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sendthembackRachel runs. The old man gets a name. Ed is awkward. Keith mothers. Koala bears. Insomnia.
Words required: 8,335
Words achieved: 5,851
Words of today: 2,250
VI.
Rachel doesn't usually run. It's not that she can't, she used to run all the time, short little bursts on the court and longer distances for conditioning, endless laps around the track or the gym. It's just been a while. Hell, it's been more than ten years since she's done it with anything approaching regularity. Still, a block into her walk back toward her apartment, she suddenly starts to jog. She hits a sprint when the crosswalk light starts to blink red and she doesn't fall out of it until she's nearing the little corner store where she bought coffee the day before.
The old man is waiting for her, sitting in a little plastic lawn chair one of the clerks has set down next to door for his hourly smoke breaks. It's well within 15 feet of the door, though Rachel isn't sure why she notices this now. She refocuses her eyes on he man and he waves at her as she drops into a jog.
"I didn't know you were an athlete, too," he says, slowly pulling himself to his feet.
She shrugs. "How could you? And I'm not really, not any more."
"Me neither," he laughs. She smiles and he gestures toward the glass door of the convenience store. "Do you want to grab some coffee?"
Rachel shakes her head. "Already had some, unless you--"
"No, no," he answers. "Let's walk."
They're both quiet for the first whole block.
"Not much of a day for weather," Rachel tries.
The man glances up at her. "At least it isn't raining right now."
Rachel nods.
"You look tired," he says, looking up and down the street before following her into the crosswalk. "Late night?"
Rachel smiles. "More of an early morning. I woke up around five and couldn't get back to sleep."
"That's never fair," the man says. "I like a long afternoon nap after a night like that, or, if I'm being ill-behaved, a nice mid-morning nap."
"'Ill-behaved,'" Rachel repeats, grinning.
"Yes?" the man asks.
"Nice word choice, that's all. I like it. I should be ill-behaved more often."
The man nods his head vigorously. "You really should. It's good for you."
Rachel smirks. "Is it now?"
He nods again. "I've been doing it all my life, and, well, I'm still alive and healthy, aren't I? It's my life's guide. Even when I was a kid, when my poor mother would tell me, 'Gabir, you're being ill-behaved,' I would know I was on the right track. It was really a pity for her that she used those words so often..."
Rachel laughs. "Our poor mothers. My mother's favorite was always, 'Rachel, you're acting up again...' though I guess she said that more to my brother than to me. I was the youngest, so I got away with things, you know?"
"She told your brother, 'Rachel, you're acting up again?'" the man teases, his eyes growing wide as he begins to laugh. "Strange name for a boy, and to share it with his sister..."
"Okay, so, she would substitute in 'David' for him, or, actually, since it originated with him, I guess she'd substitute 'Rachel' in for me."
The man nods gravely. "I've known some Davids. They're always trouble."
"And what about Rachels?" she asks.
They stop at a light. The man pauses, making a show of thinking hard for a few seconds.
"Depends on the breed," he finally says, grinning again. "The short ones, they're okay, but the tall ones, oh man..."
Rachel hits the man lightly on the shoulder, giggling.
"I bet short Gabirs are even worse," she challenges.
"The absolute worst," he agrees. Then, he offers her his hand. "Nice to meet you, Rachel."
"Likewise, Gabir."
"Gabby also works," he says as he releases her hand. "But, then, people always expect some chubby little girl instead of a tiny little man when they hear it. Though, considering my failure in etiquette yesterday, that may be well deserved on my part..."
Rachel just laughs as they start to walk again. "It happens a lot. At least you didn't do it on purpose."
"People do it on purpose?" Gabby asks.
Rachel stops in her tracks, mostly for dramatic effect. "Come on, dude, how old are you?"
"Old," Gabby answers with a sly smile, reaching out for her arm and pulling her along again.
Rachel lets him lead her into the next crosswalk. "Then you should know people."
He shakes his head. "I do, but too often, I don't like what I know, so I pretend I don't."
"That could be pretty smart..."
"But dangerous," he warns, "because that's how you end up in trouble, pretending evil doesn't exist."
"Evil?"
"Sure. Not evil like the devil, but, well, bad intentions."
Rachel lets out a little "hmm." She's not even sure how they got to where they are, both in conversation and in their path toward 30 Rock.
"Hmm," he echoes, smiling. "Exactly."
"So, she asks, "do the ill-behaved have bad intentions?"
Gabby's smile widens. "Never, and that's why they make good company."
Their conversation turns toward the more mundane after that, Rachel's old athletic days, Gabby's lack of understanding about volleyball and his love of "the real football", until they reach the World Series and 30 Rock.
