Just the Nudge I Needed

By Timothy M. Zuverink

English as a Second Language instructor Trevor McCall lives with his cat in a studio apartment on the north side of Chicago. Its not a bad life but its far from what Trevor pictured for himself at age 38. Not only is he struggling financially, hes also alone. And having been single for the last four years, hes beginning to fear it will become a permanent condition. Nice guys finish last, or so hes been told, and Trevor is definitely a kindhearted, contemplative soul. When not teaching, Trevor tries to fill his time with various cultural pursuits. And while fulfilling, he lacks that one special person to share it all with.

One day Trevor and Scotta musician hes befriended who has recently moved into his buildingrun into a stranger at their local pet supply store and Trevor cant keep his eyes off the handsome somewhat older man. By chance Scott later runs into the same man and decides to make contact on Trevors behalf. It turns out hes a Greek-American named Nick who lives in their neighborhood. And he owns a beautiful Shiba Inu named Jefferson.

Trevor himself spots Nick one night and from somewhere deep inside musters up the courage to approach. There is an instant rapport between them and soon they become romantically involved. Nick is everything Trevor has ever wanted in a partner, and although commitment is scary, Trevor knows that Nick is just the nudge hes needed to get his life moving forward again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491729854

Timothy M. Zuverink

Having spent twenty years living in Chicago, Timothy M. Zuverink is very familiar with the cosmopolitan setting of this novel. He is a former ESL instructor, an animal lover and advocate, and is the author of Tacit Agreements.

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JUST THE NUDGE I NEEDED

Copyright © 2014 Timothy M. Zuverink.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2985-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2986-1 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906192

iUniverse rev. date: 5/13/2014

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

"It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength,

and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much,

and what is done in love is well done."

—VINCENT VAN GOGH

Chapter 1

M y commute home from work, while never short, seemed to take even longer than usual tonight. I probably waited only ten minutes for the 77 bus that took me from Mango Street to Belmont Station, but it felt like half an hour. The same could be said of my wait for the Red Line CTA train to take me from there to Loyola Station. Even the four-block walk down Sheridan Road from the station to my apartment building felt like a mile. I was eager to get home. Tonight’s class had been mediocre at best and I just wanted to put it behind me. I was a trained professional educator, fully certified to teach English as a Second Language. But when the dynamics of a classroom were wrong, they were wrong. And it could try the mettle of even the most seasoned pedag ogue.

I took the elevator up to my small fourth-floor apartment and opened the door. At least there was a friendly face to greet me. Simon, my beautiful orange tabby, gave a quick meow before sauntering out onto our doormat in the hallway to stretch his back and claw forcefully at the heavily-woven tufted material. It was one of our many rituals. Hey there big guy, I said as I reached down to rub his head and ears. He looked up, gave me another meow, and headed back inside.

The next phase of the ritual was for me to lay my book bag on the floor next to the sofa and then crouch down to pet him all over, which I did. He paced back and forth in front of me as I did so and then he suddenly lay down just out of arm’s reach and looked at me as if to say, Why did you stop? I inched forward, ran my hands over him some more, making sure to spend lots of time on his cheeks and ears and under his chin, and then he finally seemed satisfied. With that he got to his feet and marched into our tiny kitchen where he looked up expectantly at the middle cupboard. He knew I kept his bag of treats safely tucked away there. That was the third phase of our nightly ritual: Simon always got a tasty treat just for being Simon.

I’d never seen myself as a cat person until I adopted him four years earlier from the neighborhood shelter, Felines & Canines Inc. But then I’d never imagined myself living alone in a studio apartment trying to start life over again, either. It’s been a rough transition. Really rough. But Simon is the one thing that has consistently helped me get through it. And I’ve come to not only love him but to depend on him.

