One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories(11)

It looked okay, on the shelf in his mind.

The Partner, The Racketeer, The Runaway Jury, The Something, The Street Lawyer.

Not great—just okay.

But okay.

But only okay.

But still okay.

If he couldn’t enjoy a morning like this, wondered John Grisham; if he couldn’t appreciate learning about his own number one bestseller in a crisp rolled-up newspaper delivered right to his front door, even now, deep into the internet age; if his book was number one yet again and the reviews were actually perfectly kind … If he couldn’t shrug this off and move on with his morning and have mercy on a perfectly decent guy like Dale who had made a mistake and felt terrible about it … then what was the point? What was it all for?

On the other hand: how did John Grisham become John Grisham? By caring about every single detail. By never letting a single comma go unquestioned. Calling an entire book The Something, by accident? What would the man in the photo in the ad from this morning’s paper—the handsome, ambitious self of ten years ago, still dressing up for photo shoots, still bringing it after twenty-odd bestsellers—what would he think of that?

Manager, John Grisham suddenly remembered. That’s what they were called. Not coach. You coached Little League, but you called yourself a manager, just like in real baseball. Or at least John Grisham did, because he cared about things like that. Or did he just care because the kids cared? Did the kids care? And now that he thought about it, his official biography on the dust jacket always referred to him as a Little League coach, not a manager, and he had never thought to correct it.

John Grisham ran his finger along the trophy and thought back to that championship season, and soon found himself thinking back to the day, years later, when he realized with more suddenness than sadness that he had to call Random House to have them take that part out of his bio because his son was in high school and hadn’t played Little League for years—even though John Grisham still thought of himself, all that time, as a Little League coach.

Manager.

Little League manager.

It really has been a long time, thought John Grisham.

Now he heard the clock tick. Were some ticks louder than others? How come you sometimes heard a clock tick? Shouldn’t it be always, or never? Why sometimes?

John Grisham decided to let this one slide. But just this once.

He thought of his life, and smiled.

Then stopped.

It had been a pretty nice day so far, thought John Grisham; but so far only goes so far.





The Girl Who Gave Great Advice





“Well,” she would say, and then narrow her eyes at the person she was talking to: “what does your heart tell you?”

(Sometimes she would use “gut” instead of “heart.” She switched those up sometimes.)

“Yes. Yes!” the friend would say, as the girl who gave great advice held her squint and then added a slow, small nod one and a half seconds later. “You’re right! Thank you! You give the best advice. I feel so much better. Thank you!”

That’s how it happened most of the time. But sometimes, her task was more complicated. These were the times the person would say “my heart tells me …” (or “my gut tells me”) but would then say something in a tone of voice that made it sound like the person wasn’t necessarily all that happy to be saying what he or she was saying.

The girl who gave great advice knew how to handle these situations, too. She would lower her head thirty degrees and then tilt it back up after two and a half seconds, and ask at a slightly slower pace in a slightly lower voice: “And what does your …” and then she would say either “gut” or “heart,” just whichever one she hadn’t said before. (This was the part she had to be most careful about. Once, she had said the same word as she had the first time—“heart,” twice—and the whole thing fell apart.)

If her first piece of advice hadn’t worked, this second piece of advice always made everything all right. “Yes! Yes! Now I know what to do! You give the best advice!” everyone told her. “The best! Ever!”

Even though it seemed like her job was over, the girl who gave great advice knew she couldn’t join in the celebration just yet.

First, she had to tilt her head down thirty-seven and a half degrees; and then, after two and a half seconds, she had to look up at the person, nod slightly, raise both eyebrows at the same time, and smile. Looks like you figured it out, huh? was the message this conveyed. Even though the problem was already solved by this point, it was this follow-through that would keep them coming back for advice the next time.

After she was done with this part, she really was done, and she could do whatever she wanted to with her face. But she always did the same thing anyway: she smiled, a bright, true smile just for herself, because she really did love being the girl who gave great advice.





All You Have to Do





I wear a bright red T-shirt every single day.

I’ve been doing it for years.

That’s all you have to do to meet the girl of your dreams.

It sounds easy, doesn’t it?

It is. That’s exactly my point. Wearing a red T-shirt is the hardest part of it all, and it’s as easy as could be.

Once I have the red T-shirt on, I just live my life, exactly the way I want to live it. Maybe I take my dog for a walk in the park. If there’s a new bar or restaurant I’ve heard about, I might go and check that place out, and if there are any friends I want to catch up with, I might grab a bite or a drink there with them. But there’s also nothing wrong with going to a restaurant or bar by yourself—in some ways, that’s even better.