Know Not Why: A Novel

  Know Not Why

  by Hannah Johnson

  Copyright © 2012 by Hannah Johnson

  For everybody who’s kept this thing alive along the way; I am far luckier than any anguished author lady should be. Love, love, love to you all!

  Chapter One

  At first it’s just this idea.

  This really, really good idea.

  This GREAT idea.

  +

  “That,” Amber tells me, “is a terrible idea.”

  Amber has been my best friend since we were in diapers, but sometimes – and I say this with all the respect in the world, and because she could so kick my ass with her brain alone – she is stupid.

  “What’re you talking about? It’s genius.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “It’s disgusting how genius it is.”

  “Yeah, um, no. It’s disgusting how disgusting it is.”

  “Why can’t you just be happy for me in my hour of glory, huh? Do you think that Alexander Graham Bell’s homies gave him this much trouble when he invented the phone? No. They probably just went, ‘Hey, Alex, good goin’, man, nice one; here, up top.’ And then there was much high-fiving and merrymaking and drinking of grog.”

  “Grog?”

  “Look it up. It’s a thing.”

  “How old do you think the telephone is?”

  “That,” I say grandly, “is not the point right now. The point is that I’m a genius.”

  “Are you sure the point isn’t that you’re a sadsack?”

  “I am very sure.”

  “Because, I don’t know, something about getting a job at an arts and crafts store because you’ll be able to ‘reap the benefits’ of being the only guy there – it reeks distinctly of sad. And besides, you know you’d never actually do anything about it.”

  “Says who?”

  “Uh, says the brilliant human being who’s known you since always. Come on, Howie. Your skeezy-talking skills are matched only by your inescapable decency. That’s going to get in the way, Don Juan.”

  “Bah!”

  “You know I’m right. When am I ever not right?”

  “There’s a first time for everything! And that first time is now.”

  “Okay, okay. Even assuming you do find the inner iniquity to skeeze it up all over the place – who’s to say any of these girls are actually going to want anything to do with you?”

  “Guys who work in craft stores,” I inform her, “are sensitive. You ladyfolk love that shit.”

  “Sensitive,” Amber agrees – and then, after a super-long pause, innocuously adds, “Or gay.” This is the money shot right here; her eyebrows arch, fierce and triumphant. “Howie, they’re just going to think you’re gay.”

  “Pfft. Are not.”

  But there is, maybe, a flicker of worry for a second there.

  +

  Even forgetting the gay thing, there are some ways in which getting this job could be less than cool. For example:

  1. The guy who started the aforementioned store – I’m pretty sure his son’s taken over it since – was named Arthur Kraft. Ergo, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts. Yeah. On one hand, I guess it’d be a bummer to waste a name like that, because what else are you going to do with it?, but on the other … Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts? Really for real?

  I think about answering the phone, all, “Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, this is Howie, how may I help you?” and it makes me want to barf. Just a little bit.

  2. Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts (still sounds lame, so LAME) is right next to the hair-and-nails place where Heather Grimsby works. Running into Heather Grimsby? It’s not exactly on my To Do List. She was my date to senior prom, and, in the few weeks leading up to it, my – I dunno, sort of girlfriend.

  Heather Grimsby, to be brief, is not somebody I particularly want to run into. Especially after …

  Well, whatever.

  3. Getting out of this town seems impossible enough as is. But when I’m there, inside the four walls of Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, wearing the nametag, wearing the apron, putting on a jaunty smile and offering to help bored housewives find tissue paper (is tissue paper an art? A craft?), it’ll seem, like, really impossible, you know? Why Don’t You Just Throw In The Towel, Son, ‘Cause It Ain’t Gonna Happen impossible.

  4. The apron. They make you wear an apron. Even if you’re a dude.

  None of this really matters, though, because:

  1. Fuck, man, I just— I really really need to get laid.

  +

  I do get called for an interview. Let no one say I lack résumé skills.

