Slumberland
A novel by
BRADLEY CARTER
This is a work of fiction.
The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or to living persons alive or dead.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.
Facebook.com/SlumberlandNovel
Copyright © 2019 Bradley Carter
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781790579402
endless love and GRATITUDE
Justin Bridges
Jaime Thorn
Donald Lane
Sam Miller
Alanna Martella
Andy Overton
Melissa “Mel” Johnson
Aden Carter
Katie Gourley
Jennifer Hall
Juli Fallon
Jessica Brown
Mike Turpin
Robb “Bulldog” Walter
Pastel #2
SLUM·BER·LAND
/ˈsləmbərˌland/
noun LITERARY•HUMOROUS
the state of being asleep.
THE ONE IS SILENT
1
Before this week, everything was fine.
Everything seemed to fall in place.
Before this week, I had it all figured out.
At least I thought I did.
Before this week, everything was going to be perfect.
But what is perfect, anyway?
The mirror is framed with incandescent light bulbs. The round ones with frosted glass so you can’t see the glowing filaments. Leaned forward, dabbing a brush of powder to my cheeks, my socked feet rest where the wooden legs of my chair fold to make an X. It’s the kind of chair with a canvas back. The kind that seats movie directors.
Spread along the countertop are contents from my makeup bag. Pore-minimizing toner. Primer. Foundation. Concealer. Translucent powder. A tube of red lipstick. Liquid-lash mascara. It sounds like a lot, but I have my own formula and use just enough to prevent my skin from being shiny on camera.
You’d think being awake this early, my brown eyes would carry baggage. But each night I’m early to bed, well rested and awake when I leave home at 3:00 A.M.
My dark brown hair is naturally smooth and shiny. A dab of mousse or a light mist of hairspray keeps it hanging past my shoulders without any frizz.
Blotting my lips with a tissue, I check to make sure it’s an evenly distributed amount of red.
To double-check my appearance I smile and recite my opening greeting.
“Good morning. I’m Sierra Preston.”
Next to my makeup, a short stack of papers sits on the counter. My eyes skim through words, trying to find what will go best with my introduction.
Doug knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer before coming in. His hazel wide eyes find me already dressed in a black skirt and sleeveless purple blouse.
Shaking my head, dragging the pencil tip of eyeliner under my lid, I say, “Too late, Buster.”
He grins and closes the door and says, “Maybe next time.”
Brushing any wrinkles from my blouse, I squint at his reflection.
With his makeup caked on thick, he almost looks fake, like a doll.
His full frosty hair would shatter if you threw a rock at it.
His gray suit fits tight. You’d think he worked out but it’s really from him pressing out his chest and sucking in his gut to look buff. His light blue necktie is a little crooked. Whatever latest trend his teenage kids are following determines his footwear. Today it’s hundred dollar basketball sneakers, white with shiny black rubber patches and a red swoosh logo. The one designed by a woman named Carolyn Davidson in 1971. The logo she was paid only thirty-five dollars for by a multi-billion dollar shoe company.
Doug steps behind my chair and watches my reflection.
“How’s the birthday girl this morning?” he asks.
His breath smells of whiskey from whatever soiree he got himself into last night.
The sound of the toilet flushing comes from the bathroom. He steps back to watch the door open.
Olivia turns off the light and adjusts the bracelet on her wrist as she walks by.
She and Doug are the same age, which is to say they both have to apply more makeup to keep their faces looking younger. Olivia wears a tight blue dress, one size too small to enhance her bust. Her blonde hair is thick and curls outward at the bottom above her shoulders, held in place with an ungodly amount of hairspray. Her white tennis shoes are almost as worn out as she is.
“Her birthday isn’t until tomorrow,” she says. “I’m surprised you got the month right.”
Doug watches her cleavage as she moves into the hallway.
“That makes sense,” he says, “I wondered why there was no cake in the break room.”
He and Olivia used to be a couple, or so says the rumor mill, way before I was hired. Both were fresh out of college when they started. Now, almost two decades later, that flame no longer kindles. That was before my time and what extinguished their flame is nobody’s business.
The ding from my cellphone stops me from brushing my hair, but Doug is quick to snatch it from the counter. His thumb taps the button to my social media app.
“I wondered why your page wasn’t riddled with ‘happy birthday’ posts too,” he says.
Doug, scrolling his thumb across my screen, adds, “You get more notifications in one day than most men get in a month.”
Not one of them says anything about my birthday, which proves to Doug even further, he was wrong.
It’s no secret my birthday has falls on March 14th. It’s been the same for the past twenty-eight years.
There’s no reason for me, or anyone else, to think this year would be any different.
As far as my flooded inbox, most of the notifications come from men of all ages.
Older high school and college boys tell me I’m ‘hot’ and ask if I want to ‘hang out sometime.’
Sometimes I get invitations to school events. These boys, almost half my age, want to have me as their prom date.
