Bundle of Joy? Read Online Free Page A

by the deadline, an editor would probably never use me again. But the only person I had to answer to at the end of the day was me. I really cherished this about my job. Sometimes I heard people complaining about their bosses and co-workers and I knew that I had made the right career choice. I didn’t owe anyone anything. I could rely on the person I always had— me. I was just starting to feel like my life was normal and my hang-ups were manageable. Even my money concerns and the constant hustle for articles paled against the happiness I felt being a writer.
    I went to the Le Gamin on 9th Avenue and 21st. It’s a tiny French restaurant packed with about fifteen tables where the servers aren’t in a rush and nor is anyone else. There were a couple of other people in the café. When I worked at the nonprofit, my first and only “real” job, I always wondered who all the people were that I saw out on the street during the day. I was envious of their time. Now, I felt camaraderie with them. We were free.
    I scanned the menu and then ordered a chicken ratatouille crepe and a large iced coffee. It was around four, and this wasthe time I usually started to fade. The first sip of coffee hit me quick and I pitied Jamie her self-imposed kick.
    I went over to the magazine rack to grab something to read while I waited. Sometimes I told myself that everything I did was billable, like I was a lawyer. Sure, I was shirking calling other editors, but flipping through magazines meant I was boning up on formats and what types of stories were selling. I was being…productive.
    I was studying my possible employers when my crepe came. I loved how they served it with a salad. For just under ten bucks I had a relatively balanced dinner.
    Some people are scared to be out alone, I actually relish it. My mother thought decent women didn’t go places by themselves. She thought only prostitutes did things like that. I guess I used to wish I had someone with me, but now I’ve sort of accepted the way things are. I like the fact that I make my own rules and have my own pace.
    The idea of going through the whole roommate search again was daunting. Maybe it was time to search for a new place instead of a new person. But I liked my location, my rent and most importantly I liked procrastinating. I doubted I’d ever motivate enough to move out.
    I felt the breeze of the door open, and a group of six mothers came in pushing strollers. They chattered loudly, oblivious to the quiet they were invading. A couple of the kids were crying. The mothers bumped into chairs, including mine, and muttered insincere apologies before settling the posse into the two long tables right behind where I was sitting.
    “Travis, put that fork down,” I heard one mother say. I couldn’t see what was happening, but it was already distracting. I had only eaten half my crepe. I heard the same voice explain “He’s discovering everything.”
    “Wait until he starts walking, we can barely keep up with Shelley.”
    “Lynn has taken her first few steps. She’s been crawling all over the place. I bet walking will be worse. Is Shawn crawling?”
    The women were yelling between tables, completely oblivious to everyone around them. I began cutting bigger pieces of my crepe.
    “Shawn hasn’t started crawling,” I heard a nervous voice say.
    “You have to give him some more belly time.”
    “I try, but everyone’s always picking him up. He’s very vocal, though,” the mother offered, obviously trying to compete with the rest.
    I waited for these women to start talking about themselves, but the conversation continued to revolve around the toddlers. Two of the people who had already been in the café when I got there, settled their bills and left.
    The waitress finally meandered over to the mommy cult.
    “We haven’t even looked at the menu yet,” one of them said.
    I wanted to tell her to look now, because she might not see the waitress again for twenty minutes.
    The