I Made Jennifer Aniston Cry

By Mark K. Campbell

These five stories could've maybe happened.

 

In spring 2006, a rural Texan sees a car broken down on the roadside and stops to help. His discovering the occupant is famous is just the beginning of a wild day.

 

In 1985, a man meets a woman with a startling secret. Through the ensuing years, she demonstrates her unique abiity until a chance encounter changes everything.

 

In 2005, a happily married man who loves music ventures off to Austin to seek the elusive "magic moment" of a corporate concert experience. But he gets far more than he expected.

 

Tomorrow, a man sits on the same barstool every Tuesday evening because God told him that's where he would find his soulmate. Jil knows she should flee from this weirdo but ...

 

In December 1971, a young, newly married man strives to become a "real" poet, refusing to believe that song wroters are poets, too. His wife and friends try to convince him otherwise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark K. Campbell
• Release date: Jan 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224451159

Book preview

I Made

Jennifer Aniston

Cry

And Four Other Time-Trapped Tales

Mark K. Campbell

Other books by Mark K. Campbell

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Novels

Sense Vs. Soul

Fat Chance, Indeed

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Collections

The Snake in the Dishwasher

Things Kept Happening

I MADE JENNIFER ANISTON CRY

Copyright © 2023 Mark K. Campbell

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic or electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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First printing: September 2023

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IBSN: 9798857770924

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[e-mail]

facebook.com/markkcampbell

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Cover image by Hayley Stotler and Katie Buckel

For my sister Gay Williams

and others like her who still love to read

Table of Contents

I Made Jennifer Aniston Cry 1

How Could I Not? 29

Runnin’ Down a Dream 45

Heaven Sent 150

I’m a Poet, You Idiot! 192

I Made Jennifer Aniston Cry

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This could’ve maybe happened in the spring of 2006.

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I made Jennifer Aniston cry. Then we had some Oreos. And I got her phone number.

Driving back from town late one spring afternoon, I noticed a white sedan with California tags pulled off on the shoulder on the downhill side of the two-lane Farm to Market Road. Aside from the traffic safety factor, the radio warned that a huge thunderstorm with rotation was due soon over this part of the Texas Hill Country. So, I stopped my pickup.

Inside the car was a woman, alone, on a cell phone, her body turned toward the center console. I walked over to the passenger’s side so as not to startle her, but she quickly whipped her body the other way. I stayed on the shoulder and rapped on the side window. She glanced over then whirled her head back toward the steering wheel.

I tapped again. Ma’am, you could hardly be parked in a worse place on the highway, I said loudly, peering inside. She did not turn. Plus, there’s a bad storm coming. She still faced the roadway. I shrugged and told her back, Okay, but there’s a tornado on the ground about twenty miles from here.

Inside, the woman turned slightly then reached for the button to crack the window on my side. What?

Tornado. On the ground. Others might be forming. Hail. Death and destruction. Substantial mayhem at the very least. She closed the window again. Oh, well, I muttered. Good luck. As I turned to leave, she held a forefinger up for me to wait. So I did. The window re-cracked and her cellphone pushed through.

Tell him who you are and exactly where I am, she demanded, shielding her face with a bent arm. So I did. With the wind picking up even more, I cupped her phone and told some guy that we were west of Llano, and there was no way we could stay on the roadside with this gigantic storm bearing down. My house was closer than town, I said. I gave him my cellphone number, and he, with a voice vaguely familiar somehow, said thanks then asked me to give the phone back to the woman. I returned it through the crack which quickly closed again.

She talked, gesturing often, then placed the phone on the dash, her conversation obviously ended. She sat very still for a few moments, just staring out the windshield. Suddenly, she snatched up the phone, the locks popped, and the driver’s door swung wide onto the empty highway. She opened the back door behind her and pulled out a medium-ish duffel bag.

She turned to look at me across the car’s roof. With a phone in one hand and the blue bag in the other, her hair blowing wildly in her face and everywhere else in the rising wind, Jennifer Aniston walked around the back of the car and up to me.

I recognized her, of course. She said, Matthew said he thinks I can trust you. Don’t try any shit.

You can trust me, I said calmly, if a little loudly because of the wind. And there’s no reason to cuss. We’re educated people here. She snorted like that was an  impossibility in rural Texas. May I help you with your bag? She shook her head no, so we walked to the pickup with me cautiously maneuvering to the highway side to protect her should any traffic show up. My move sent her quickly striding farther away onto the shoulder. She kept the little duffel between us, the world’s worst buffer.

I opened the passenger’s door, and she paused outside, clutching her bag close. Inside the cab of the old truck was a cooler I always carried. It took up most of the middle space—there was room for her but not that bag, I assured her, I can move the cooler, but it’d be faster if you’d just toss that luggage into the bed. It’ll be okay in the back since we don’t have to go far. Jennifer Aniston reluctantly decided to relinquish her buffer, setting it down outside.

She got into the vehicle. I went around and put her bag in the truck bed, flat against the cab, taking care to keep it distanced from the used antifreeze jug that was always back there. Then, with her scrunched up against the door as far as humanly possible, I drove on the highway toward the house about a mile away, through towering, wind-rattled oaks and cedars that bent and whipped. She never said a word the whole time. Jennifer Aniston just kept an iron-claw grip on her phone and split the trip between eyeing me and the thrashing of trees and wildflowers.

