Embrace Me by Lisa Samson Read Free Book Online

it.”
    â€œGotta get to the stacks. You writing today?”
    â€œYeah.” I told him yesterday I was a writer. High respect, low expectation. Good reason for reclusivity. He asked what I was writing and I said a memoir. That took care of that.
    â€œYou guys have the life. Want me to look up writers?” He scratches his nose.
    â€œNo thanks. I like to keep the mystery alive.”
    He shakes his head. “Why?”
    â€œTell you what. I need to know a little something about the best treatment for cigarette burns.”
    Some of them are looking punky.
    â€œYou know it. Gotta have that telling detail.”
    â€œWhoa, Hermy. Nice.”
    He hefts his rucksack over his shoulder and makes for the stair-well. When he opens the door, the smell of urine seeps into the hallway. I literally hold my breath and run for it when I leave this place, which I do every morning at ten for my daily needs. I could stock up, but if I do that, I’ll die here.
    And I’d much rather die someplace else. I mean, who wouldn’t?
    Although death by Count Chocula, gin, cigarettes, and disillusionment doesn’t sound half bad.
    An hour later, supplies bought, including a folding chair, I sit on the boardwalk just down from Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum. It’s mild for December, a salty humidity in the cool breeze, and the beach lies in such desertion it’s hard to imagine that in seven months you’ll hardly be able to find a spot to set down your towel.

    When Thanksgiving came the year Daisy showed up, I did what I always did: told my father I had plans with church people, told the church people I planned to celebrate with my family. Holidays were useless in trying to further the church. It was more effective to leave everybody alone with their families to feel good about the true meaning of life without me getting in the way.
    I went camping on the Appalachian Trail. Packed my tent, a single person job, a sleeping bag, some canned beans, dry cereal, water, booze, and cigarettes. I didn’t drink much back then, only on camping trips and only by myself. And I only smoked in my apartment, to which I never invited anybody. Except Daisy, later. The testimony to uphold never left my shoulders. I had to keep up appearances, and I didn’t mind doing so. All part of it.
    You all don’t major on the minors like we do, and I like that, Father. Of course we don’t have to cross ourselves with holy water and the like, and we’re not worried about purgatory. That must be a little like having a rain cloud over your head twenty-four hours a day. On second thought, maybe you do know about heavy expectations.
    On my way out of Mount Oak I stopped downstairs in Java Jane’s. It wasn’t quite what it eventually became, a posh yet whimsical place that catered to moms, students, and artsy types. Back then it looked more like the old general store it used to be. The golden wood emitted a sort of glowing comfort, and I could imagine myself as just a regular guy, sidling up to the counter to get my mail.
    â€œHey, Al. How’s it going today?” I’d ask.
    â€œNot bad, Drew. Not bad at all.”
    â€œGive my best to Dorothy.”
    â€œWill do.”
    And nobody would judge me on my diction or my tie. And more importantly, I wouldn’t judge anybody else on their diction or their tie.
    You priests have it right with your black shirts and collars. Just takes all that personal preening right out of the equation from the start. Then again, it must get a little boring at times, and there’s no hiding, is there? No hanging out incognito in a smelly old hotel for you.
    I think there’s a portion inside all of us that wants a simple, straightforward life where people aren’t commodities and we can just be free to love them without putting them into some hierarchy based on their clothing, their speech, their table manners.
    Sitting at the table in the bow window,