Four years ago when Mark and I broke up and I relocated to this humble abode I’d first considered a dog since I’ve always been instinctively drawn to them. But then I found out the building had a strict no dogs policy. It wasn’t that the management disliked them, far from it, but dogs needed to be walked and that presented problems for the other tenants. This is a nine-story building with twenty units per floor and only one passenger elevator. It would have been inevitable that dogs would have been barking and fighting on a constant basis. And since there were many infants and children who lived here too, I didn’t want to even think about all of the horror stories that could have taken place. Pets were fine as long as they stayed exclusively in each tenant’s apartment. And when the building manager explained the rationale to me I had to concede that the policy made a lot of sense.

To tell the truth, I adopted a cat by default. Though after living with Simon for this long I can’t imagine I ever showed an interest in any other species. Until I got him I’d never realized what truly wonderful animals cats are. And I also find it hard to believe that I went as long as I did without a fur angel in my life, even while Mark and I were still together.

I live in a large studio apartment, adequate and comfortable, but undeniably more snug than I’d like even though technically in many ways it could pass as a one bedroom. From the hallway I walk directly into my living room and it’s sizable enough to hold a loveseat on one side, a bookcase against the front wall, and against the wall opposite the loveseat, a low cane chest of drawers on which my TV sits and a matching nightstand that supports my stereo. Along the back where the windows are, I have my desk and computer in the left-hand corner and a wicker rocking chair off toward the right near the large painted radiator. I have three somewhat narrow windows in this room, each with a deep windowsill, so I’ve put out a number of potted plants. A turn to the right and I’m in the bedroom, complete with a full-size bed, a nightstand, and a large chest of drawers. This area has one large window, and since its windowsill is also deep, it, too, holds many potted plants. The building is vintage so the ceilings are high and that helps the overall ambiance seem cozy rather than cramped. But compared to the spacious condo Mark and I shared—and which his lucrative salary basically paid for—this current situation seems tiny indeed.

Off from the bedroom is a small kitchen area. It isn’t spacious in the least but it has the necessities—a stove, a refrigerator, a good-sized sink—and I’ve put a shelving unit in there as well to hold canned goods and the like. There isn’t much cupboard space or counter space but those aren’t really important to me. I cook for one now. And it suffices.

On the other side of the living room is a surprisingly roomy walk-in closet and across from that the bathroom. The bathroom is definitely more old-fashioned than I’d like—black and white small tiles and a pedestal sink that doesn’t do much for my sense of esthetics—but at least the bathtub is deep even if it isn’t very attractive.

Fortunately the rest of the place is done in a yellowish golden cream color with white trim and crown molding and the windowsills and parquet floors are a shade of rich, warm pine which I like. It is all very sedate and tasteful and I’ve managed to furnish it in blues and greens and other accent colors that are equally lush but unobtrusive. They say that beggars can’t be choosers, which is true. But I’ve somehow done alright for myself despite my seemingly constant financial dire straits. I’ve created a refined ambiance on a hillbilly budget, something I’d never imagined I could do.

The green foliage helps, of course, so after giving Simon his treat and kicking off my shoes I went over to turn on the two sunlight lamps for the plants. My windows face north, not the best for growing things even on the sunniest of summer days, and now that it’s October my plants can really use the extra boost. I have an eclectic assortment of greenery planted in an array of ceramic pots, all packed closely together. I’ve left just enough room for Simon to have a perch on the bedroom windowsill and he somehow manages to squeeze himself onto one of the three living room windowsills despite the fact that there’s really nothing of interest to observe from there. I’d expect it to look like a hodgepodge but surprisingly it doesn’t. And the vegetation definitely flows with and livens up the rest of the small living space. I would never call myself a gardener but I do have the rudiments of a green thumb. And that, too, surprises me considering that I’ve spent my entire life in very urban Chicago.

As a kid growing up my family lived in an actual house with an actual yard area, but no one, not even my mother who’d been raised on a farm, seemed to give it much attention. I don’t know where my love of plants and nature comes from. But I’m thankful that I do appreciate them.

I changed into an old sweatshirt from National Louis University, my alma matter for my master’s degree, and then put on a pair of warm-up pants. I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and patted my lap for Simon to jump up and join me. He’s not a true lap cat but he does enjoy his fair share of attention while resting on my legs. I know I enjoy it, too. Simon is my first cat so I don’t have much experience to go by but he has turned out to be much more affectionate than I was lead to believe cats normally were. The media often portrays them as being standoffish and aloof but nothing could be further from the truth, at least in his case. He’s a loving bundle of joy, no question about it. He’s also proven to be exactly what my psychiatrist would have recommended, that is, if I’d been able to afford counseling sessions.