"Actually," Rachel says, "I had the weirdest dream about Yankees Stadium last night..."
"What did you dream?"
Rachel shakes her head, looking down at her watch. "Maybe tomorrow?"
"Of course," he answers.
She nods. "Same time, same place?"
"Same place, same time."
He waves vigorously at her as he steps away. It's such a strange gesture, but somehow makes more sense than another handshake.
VI.
Rachel is slipping through the glass doors and into the lobby when Ed jogs up behind her.
"Breakfast with granddaddy?" he asks, pushing the door open wider as she steps inside.
Rachel laughs. "He looks like my grandfather?"
"Maybe if grandma was an Amazon?" he grins.
Rachel shakes her head, but smiles. "Well, for what it's worth, I do apparently look like his grandson, though his grandson is adopted, so..."
They approach the elevator and Ed reaches out to press the up button.
"So, if he's not your granddaddy..."
Rachel shrugs. "He's quite literally just some guy I met on the street yesterday. I left my coffee on the counter at the store, and he chased me down with it."
The elevator opens and they step inside, Rachel letting Ed deal with the buttons.
"I can hardly see that man chasing down anyone," Ed laughs. "He doesn't look like much of a runner."
"He's a good walker, at least, and a pretty good conversationalist, so..."
"That's good," Ed says.
They spend the next ten seconds in an awkward silence, but then, the doors open and they say their goodbyes, heading off to their different offices.
Rachel works through the morning and on past lunch, her stomach still full from so much breakfast. She covers the floor of her office with papers, arranging and rearranging, bouncing back between them and her desk, until she finally gets lost in her computer. When her eyes are starting to itch, she remembers the concept of the afternoon nap and swings herself down onto the couch.
C.
Rachel dreams about rain falling into a bucket, like the bucket Susan always keeps under the end of the gutter that runs behind the house. It's bigger than it should be; it's almost like a lake, with one giant drip falling steadily right into the middle. That one drip is so much louder than all of the other rain drops, and it fixes her attention, lulling her toward a trance, until she can't even hear the rain any more.
It takes her a few seconds to get back into her head. Her eyes skim the surface of the water and she realizes that the bucket is about to overflow. She needs to dump it out in the woods, like she usually does, so she takes a step forward, suddenly noticing that the rain doesn't seem to hit her skin. She takes another step, still dry, and then another. The bucket won't get any closer.
Then, she hears a loud knocking sound coming from behind her. She starts to turn her head, catching a glimpse of what looks like an old, run-down barn before...
VII.
"Rach..."
She opens her eyes to find Keith leaning down over her.
"Shit! What time is it? I didn't--" She catches the rain-streaked light coming through the window and starts to calm down.
Keith laughs. "It's not even three yet, don't worry. One of the interns noticed you hadn't left your office all day, so I thought I'd bring you some lunch."
Rachel stretches her arms over her head, letting out an exaggerated yawn. "Thank you, Keith. I completely forgot--wait." She drops her arms, staring up at him. "Are you having the interns spy on me again? I thought we talked about this."
Keith steps over to her desk, placing a paper bag down on top of it. He opens it, unearthing two paper-wrapped sandwiches and a plastic baggie of what looks like dried vegetables.
"I didn't tell them to spy on you, they just... they worry about you, too, you know?"
"Yeah, sure." Rachel sits up. "They worry because you worry them. I'm fine, Keith, and... are those vegetable chips?"
Keith shrugs. "Gluten free, and sort of delicious? Now come over here and eat. I promise I won't mother you any more after this, at least today, anyway."
"All right, all right." She stands up, dropping down into the guest chair, letting Keith have her chair. "What did you bring me?"
Keith pushes the sandwiches toward her. "Turkey or pastrami, both on honey oat. Your choice."
She takes the one labeled "T" and starts to unwrap it. Keith places a bottle of water off to the side. "So, what's on the show tonight?"
"Health care, elections, everything to be expected." Rachel grimaces. "I'm actually not really up for talking about it right now."
Keith stops himself from asking if she's okay.
"I'm just tired," she offers. "Sleep seems to like me even less than usual lately."
Keith nods. "Well, that's unders--" Her look quiets him. He frowns, then smiles. "Hey, we should do something this weekend, something stupid and entirely uneducational."
"What do you have in mind?" Rachel takes a bite of her sandwich, chewing it slowly as she suddenly remembers how extremely not hungry she is right now. She swallows and reaches for her water.
"Well, there's no more baseball."
Rachel forces a smile. "Thank God. I was beginning to forget what you looked like in makeup."