  I show up at Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts (…) twenty minutes early, looking respectable and dapper. I’m not wearing a tie, because I’m not sure I have one, but I’m wearing the kind of shirt you’re supposed to wear a tie with. For me, that’s momentous. I even combed my hair, as per the insistence of Mom. As a result, it looks flat and weird and dweeby, but whatever. I am in the habit of making grand sacrifices for Mummy Dearest.

  I step inside. There are bells on the door. They jingle encouragingly as I lock eyes on the girl behind the counter.

  In a word, score. She’s pretty. Seriously, unusually, spellbindingly pretty. Blonde, big blue eyes, a smile that lights her up as soon as she sees me. She even makes the apron look cute.

  THIS PLAN IS GENIUS. I make a mental note to shoot a lot of smug looks at Amber later.

  “Howie?” asks Mad Amounts of Pretty Girl, bouncing up and down a little. It could be cloying, but it’s not. I buy that guessing whether I’m me brings her so much joy she has to bounce.

  Ohhh, it is on.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” My hand goes up to my head by its own accord and tousles my hair. Self-preservation instinct. Sorry, Mom.

  “That’s great! You’re early!” Man, can she rock an exclamation point.

  “Yeah, well,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets, going for that whole nonchalantly-professional-and-awesome air, “I just thought I’d take some time to look around. Get used to the place.” I give her an ‘Honestly, I don’t mean to be so good at this’-type grin.

  “Really?” she asks, beaming even bigger. “That’s awesome of you, Howie! So thoughtful.”

  Thoughtful. Thoughtful’s like a shake away from sensitive. I am so getting a piece of that ass.

  Or. Well.

  I feel a little guilty as soon as I think it, just because, I dunno, maybe that’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to think in an arts and crafts store.

  Fortunately, Blondie McRadiant doesn’t seem to have mind-reading powers. “Arthur’s going to be so pleased, I think,” she prattles on merrily. “He hasn’t really been happy with any of the other applicants, and we’re totally short-staffed all of a sudden.”

  “You are?” I come close enough to lean an elbow on the counter – just the one, casual, testing the waters. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s like there was some sort of quitting epidemic this past month,” Milady Sunshine informs me in a scandalized whisper. She leans forward over the counter on both elbows.

  “A quit-a-demic,” I quip without thinking. And then want to kill myself.

  “Right!” She lets out a giddy laugh and reaches over the counter to slap me cutely on the shoulder. I can’t believe that worked. That worked? Maybe I should stop censoring myself all the time. “Oh, gosh, you’re funny, Howie.”

  Dangerous ground. This could very well morph into You’re so much fun to be with, Howie, I love you like a brother, Howie, you’re my girl friend in a boy suit, Howie, want to braid my hair while we tell each other secrets, Howie? But for now, I choose to interpret it optimistically. “Thanks.”

  “Anyway,�
� she goes on, “Jessica had to leave to go to college, so it wasn’t really her fault. But Mari always really hated Arthur, and he got on her case for sneaking cigarettes in the kitchen – which is totally understandable, because, ew, gross, right?” (I throw in a “Yuck!” for solidarity.) “And finally she just snapped, it was incredible. I mean, really, really scary, and kind of b-i-t-c-hy, she actually threw a Do It Yourself Frame-Making Kit at him. Don’t worry, it didn’t actually hit him. Too hard. Arthur can get to be a little bit much sometimes, even for me, and he’s my cousin so I think he might be nicer to me than everyone else. So you might want to be prepared for that, but mostly it’s okay. But, yeah, she really lost it, and yelled, ‘Maybe I’ll just go work at effing Holly’s then’ – you know, Holly’s Fine Art Supplies, not a person named Holly – but she didn’t say effing, you know, she actually said—”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “—and Arthur gets really touchy about Holly’s, because it’s an actual chain and it’s so nice and they have that commercial where the kids dance up and down the aisles, so business has suffered a lot since they opened here. But anyway, so yeah, she quit before he could fire her. So now it’s just Cora and Arthur and me.” She beams. “And probably you!”

  Okay, so maybe pickins are gonna be slimmer than I’d anticipated. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got my eye on the prize right here.

  Unless Cora’s, you know, really really great. In which case, we’ll see.