The young men, the ones closer to my age, tell me I’m beautiful and ask if I want to go out to the clubs or a night on the town. They offer to take me on all expense paid road trips. Sunny vacations. We can stay in a hotel and I’m promised my own room.
They say I should be a model and they know a guy who knows a guy. They offer to take me on a proper date. To buy dinner. To buy flowers. To hold the door open. To treat me like a lady should be treated.
The older men, closer to Doug’s age, tell me I need a real man. They tell me age is just a number. They want to save me from making mistakes. They want to take me on a ‘proper date.’ To be with someone more mature. I’ll want for nothing; they will take care of me and give me anything my little heart desires. These types of men, most of them on their third or fourth divorce, are trying to find someone younger to hold on to.
They send pictures of their houses, their cars, their boats. Themselves in their striped suits. Pictures of their six and seven figure account balances. The creepy ones, well… You don’t want to know what kind of pictures they send.
The others, both men and women, say they’re my biggest fans.
What they say is sweet and flattering, but I’ve become used to it.
When you read the same phrases from different people every day, words lose their magic.
Of all the offers, I never reply to any of them.
It’s not to sound snobby, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression. W
ith such an odd work schedule, my social life takes a toll.
The weekends are when I associate with people but throughout the week, I’m early to bed and early to rise. Having to be at work this early, forget the idea of dating anyone.
Most guys I meet work the standard nine-to-five. When I’m clocking in, they’re still asleep. When I’m clocking out, they’re on their lunch breaks.
It doesn’t take long for anyone I date to realize my job is my priority. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am today. I’m honored to have this career despite its schedule.
Doug tells me there’s a spot in the primetime broadcast opening soon and hiring is done first within the company before taking outside applications. He says he might put in a word to the morning producer, Randi West.
It’s strange, the one person who doesn’t want me to leave his shift is the person going to bat for me. With a primetime schedule, I wouldn’t be here in the mornings for Doug to see. There may be strings attached. He may think his thoughtfulness somehow obligates me. Perhaps he has other intentions in mind. Then again, with his stale whiskey breath, something tells me he doesn’t let his early morning routine stop him from doing what he wants no matter what time of day.
Doug snickers, and tells me all the posts he’s reading are the same. They all say I’m beautiful.
“What about this one?” he asks, tilting my phone for me to see.
Anonymous, but with zeros replacing each O, says: “Wake up!”
“That’s an odd thing to send to someone on social media.”
There’s a small beige box clipped to the back of my skirt. Reaching behind to grab the thin wire connected to it, I tell Doug to type a response: ‘Thanks for the boost!’
He presses the reply button but it won’t go through. He tries again and still nothing happens except a spinning color wheel that stops before an error message.
The phone won’t send my reply.
Doug forgot about the mirror. I can still see him standing behind me in the reflection. He holds my phone but it’s not the screen he’s staring at. He only pretends to be reading.
The top two buttons of my blouse are left undone. As I pull a thin cord up underneath the front of my shirt, he clicks the lock button of my phone and leans over to set it next to my makeup bag.
While I fasten a clip to my collar, I see his eyes trying to catch as much of view of my chest as possible.
“I would never tell you you’re beautiful,” he says.
He’s not surprised when I gasp.
Never have I heard such romantic words coming from such a standup guy.
That’s sarcasm by the way.
He grabs both my shoulders and starts to rub.
“If I compliment you,” he adds, “then you would ignore me like you do everyone else.”
With his thick thumbs massaging in circles, it’s almost impossible for me to keep my eyes open.
“What’s wrong with thanking someone for their compliment?”
“How many times do you get hit on a day?” he asks. “By how many different guys?”
Doug pulls my shoulders closer to his waist and grips tighter. His other fingers spread underneath my collar.
“You said so yourself,” he replies. “It has no magic. Telling a gorgeous girl what she already knows is pointless. It’s a one-way ticket to the friend-zone. If a guy wants a chance with a gorgeous woman like you, he can’t be so gushy. The guys your age are amateurs. You need to find a real man.”
Doug has me in such bliss, it’s hard for me to form words. But as relaxing as his massage is, when he pushes his fingers farther down the front of my blouse, it ends abruptly with me pulling away and fastening the two buttons.
He lets go to adjust his necktie.
Most people don’t start dressing in spring colors until after the official calendar day. The Easter egg pastel blue shows me maybe he’s forgotten what date that falls on as well.
Doug takes a last glimpse of my chest before inspecting the rest of his appearance.
“What I wouldn’t give to be that microphone right now,” he says, turning to leave.
One more double-check of my appearance and I’m ready to go. Leaning over, I pull my white Chuck Taylor tennis shoes closer and slip my feet inside. The laces tied together like bunny ears. After standing and brushing a small strand of hair from my face, I turn off the dressing room lights.