"Very funny," Keith answers before consuming several large chunks of meat and bread. "But seriously. I know you're not a huge movie theater person, but how about a play?"
"Wouldn't that be a little to highbrow for 'stupid and uneducational?'"
"Good point." Keith eats a little more. "We could TP Glenn Beck's house..."
"Do you even know where that is?"
"I can find out." He notices that she isn't eating and chucks the bag of vegetables at her. "We just need to get you out of that tiny little apartment of yours." He stops to think. "I know! We can have a sleepover!"
Rachel snorts, fishing out what looks like a chunk of dried sweet potato. "Do you want me to braid your hair while we watch 'Waiting to Exhale'? Or maybe 'Beaches'?"
"Actually, I was hoping you could finally teach me how to apply eyeliner. Then we can paint each other's toenails..." He smirks. "And where do you get your chick flick titles from? I--"
Rachel crunches the chip loudly between her teeth, reaching for another. "You want action movies, then? I don't know, I'm just going with whatever my weepy lady muse gives me."
"Your weepy lady muse needs to be pink slipped. How about 'Die Hard With a Vengeance'?"
"I'd rather watch 'The Terminator' than that."
"'Terminator' it is, then! How about your mom drops you off at my place after school?" Keith steals the veggie bag from her, grabbing out a handful and then passing it back, his eyebrows raised in expectation.
Rachel pretends to think. "I'll have to make sure I don't have to babysit for Mrs. Thompson, but..."
"Or we could just get wasted after work and then pass out on my couch watching something On Demand," he suggests.
"Better."
Keith grins. "Good. Now, eat your sandwich, little missy."
"Yes sir."
The food in her stomach actually does Rachel some good. She rallies as the evening approaches, polishing everything up a good hour earlier than she needs to. She spends the extra time surfing science websites until she gets stuck in an endless stream of baby animals. She doesn't know why she suddenly starts crying at the sight of a tiny koala curled up against its mother's stomach. Keith is right. She needs an escape.
When the day is finally over, she sneaks out the back, avoiding everyone she can. She walks home alone, and doesn't stop for anything.
D.
Rachel doesn't dream. She wakes up sometime before three-thirty and then just lies in bed with her iPod, humming along with every song that plays, until her alarm clock finally goes off and she drags herself onto her feet. She keeps her eyes away from the window as she starts the coffee, then makes a quick retreat toward the shower.
Words required: 8,335
Words achieved: 5,851
Words of today: 2,250
VI.
Rachel doesn't usually run. It's not that she can't, she used to run all the time, short little bursts on the court and longer distances for conditioning, endless laps around the track or the gym. It's just been a while. Hell, it's been more than ten years since she's done it with anything approaching regularity. Still, a block into her walk back toward her apartment, she suddenly starts to jog. She hits a sprint when the crosswalk light starts to blink red and she doesn't fall out of it until she's nearing the little corner store where she bought coffee the day before.
The old man is waiting for her, sitting in a little plastic lawn chair one of the clerks has set down next to door for his hourly smoke breaks. It's well within 15 feet of the door, though Rachel isn't sure why she notices this now. She refocuses her eyes on he man and he waves at her as she drops into a jog.
"I didn't know you were an athlete, too," he says, slowly pulling himself to his feet.
She shrugs. "How could you? And I'm not really, not any more."
"Me neither," he laughs. She smiles and he gestures toward the glass door of the convenience store. "Do you want to grab some coffee?"
Rachel shakes her head. "Already had some, unless you--"
"No, no," he answers. "Let's walk."
They're both quiet for the first whole block.
"Not much of a day for weather," Rachel tries.
The man glances up at her. "At least it isn't raining right now."
Rachel nods.
"You look tired," he says, looking up and down the street before following her into the crosswalk. "Late night?"
Rachel smiles. "More of an early morning. I woke up around five and couldn't get back to sleep."
"That's never fair," the man says. "I like a long afternoon nap after a night like that, or, if I'm being ill-behaved, a nice mid-morning nap."
"'Ill-behaved,'" Rachel repeats, grinning.
"Yes?" the man asks.
"Nice word choice, that's all. I like it. I should be ill-behaved more often."
The man nods his head vigorously. "You really should. It's good for you."
Rachel smirks. "Is it now?"
He nods again. "I've been doing it all my life, and, well, I'm still alive and healthy, aren't I? It's my life's guide. Even when I was a kid, when my poor mother would tell me, 'Gabir, you're being ill-behaved,' I would know I was on the right track. It was really a pity for her that she used those words so often..."