  “Sorry if I totally just talked your ear off,” I Should Probably Look At Her Nametag Already So I Can Stop With The Lame Nicknames says. She gets all sheepish and adorable. “Everyone’s always telling me I talk too much.”

  “Nah,” I reply, squinting boobward – I can’t help it, that’s where her nametag is – and trying to be subtle about it. K – Karen? Kr – Kristy! Kristy. Excellent. Always liked the name Kristy. Since two seconds ago. “I’m a voracious listener. So you just … bring it on. I defy you to talk more than I can listen. To.”

  Not exactly smooth moves, but she totally digs it, again! This is my dream woman! Mrs. Howie Jenkins right here!

  Or, well. My next roll in the hay.

  Do people actually say “roll in the hay” anymore? What hay? Or, well, okay, having just read (and by “read,” I mean “skimmed while watching reruns of that reality show about lumberjacks”) The Woodlanders for my British Lit class over at Ye Olde Community College, I know that it used to happen. Thomas Hardy was all over that. But now? Where do people even find hay?

  —Why am I thinking these thoughts? Pretty girl. Great, pretty, cute, potentially-not-hating-me girl. Focus.

  “Okay,” she’s saying, giggly. “You’re on.”

  Oh, yeah, I’m on. You. Like white on … rice … like … why do I keep feeling bad thinking these things? It’s my own friggin’ brain. I dunno, whatever, it seems rude. Invasive. I just met this person, no matter how lady-shaped and delightful she is.

  I say, kinda weakly, “Sounds like a deal.”

  “My name is Kristy, by the way!” she says, oblivious to my sudden descent into self-loathing. This girl is aces.

  “Yeah, I know, I saw your nametag,” I tell her without really thinking about it – and then I realize what this implies. “Not that I was looking.”

  And then it comes back to me. Haunts me, clanks its chains, gets its Jacob Marley on. Amber’s voice echoes through my head. ‘Howie, they’re just going to think you’re gay.’

  “I was looking,” I blurt out. Better perv than sorry. “A little. You know. A tasteful amount. Just thought I’d … glance. It was a glance. Small-sized glance. Mini-glance. A glancelet, if you will.”

  Halle-freakin’-lujah! She laughs. She thinks it’s funny – these words, these stupid lame-ass words spewing out of my mouth. She has the kind of laugh that reminds you of sunny days and sleeping in and the fact that life’s not so bad after all. It’s right about here that I decide, come hell or high water, so help me God, I am rocking the shit out of this interview.

  +

  I went to high school with Arthur Jr., who is currently the reigning Artie. He was a senior when I was a freshman, so I don’t have many memories of the dude. He was one of those super-involved honor roll students, and he was always in the special advanced music class, the one where the kids would give dinner-and-a-concert fundraisers and sing, like, English madrigals. Amber had a one-semester foray into the dark and dizzying world of sixth period chamber ensemble (which is how I even know the word “madrigal”) before she bailed: she couldn’t handle the degradation of being a second soprano in a world where first sopranos ruled. Apparently, Arthur Kraft Jr. could take the heat. Not that he is, from what I remember, a first soprano, but who really knows for sure?

  It’s weird that he’s running his parents’ dinky craft store instead of playing at Carnegie Hall or curing cancer or whatever. Arthur Kraft Jr. wasn’t the guy you’d vote Least Likely To Succeed in the yearbook, y’know? It’s pretty sad, to be honest.

  “Heyyyy, man!” I exclaim as I step into his office, figuring I can use our history to my advantage. “Haven’t seen you in awhile! How’s it hangin’?”

  “Just fine,” Arthur Jr. answers crisply.

  “You still doing that … stuff you used to do?”

  “I’ll need you to be more specific.”

  He stares at me, waiting. For specifics.

  “Never mind,” I mumble.

  I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am.

  “All right then,” he says, not even making the slightest attempt to turn the moment any less awkward than it is, and it’s here that I remember: this guy sucks. I’m pretty sure he used to steal lunch money and shove kids into their lockers. Terrorize the hallways, flanked by his first soprano bitch posse.

