
He was even turning his head at angles while doing so…
“How gross, Len. Stop sniffing like that. You look like a disapproving, fussy spinster cat lady detecting a foul odor.”
I couldn’t help myself; sometimes he needs to be told things, to be given instructions. Cal and I know that.
“Don’t you smell it, Dez?” he retorted. I felt a whine coming on.
“Let’s bring the package back outside and open it. The package smells like stale cardboard that had seen monsoons a long time ago. “Ew,” he whined.
Len has this habit of letting his posture slump when he whines.
“Len…stop. Stand up straight.” I couldn’t help myself; sometimes he needs to be told.
I ignored his finicky moment and stayed put in the kitchen to open the gift.
I sprayed down the box, as well as our hands.
Len knows instinctively now and doesn’t need to be told anymore when to hold out his hands for spraying with antiseptic.
Having sprayed our hands and the box, I then began to gently open the package, slicing through the tape carefully, trying not to tear into the ‘stale cardboard’ so it doesn’t release any more of its disgusting odor to Len.
Personally, I didn’t pick the scent up, but Lenny did. And that was enough for me.
That thought alone—the scent he picked up—made me believe that I, too, smelled that ‘stale cardboard odor’—whatever that is. I really didn’t pick it up…but I felt gross, as if I did smell it as well.
An Aside:
They say that cardboard boxes can store roach eggs in their very fibers.
Is that an urban myth or a true thing?
Ew.
Anyway, that ran through my mind as I cut through the tape on the box....
I could NEVER share that interesting bit of info with Lenny, though.
If I were to have told him that, he would have grossed out happily ever after by anything cardboard...
Who knows? Being grossed by cardboard could have eventually led to suspicion of all things paper.
Can’t have that.
Never mind.
I wrote this out, even though it was just a thought that had danced in my head at that moment—it lingered just for a second.
OH…You know – It Just Did A Gavotte. And Left. – Like some thoughts do.
I finally cut through the tape on the
(“ew”) stale-smelling cardboard box (“ew”)
opened it and looked inside.
There lay another box.
A box in a box. So Baboushka.
The inner box was a good-looking one.
With a good label.
With what I suspected to be quite the gift concealed within it.
I opened it and…!
Suspicion confirmed!
It was more than quite the gift!
Calypso sent me a laptop.
Didn’t expect that.
Ever.
And it was a beaute.
A sturdy one.
A digital mule.
I read the card out loud that she had placed on the laptop.
Dez –
It is high time that you finished housing those storylines and characters living in your notebooks like squatters.
Finish those stories, Dez. Finally.
And get them out into the world.
Stop filling notebooks with swirly designs, bits and pieces of wordy ideas, and tons of notes.
Use a computer.
Finally.
Like the rest of the world, dammit.
And get the writing DONE.
You are a talented writer, Dez.
For crying out loud, get back in gear and start producing again.
Stop hiding from the truth.
Face the music—
You’re very good at what you do.
Quit stalling and get your work out there to be read.
– Love, Cal
She is so “Shit or get off the pot”—but blunt, stylish, and eloquent. Cal has that knack.
She keeps Len and me gathered and focused. Always stopping us from going into orbit, which we love to do when we decide to avoid something.
Lenny headed down the lane to the recycle bin with the cardboard box and the weird‑shaped styrofoam that hugged the computer.
Now it was my turn to sniff.
I did not sniff to detect any lingering remnant of the (phantom) gross cardboard smell.
I sniffed because I was moved to tears. And that made my nose run a bit.
“These two really believe in my writer self. I needed to hear that.” I blurted that out loud.
I ugly cry when moved.
I was conscious of that and didn’t want Lenny to see a drooly, snotty, teary, puffy‑eyed, red‑nosed ugly cry.
Len gets so awkward when Cal or I get emotional.
And Len getting awkward is awkward.
And Cal and I always get emotional. And that is awkward.
We ugly-cry—even during TV.
So I’ve learned to cover the ugly‑cry moments—for Len’s sake, to prevent the awkwardness.
I stifled it—the pain in the throat, the silent heave in the chest—and let the hot tears roll for a second.
I bit my lip so hard I shocked myself out of it.
Painful, but it works.
I was seriously moved—
- by the gesture
- by the way they care about my writing
- by Cal and Len keeping this gift a secret to ensure a surprise.
And by the note—that very Calypso blurb on the card—expressing exactly what Lenny firmly believes, as well.
That I’m good at what I do. That I can and should write—once again. Go back to what I do and do well.
I felt gratitude, love, and support. And fear.
I have no excuse left not to start writing again. And that scares me.
I put the beaute on the table and gave the laptop its own placemat.
Now our table is set for four.
Cal, Len, and I have our placemats, and now this beauty has its place.
Because I knew, then and there, that the kitchen table would be where I write my next book—my next novel.
“It will have its placemat.”
That line echoed in my head.
Awkward.
Wrong.
“It”?
This computer is my new writing partner, and I call it “it”?
No.
I immediately named the laptop Irving.
Why Irving? Not sure. It just felt natural.
Lenny peeked back in the cottage door, having returned from the recycling bin.
He saw me at the table with Irving, already keyboarding.
“I’ll be back in a few,” he said. He’s always tactful—giving me space to get acquainted with Irving.
And this—these words you’re reading?
Irv and I just went on our get‑to‑know‑each‑other drive.
And you are reading it.
I keyboarded all this out—the Bridges, the delivery, the hand‑kissing—in the few minutes while Len was outside, tossing the cardboard and giving me time with Irv.
And Irv and I? A new relationship is born.
I’m journaling.
I just journaled and didn’t realize I was doing it.
I test‑drove Irv, and this came out.
Yes—Irv found his headquarters on our kitchen table. And me?
I not only pounded keys and wrote to the wind—I stumbled onto something I hadn’t admitted.
I need to rehash. I need to journal.
Now that I have Irving, what excuse do I have not to?
To Be Continued.