Rachel laughs. "Our poor mothers. My mother's favorite was always, 'Rachel, you're acting up again...' though I guess she said that more to my brother than to me. I was the youngest, so I got away with things, you know?"
"She told your brother, 'Rachel, you're acting up again?'" the man teases, his eyes growing wide as he begins to laugh. "Strange name for a boy, and to share it with his sister..."
"Okay, so, she would substitute in 'David' for him, or, actually, since it originated with him, I guess she'd substitute 'Rachel' in for me."
The man nods gravely. "I've known some Davids. They're always trouble."
"And what about Rachels?" she asks.
They stop at a light. The man pauses, making a show of thinking hard for a few seconds.
"Depends on the breed," he finally says, grinning again. "The short ones, they're okay, but the tall ones, oh man..."
Rachel hits the man lightly on the shoulder, giggling.
"I bet short Gabirs are even worse," she challenges.
"The absolute worst," he agrees. Then, he offers her his hand. "Nice to meet you, Rachel."
"Likewise, Gabir."
"Gabby also works," he says as he releases her hand. "But, then, people always expect some chubby little girl instead of a tiny little man when they hear it. Though, considering my failure in etiquette yesterday, that may be well deserved on my part..."
Rachel just laughs as they start to walk again. "It happens a lot. At least you didn't do it on purpose."
"People do it on purpose?" Gabby asks.
Rachel stops in her tracks, mostly for dramatic effect. "Come on, dude, how old are you?"
"Old," Gabby answers with a sly smile, reaching out for her arm and pulling her along again.
Rachel lets him lead her into the next crosswalk. "Then you should know people."
He shakes his head. "I do, but too often, I don't like what I know, so I pretend I don't."
"That could be pretty smart..."
"But dangerous," he warns, "because that's how you end up in trouble, pretending evil doesn't exist."
"Evil?"
"Sure. Not evil like the devil, but, well, bad intentions."
Rachel lets out a little "hmm." She's not even sure how they got to where they are, both in conversation and in their path toward 30 Rock.
"Hmm," he echoes, smiling. "Exactly."
"So, she asks, "do the ill-behaved have bad intentions?"
Gabby's smile widens. "Never, and that's why they make good company."
Their conversation turns toward the more mundane after that, Rachel's old athletic days, Gabby's lack of understanding about volleyball and his love of "the real football", until they reach the World Series and 30 Rock.
"Actually," Rachel says, "I had the weirdest dream about Yankees Stadium last night..."
"What did you dream?"
Rachel shakes her head, looking down at her watch. "Maybe tomorrow?"
"Of course," he answers.
She nods. "Same time, same place?"
"Same place, same time."
He waves vigorously at her as he steps away. It's such a strange gesture, but somehow makes more sense than another handshake.
VI.
Rachel is slipping through the glass doors and into the lobby when Ed jogs up behind her.
"Breakfast with granddaddy?" he asks, pushing the door open wider as she steps inside.
Rachel laughs. "He looks like my grandfather?"
"Maybe if grandma was an Amazon?" he grins.
Rachel shakes her head, but smiles. "Well, for what it's worth, I do apparently look like his grandson, though his grandson is adopted, so..."
They approach the elevator and Ed reaches out to press the up button.
"So, if he's not your granddaddy..."
Rachel shrugs. "He's quite literally just some guy I met on the street yesterday. I left my coffee on the counter at the store, and he chased me down with it."
The elevator opens and they step inside, Rachel letting Ed deal with the buttons.
"I can hardly see that man chasing down anyone," Ed laughs. "He doesn't look like much of a runner."
"He's a good walker, at least, and a pretty good conversationalist, so..."
"That's good," Ed says.
They spend the next ten seconds in an awkward silence, but then, the doors open and they say their goodbyes, heading off to their different offices.
Rachel works through the morning and on past lunch, her stomach still full from so much breakfast. She covers the floor of her office with papers, arranging and rearranging, bouncing back between them and her desk, until she finally gets lost in her computer. When her eyes are starting to itch, she remembers the concept of the afternoon nap and swings herself down onto the couch.
C.
Rachel dreams about rain falling into a bucket, like the bucket Susan always keeps under the end of the gutter that runs behind the house. It's bigger than it should be; it's almost like a lake, with one giant drip falling steadily right into the middle. That one drip is so much louder than all of the other rain drops, and it fixes her attention, lulling her toward a trance, until she can't even hear the rain any more.
It takes her a few seconds to get back into her head. Her eyes skim the surface of the water and she realizes that the bucket is about to overflow. She needs to dump it out in the woods, like she usually does, so she takes a step forward, suddenly noticing that the rain doesn't seem to hit her skin. She takes another step, still dry, and then another. The bucket won't get any closer.