As he lay there softly purring while I petted him and stroked his fur, it struck me again how truly therapeutic pets were. For a moment I swore I could literally feel the oxytocin being released into my brain. Tonight’s class had been frustrating—mostly the students’ faults, partially mine—and it was nice to be able to give my full attention to an appreciative living being and let the anger slowly dissipate. I’ve often read that pet owners lived longer than non-pet owners. I had no reason to doubt that finding and believed it with every fiber of my being.

Part of the lesson tonight dealt with conditionals—would, could, should—and for a practical application I had each student share a short blurb I had prepared about someone facing a personal decision or dilemma. It was then up to the other students to offer advice, beginning each suggestion with the phrase, If I were you, I would… My students, though they come from several countries and cultures, are all legal adults and each has some solid life experiences behind him or her. Perhaps I was expecting too much but the whole thing just fell flat. I tried some variations on the theme but nothing really clicked. Except for a couple of them, the others just sat there like bumps on a log. Part of the job of any good teacher is to motivate his or her students so I switched to simple open-ended sentences such as If I were President I would… and If I were a millionaire I would… but even this failed to get much of a response. It wasn’t that the material was too difficult. It was simply that they were being apathetic. And then I myself started becoming apathetic. And then the next thing I knew I began to develop this nagging tension headache running up from my shoulders and neck…

Well, it was over now. And I wouldn’t have to see that class again for at least a few more days.

Simon eventually had enough physical contact and hopped off my lap to go grange at his food bowl. He then made his way onto the loveseat, and though I couldn’t see him from the bed, I knew from previous experience that he then stretched out and started to preen. Once that was done he let out a loud meow and finally curled up to take another nap. Rough life, huh? I called out to him, though he made no noticeable reply.

I decided to go turn on my computer and see what was happening in the world. I had emails to catch up on and Facebook posts to read and as always there were games to play and news articles to browse. There was nothing that couldn’t wait, of course, but the whole checking-the-Internet thing was now a deeply ingrained habit and it provided a leisurely way to unwind.

I first went to my trevormccall account, a run-on version of my name, Trevor McCall. That was my professional email address. Tonight there was nothing new that was worthy of note except for a newsletter from one of the English-as-a-Second-Language teachers’ associations I’m a member of. I glanced over it quickly and decided to read it in more detail later. I’m on a number of progressive political lists and I get barraged with more monetary requests than I care to think about. Tonight, as usual, I deleted them all without a second thought. It was the same with the handful of charities I support—and the numerous other charities who’ve gotten my email address through them—and I was done in a matter of minutes.

I then went to my other email address, trevorsendeavors, or rather Trevor’s Endeavors, a name which sounded cute when I first came up with it but now seemed a little corny. This was the account I used for personal matters. My friends wrote me here. As did organizations and websites I didn’t wish to share my legal identity with.

There was nothing from anyone that needed immediate attention and I was glad. I gave a small sigh of relief and decided to go to my Facebook account to see what was happening there.

I probably should have first gone to my bank’s website but I knew the numbers in my savings and checking accounts would only be disappointing. I should have checked on how my IRA was doing but I didn’t expect to see anything positive there either. And I certainly wasn’t in the mood to verify my credit card statements. It’s not that I’m bad with money, quite the contrary. It’s just that I’ve never had very much to be savvy with in the first place.

I have fifty-six friends on Facebook. That’s not a large number compared to most people but I try to limit my list of contacts to those who really are my friends or at least close acquaintances. It always amazes me when I scroll through the names how few of the people are still in Chicago. There are those I’ve known since high school and others I’ve known since college and grad school. Some on the list I originally met at church. Some are various colleagues from the schools I’ve taught at. Everyone is a person I first became acquainted with here in Chicago. But almost all of them, except for me and a mere handful of others it would seem, have gone on to other adventures in new locales. If I think about it too deeply it makes me feel as if I’ve somehow been left behind.