  “Have a seat,” he instructs me. Like I don’t have any other options, just because I’m applying for a stupid job at his stupid little sissy store.

  My thoughts drift back downstairs, to Kristy – Kristy – and it gives me strength. So I do have a seat, and it begins.

  It’s like ten minutes of “it says here on your résumé…” and “what would you say qualifies you to…” and I think I talk my way through it pretty well. While I do, to power me through, I pick out things that I hate about Arthur Kraft Jr. – nay, Arthur Kraft the Second. He is, no doubt, the kind of hoity-toity prick who would insist upon being a ‘the Second.’ He has, like, woman eyelashes. But not the kind of eyelashes that any woman can actually attain. They’re mascara commercial eyelashes, the eyelashes you want but can never have. Amber likes to rant about the injustice of that very thing, that random men get bestowed with perfect eyelashes while she and all other females have to battle lash curlers and mascara and still, still they never look as good. Arthur Kraft Jr. has those eyelashes. Amber would flippin’ hate this jerk. He is also really tall – well, a few inches taller than me, which is tall enough, like, stop growing, Godzilla – and really skinny. His hair is this sandy blonde color, and it looks newly trimmed. Probably by Heather Grimsby next door: it only makes sense that these two people who both happen to really freakin’ suck would be united by some higher power to form a Suck Alliance.

  And he’s wearing an apron. It’s supposed to look adorable and hand-crafted, like Grandma made it with love. It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a tie, too. Underneath the apron. Like – give it up, man; are you fifty?

  “Finally,” he says, “what prompted you to seek work at Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, specifically?”

  For a second, I imagine telling him the truth. Maybe it’d be this moment of male bonding and solidarity, all, ‘Really, man, I’m just trying to get some action, you dig?’ (Not that I’d say ‘you dig,’ who even does that?) I imagine him getting all, like, ‘oh snap!’ and demanding a five.

  But here’s the reality of the situation: Arthur Kraft the Second would never say ‘oh snap!’. It’s the impossible dream.

  Instead, I say, “I really lik
e the atmosphere of the place. It seems like a great work environment, and it’s a nice, timeless business. Like, you’ve got your iPads, you’ve got your Wiis, but this is the kind of stuff that endures.” Whatever, man, I can BS with the best of ‘em. English major power. “And you’ve got, like, that new Holly’s that just opened, for example. But it’s not the same. I think that this kind of thing – arts, and crafts, and all – it’s supposed to be from the heart, you know? And you’re just not going to get that with something that large-scale. This, this is intimate. You guys mean it when you sell those glue guns, and sequins. And I think that’s great. That’s something I want to be a part of.”

  Bshwinggg! As predicted, the Holly’s mention one hundred percent melts his cold dead lame heart. He loves me! He even looks like he’s about to smile. There is the slightest bit of movement going on in the general left-corner-of-his-mouth area. Do I sense a smile, Boss Man? Yeeeeah, that’s right, I thought s—

  Smirk? What the hell?

  Smirk?

  “Kristy told you,” he surmises wryly, “how I feel about Holly’s.”

  “What? No.” But he’s rocking this keen, discerning gaze, and it’s accentuated by his Glorious Eyelashes, and I don’t know, man, I crumble a little. “She maybe mentioned something.”

  “Hmm,” he says. Hmm. Like that’s an answer. That’s not even a word. That’s a frickin’ sound. A dog could say ‘hmm.’

  I am so ready to get out of here.

  Fortunately, he seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he stands up. “All right then. I think I’ve heard everything I need to.”

  “Cool,” I say, standing up too, and I stick my right hand out. Custom dictates.

  “No thank you,” Arthur Kraft the Second says, squinting warily down at it. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Or appropriate.”

  “What?” I ask blankly.

  “The –” He pauses. A frown creases his forehead – he’s got a weird forehead, too, what a weirdo, how does he even get up in the morning? – and he curls his fingers awkwardly into a fist. Then he halfheartedly punches the air. It takes me a minute to even figure out what he’s doing – like, what, did he think I was going to punch him?