The brightest part of the studio is where four chairs sit behind a desk. The long wood finished table sets on a platform, a foot above the concrete floor. Behind the desk, there is a wall-sized city skyline with a “Channel 6 News” logo in a bold, attractive font.
At the opposite end of the room, a large window divides the studio from the control room. A room where three technicians sit in front of computers and soundboards.
In the center of the studio, cables stretch along the ground to two cameras mounted on wheeled tripods. Both sit underneath beams of bright lights, facing the platform, and stop behind strips of white tape. A television monitor sits on a stand in front of both cameras, in plain view of three people seated at the desk.
Walking toward the stage, my feet stumble over a thick cable. The two camera guys have been told by producers to keep the floor clear of any hazards. One of those guys, Mark Owens, knows this but it’s the cable leading to his camera that almost causes my fall. My stack of papers scatter to the floor. Anyone else wouldn’t need to confront Mark about a potentially dangerous tripping hazard because it wouldn’t be there. But knowing Mark, he probably left it out intentionally just to mess with me.
“Good morning, Mark.”
He won’t look down to see me picking up the papers and the smile I’m wearing for him.
His eyes are half open and his face clearly didn’t meet with a razor this morning.
All of the buttons he’s pressing and wires he plugs in seem to be done on autopilot. Poor guy.
“Blow me,” he replies.
Oh, grumpy Mark in the morning. His blue jeans and his faded black t-shirt looks like they were worn to bed. However, his thick dark hair is styled, so at least he’s made somewhat of an effort to look presentable.
Still, I tell him he looks nice today.
That’s sarcasm by the way.
He would look good if he spiffed himself up, but he doesn’t care since no one is going to see him behind the scenes.
Mark is like a big brother to me. Each day, we share an exchange of playful insults and witty comebacks. We’re not related by any means, but it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if we were. Any time I mention it, he tells me not to worry. He tells me he may be unlucky, but not unlucky enough to be my sibling. He says my presence alone is enough to torture him. It’s all in good fun. I don’t take it to heart. Not everyone can be as chipper as I am this early in the morning. No matter how long they’ve worked this schedule, not everyone can get adjusted.
With less than a minute left, the voices in the studio transition to a dull roar. Under the desk, my Chuck Taylor shoes cross and one foot rests on the other.
The other three people seated to my right all wear sneakers. Like Mark, our feet are never seen by anyone not working behind the scenes.
Off the air, the staff is busy working in cubicles. Our faces are glued to a computer screen and our ears attached to a phone. Sometimes we’re walking back and forth to the editing suites. If we’re only seen for such a short time and the viewers never our whole bodies, we don’t see the need to spend all day in uncomfortable footwear. There’s no need to torture our feet with tight dress shoes. We try to look professional on camera while at the same time staying comfortable.
Doug sits beside me. Olivia sits beside him. At the opposite end of the desk from me, to Olivia’s side, is Kurt. His hair is set perfect. His makeup absorbed the right amount of light with no reflections. People watching on television only see him in his pressed white shirt and tight-fitted sports jacket. Little do they know, underneath the desk he’s also wearing white te
nnis shoes and basketball shorts. Kurt is only a couple of years older than me, passing into his thirties last autumn. He mouths the words from his notes to himself and his bouncing knee can be felt from my seat. As he fumbles through his notes, Olivia pulls a piece of lint from Kurt’s jacket. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
She adjusts her posture and straightens the gold rings on her fingers. The smell of Olivia’s hairspray under the warm studio lights worries me the fumes could ignite a fire. It’s a scent clouded by Doug, who sits between us. I’m not sure who he’s trying to impress but he wasn’t wearing such strong cologne when he was in my dressing room. It all makes sense when I see a young woman come through the back doors.
A young, pretty college student. An intern. She’s already looking for Doug and smiles when she sees him. Her reddish-brown hair is pulled back and her bright hazel eyes are noticeable even from a distance. A four-leaf clover hangs from her thin necklace. Little does she know, when it comes to being chased by Doug, she’ll need all of the lucky charms she can get. In case Doug would notice me trying not to laugh, I watch the studio camera operators so he’ll think I’m giggling at one of them.
Mark straps on his headset. He yawns and takes a closer look at his screen, adjusting the angle. He adjusts the focus on me and I can’t help but make a funny face by sticking out my tongue. Mark flips me his middle finger and I grin, shaking my head.
Call it a habit, but anytime I’m waiting for something, I like to doodle. Before the show begins or between segments, the tip of my red pen meets the blank back of my paperwork. It goes around to draw a perfect circle and then another. Since my twenty-ninth birthday is tomorrow, it makes me the youngest of the group.
The opening music and intro begin to play on the studio monitors.
The deep voiceover introduces the program: ‘Right now, your morning Channel Six News with Douglas Kelly and Olivia Campbell, sports with Kurt Stevens, and weather with Sierra Preston.’