Not much seemed to be going on late on a Thursday night but I still found some interesting and humorous posts made by people during the day. My friend Ben in Seattle always shares the funniest photos and cartoons. I have no idea where he finds them all but I deeply appreciate his effort. My friend Dominic in Atlanta shares a number of philosophical items, proverbs and maxims really, but they always give me something to think about. My friend Susan in Wisconsin is an avid wildlife photographer. She shares her own work as well as photos by others and they all somehow take my breath away.

I didn’t have anything noteworthy to post myself tonight, but I signed and shared a petition from Amnesty International and another from Environmental Defense Fund. I shared a photo of a pit bull desperately needing a home or foster through Chicago Pit Stop Rescue and a photo of a border collie through Famous Fido Rescue.

Do I think it’s going to do much good? No, not really. But as the old adage goes, It is better to light even one small candle than to curse the darkness. It is always better to do something, even if it is minor, than to do absolutely nothing at all.

My friend Lisa and her family in upstate New York have a pit bull they adopted through a local shelter there. My friend Ian and his family in central Pennsylvania have a beagle they brought home from an animal shelter in a nearby town. My friend and former colleague David and his partner Kevin in Montana have a pair of stunning Siberian huskies they rescued. And while I can’t take credit for any of that, I do hope I somehow played a small part. I’ve shared many photos of animals over the years and if nothing else I want to believe it has prodded my friends to think in terms of adoption, not purchase. Who knows? They may have always been strong advocates of shelters and rescues all along. But I like to think that these dogs found loving homes with at least a little influence from me, even if these weren’t dogs whose photos I ever shared.

I played a game I like called Bejeweled Blitz for a while but then decided enough was enough. I turned off the computer and got up to stretch. And I had to use the bathroom more urgently than I’d realized.

Once back in the living room I turned on my stereo. Chicago has a wonderful Classical music station that I often listen to, WFMT, but tonight I wanted to put on some music of my own. I pulled out a CD of Haydn string quartets that had been a present from Mark years earlier—I tried not to dwell on that—and put it into the machine to play. The music was somber, but not overly so, and it fit my general mood rather well.

I switched on my floor lamp, grabbed the novel I was currently engrossed in, Nadine Gordimer’s The Pickup, and stretched out on the loveseat to enjoy it. Simon gave a scolding Wraaah! when I disturbed him, but he got over it with no problem and was soon leaned against my leg sleeping contentedly again as if nothing had happened.

There are simple pleasures that are simply priceless, I found myself reflecting. And what I had at this moment was one of them.

After tonight’s class I was sorely in need of a simple pleasure. We had touched on a couple of issues that had hit personal raw nerves and I was still subconsciously nursing my wounds. Nice guys finished last, or so I’ve been told, and apparently it was true. After four years I was still alone. And it was beginning to feel as if I always would be.

I’ve made a couple of attempts at the whole bar scene routine but it just isn’t my style. I’ve tried to meet guys online but the results so far have ended up being disastrous. I’ve been in enough solid relationships to know that the man I’m looking for has to want me, not some imagined character he wants me to be. And that, it seems, is the crux of the problem. The man I am isn’t enough for most people. Though at this point in my life can’t really change that.

I’m a nice guy. I love my cat. I struggle through life and still try to make a positive difference. I’m introverted. I’m contemplative. And sometimes I can be downright eccentric and I know it. But I don’t apologize for any of it. I am who I am. Take it or leave it. And though in the world of romance that means the odds are definitely stacked against me, then so be it. I’m the wallflower no one ever asks to dance. I’m the pariah no potential lover dares go near. I’m the ugly duckling who never does become a swan. At least I’m authentically me. I’m lonely. I’m scared. I’m a number of other things I’d rather not be. But at least I’m true to myself.

I’m a nice guy. I love my cat. What the hell is wrong with that? Why the hell is it never enough?

Chapter 2

I t was a sunny day when I awoke Friday morning and it put me in a tolerable