A continuation of “If Will Scarlet Could See Me Now”
Of course, the great, whopping, elephant-in-the-room question behind this whole premise is, What is Will Scarlet doing in my house? Not just in my head, where he’s been ever since about this time four years ago, from which point onward he’s been gaining an ever more prominent presence, but physically here. Outside of me. On my plane of reality. That shouldn’t be possible.
Not that there’s any reason he’d be content to let that stop him.
Suppose I were to wake up one morning – somewhere in the neighborhood of ten a.m. would be about normal for me (prior to going nocturnal, that is) – and get started on living my day by hefting my Bible from its usual place atop my bedside fireproof box and onto my bed. If that morning were, for the sake of argument, tomorrow, I’d be in the book of 1 Timothy.
So there I’d be, curled double over the book, and I’d hear the clatter of the beaded curtain in my doorway. My door, partway closed, would open, and I’d look up, expecting to see my mother, maybe my sister Dianne. And it wouldn’t be either of them.
“Hey, babe!” he’d say, his smiling eyes all aglitter with excitement.
I would have a heart attack.
Not literally, I hope. I mean, yeesh, of all the inconvenient times to die, or at least need an emergency trip to the hospital. More probably, I’d make some strange choking noises as my gasp goes down the wrong way. Before that, I’d freeze – tighten up much as I do when I notice a horrific bug somewhere in my way-too-close-for-comfort vicinity. I’d get this weird and not altogether pleasant fizzy sensation throughout my body. Here’s hoping I wouldn’t lose control of my bladder. I probably wouldn’t. Let’s say I don’t.
“Will!” I’m not sure how my voice would sound. Maybe inappropriately angry. I don’t always handle surprise very well.
He’d raise his brows. “Surprised? You seem surprised. I am not surprised that you’re surprised. I mean, far as you know, there is no way I can possibly be here.”
I’d want to touch him. Partly for proof, partly because Will Scarlet exudes touchability. Before I could decide whether to risk a touch, he’d have flung his arms around me. If I weren’t convinced he were actually himself, I would hate it and possibly injure him. Hugs are a case-by-case basis thing, with me. In the case of Will Scarlet showing up on my reality plane, yes; hugs are acceptable.
But that’s if he shows up in my room first thing in the morning, which is not the least creepy way he could make himself known. Let’s dial down the freak-out factor just a hair.
Suppose we’d moved past the morning. Bible, read. Online accounts, checked. Coconut oil, swished around my mouth. We’ll even go all out and say I’m wearing half-decent clothes today. Real jeans and everything; slim fit. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, the doorbell would ring. Not the kind of ding-dong doorbell you press a button for. We’ve got one of those by the back door, but it hasn’t worked in years. Then there’s the bell by the side door that only works if somebody somewhere opens their garage or something. We’re not sure what’s up with that bell, but it’s obnoxiously startling, and over-loud to boot. The bell I’d hear, though, is the one for the front door; the one you turn like a key to make it chirpily trill. B-rrring, b-rrring! Bicycle bell-ish.
Though optimism is a hit and miss thing, for me, I’d choose to expect that the bell signals the delivery of a package. I’d try to remember if I’m expecting any new books, and would cynically remind myself, Well, we know it’s probably not Edgwyn Pony. I have completely lost track of how long I’ve been waiting for my custom Edgwyn-inspired My Little Pony doll. Part of me fully believes it will not arrive before Christ’s return.
I’d hustle down the stairs – not in any especial hurry, just rarely one to walk up or down our front stairs when I can bound multiple steps at a time and swing wildly around the corner landing instead. Upon reaching the foyer, I could vaguely see someone’s head through the lace curtain over the door’s window. Rats. I was hoping the delivery guy could just leave the package on the porch so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. On the bright side, what little I can see of the guy looks like he’s got cute potential. A little like Will Scarlet, in fact.
This is the part where my hopes would go into overdrive. Not about the delivery guy being Will Scarlet. Even I know better than to expect that kind of miracle. The kind of miracle I’d expect is that this cute delivery guy and I would somehow hit it off while I’m accepting my package – y’know, I think he’s cute, he thinks I’m cute, he’s got a sexy voice (with, dare I dream, a British accent?) – and we’d exchange e-mail addresses and start up a correspondence, and after a couple months, we’d get together in person to, I dunno, catch a movie, grab some lunch (or, dare I dream, browse a bookstore?), and the next thing you know, he’s my best-ever boyfriend, all Facebook-official, and everyone’s so happy for us, and we’re finna elope to England.
Yeah, that’s where my brain goes every time I glimpse a remotely attractive man.
So I’d wrestle with the front door’s lock for an embarrassing fraction of a minute, finally get the door open, and… wow, this guy really looks like Will Scarlet. Same coppery curls, same bright blue eyes, dat smile, wearing copious amounts of red… It’s just uncanny.
“Hi,” I’d greet him, trying to not sound like a dork, ‘cause this could be it, folks. Today, e-mail; tomorrow, England.
“Hey, Danielle,” he’d say. And that would be weird on all the levels, because one, he thinks we’re on a first-name basis, and two, his voice sounds weirdly like I’d imagine Will Scarlet’s would if he didn’t have to go through the voice scrambler of his author’s throat.
I would say “hello”, this time slow and confused.
“Don’t ‘hehhh-lo?’ me, girl. It’s me! Will Scarlet! I’m totally here! Surprise!”
Cue all the previously listed symptoms of shock and the Will-instigated hug. Holy wow, he smells great.
He’d hold up a small cardboard box. “Brought your package,” he says.
“What package?” I’d ask, still dazed and giddy.
He’d say, like it was obvious, “Edgwyn Pony, of course. It’s a day of flying pigs, up in here.”
[To be continued…]