Then, she hears a loud knocking sound coming from behind her. She starts to turn her head, catching a glimpse of what looks like an old, run-down barn before...
VII.
"Rach..."
She opens her eyes to find Keith leaning down over her.
"Shit! What time is it? I didn't--" She catches the rain-streaked light coming through the window and starts to calm down.
Keith laughs. "It's not even three yet, don't worry. One of the interns noticed you hadn't left your office all day, so I thought I'd bring you some lunch."
Rachel stretches her arms over her head, letting out an exaggerated yawn. "Thank you, Keith. I completely forgot--wait." She drops her arms, staring up at him. "Are you having the interns spy on me again? I thought we talked about this."
Keith steps over to her desk, placing a paper bag down on top of it. He opens it, unearthing two paper-wrapped sandwiches and a plastic baggie of what looks like dried vegetables.
"I didn't tell them to spy on you, they just... they worry about you, too, you know?"
"Yeah, sure." Rachel sits up. "They worry because you worry them. I'm fine, Keith, and... are those vegetable chips?"
Keith shrugs. "Gluten free, and sort of delicious? Now come over here and eat. I promise I won't mother you any more after this, at least today, anyway."
"All right, all right." She stands up, dropping down into the guest chair, letting Keith have her chair. "What did you bring me?"
Keith pushes the sandwiches toward her. "Turkey or pastrami, both on honey oat. Your choice."
She takes the one labeled "T" and starts to unwrap it. Keith places a bottle of water off to the side. "So, what's on the show tonight?"
"Health care, elections, everything to be expected." Rachel grimaces. "I'm actually not really up for talking about it right now."
Keith stops himself from asking if she's okay.
"I'm just tired," she offers. "Sleep seems to like me even less than usual lately."
Keith nods. "Well, that's unders--" Her look quiets him. He frowns, then smiles. "Hey, we should do something this weekend, something stupid and entirely uneducational."
"What do you have in mind?" Rachel takes a bite of her sandwich, chewing it slowly as she suddenly remembers how extremely not hungry she is right now. She swallows and reaches for her water.
"Well, there's no more baseball."
Rachel forces a smile. "Thank God. I was beginning to forget what you looked like in makeup."
"Very funny," Keith answers before consuming several large chunks of meat and bread. "But seriously. I know you're not a huge movie theater person, but how about a play?"
"Wouldn't that be a little to highbrow for 'stupid and uneducational?'"
"Good point." Keith eats a little more. "We could TP Glenn Beck's house..."
"Do you even know where that is?"
"I can find out." He notices that she isn't eating and chucks the bag of vegetables at her. "We just need to get you out of that tiny little apartment of yours." He stops to think. "I know! We can have a sleepover!"
Rachel snorts, fishing out what looks like a chunk of dried sweet potato. "Do you want me to braid your hair while we watch 'Waiting to Exhale'? Or maybe 'Beaches'?"
"Actually, I was hoping you could finally teach me how to apply eyeliner. Then we can paint each other's toenails..." He smirks. "And where do you get your chick flick titles from? I--"
Rachel crunches the chip loudly between her teeth, reaching for another. "You want action movies, then? I don't know, I'm just going with whatever my weepy lady muse gives me."
"Your weepy lady muse needs to be pink slipped. How about 'Die Hard With a Vengeance'?"
"I'd rather watch 'The Terminator' than that."
"'Terminator' it is, then! How about your mom drops you off at my place after school?" Keith steals the veggie bag from her, grabbing out a handful and then passing it back, his eyebrows raised in expectation.
Rachel pretends to think. "I'll have to make sure I don't have to babysit for Mrs. Thompson, but..."
"Or we could just get wasted after work and then pass out on my couch watching something On Demand," he suggests.
"Better."
Keith grins. "Good. Now, eat your sandwich, little missy."
"Yes sir."
The food in her stomach actually does Rachel some good. She rallies as the evening approaches, polishing everything up a good hour earlier than she needs to. She spends the extra time surfing science websites until she gets stuck in an endless stream of baby animals. She doesn't know why she suddenly starts crying at the sight of a tiny koala curled up against its mother's stomach. Keith is right. She needs an escape.
When the day is finally over, she sneaks out the back, avoiding everyone she can. She walks home alone, and doesn't stop for anything.
D.
Rachel doesn't dream. She wakes up sometime before three-thirty and then just lies in bed with her iPod, humming along with every song that plays, until her alarm clock finally goes off and she drags herself onto her feet. She keeps her eyes away from the window as she starts the coffee, then makes a quick retreat toward the shower.