It still wasn’t raining yet, but the wind remained just crazy as I turned off the highway onto the gravel drive. Jennifer Aniston asked flatly, How much farther?

Three-tenths of a mile, I said, adding, It might seem like a quarter mile, but it’s three-tenths. While Jennifer Aniston clearly did not seem to care, I did. It always reminded me of Jackie—our road was not a quarter mile long, she always insisted; it became a family joke that it was three-tenths.

At the house. Jennifer Aniston let herself out before I could open the truck door for her. She also beat me to her bag. I motioned for her to please proceed ahead of me up the walkway, but she waved me forward. So, I strode to the front door, turned the key, and again swept my arm forward for her to enter first. And, once more, she declined.

You’re insulting my Southern sensibilities, I said, stepping in and dropping the keys loudly on the small table in the foyer. She did not follow. Jennifer Aniston just hovered in my doorway, her ever-present phone poised for easy access. Well, I said, turning, please decide whether you want to come in or not before the storm blows a bunch of junk into the house.

I went straight to the kitchen and was out of sight when I heard the door shut. Would you like something to drink? I called. She said no faintly from afar. I opened the refrigerator and got me a diet Coke. Then I grabbed the TV remote off the island and clicked on the set while I passed into the living room. I could now look out at the sky through the wide, glass patio doors with windows piled around them that afforded an unobstructed westward view. Jackie again.

The storm had not knocked out the satellite signal yet, so, from the glass doors, I flicked the TV over to the local channel where a weatherman stood before a series of raging red and purple radar blobs that covered most of the Hill Country.

Wow, Jennifer Aniston said behind me from the far side of the room.

Yeah, I said, that’s a bunch of very bad storms.

No, your view. I turned back to look outside where beyond the deck, stretches of white and pin oaks and cedars bracketed thousands of bluebonnets and orange Indian paintbrushes and red and yellow Mexican blankets that ran away downhill from the house through a three-tenths of a mile—always three-tenths, everywhere—long valley then right up again to an eye-level limestone cliff.  All those colors, she said. Very Impressionistic.

Taking a chance that it would put her at ease, I smarted off. Ooh, look who knows so much, Ms. Art Critic.

I was wrong. She peered directly at me for the first time. Let me guess: How could an actor possibly know about art? I suppose you think I’m a stereotypical Hollywood bimbo, some blank-headed blonde.

I certainly didn’t expect that acidic retort. I don’t know about you being blank-headed, really ... actually, isn’t it usually bubble-headed bleach blonde? I quickly added, I was just kidding. Thank you for the view compliment. Yeah, we always liked it. We drank our coffee out there every morning.

Jennifer Aniston cocked her crazy-haired head. ‘We?’

Well, just me now, I said. In the glass reflection, I saw her step back, processing. I kept staring at the distant cliff where black clouds roiled up and up like they were time-lapsed. I’d already discovered it’s easier to just get the explanation out of the way. My wife died six months ago from breast cancer.

Jennifer Aniston gave me the standard I’m sorry and I replied the usual thanks then we listened to the wind wail, making a chinquapin oak limb whap the side of the house. I need to trim that, I murmured.

Turning from the windows, I saw she had now moved as far as the cushy chair, as Jackie and I called it. Have a seat. It’s cushy. Would you like something to eat?

No, but thanks. She sat, putting her phone on the chair’s arm. I slid onto the couch and placed my Coke on the coaster on an end table. We both could see outside as we listened to the chinquapin’s rapping for a while.

I finally said, Your boyfriend, uh, acquaintance, pal, whatever, said he thought he could get here from Austin in about two hours. He might if he can time the storms right.

Friend, Jennifer Aniston said. He’s a friend. I was hoping I could beat the bad weather to Austin, but the car broke down.

Not exactly the kind of car I had you pegged for.

She smiled for the first time. The least amount of attention I can draw to myself the better. I’m Jennifer Aniston.

Yeah, I figured that out.

Jennifer Aniston looked past me into the valley and seemed to relax a bit. Being able to make this drive from California—just me and a bag—has been so nice. She looked through the patio doors where green leaves were flying about with occasional bright flower petals flipping past.  She pushed her messed up hair off her face. It was peaceful. Well, until the breakdown and the storm. But mostly peaceful. She watched the foliage dance on the deck.

I chuckled then saw that she had recoiled slightly and looked puzzled at my laugh. No, no offense, I said. It’s just, I had to smile, that we built this house for that very reason—peace.

You and your wife?

Yeah, I said. Jackie and I were perfectly happy here.

How long were you married?

Twenty-seven years.

Wow. That’s good, she said.

Yeah, I said quietly then we sat and listened to the wind again before I said, You know, Jackie died in that very chair you’re sitting in. Jennifer Aniston started, knocking her phone to the wooden floor. I laughed as she picked it up. Not really. She smiled uneasily. She did die here, though.

I peered for a while through the windows again, in reverie, now not seeing the storm or the trees or the flowers. I’d bring her coffee every morning out on the deck and we ... just sat there ... looking out. And it was okay just to sit. I miss that.

I snapped out of my pensiveness—thinking that Jennifer Aniston probably thought that was a weird thing for me to share—and glanced over at her. She was looking at me with curiosity and, still, some uncertainty. I said, Hey, coffee. You Hollywood sorts love coffee, right? Better get it before the storm knocks out the power. Would you like some? I got off the couch, making sure to walk around it, taking the long way to the kitchen so I wouldn’t pass too close to her chair.

No, she said.

Some food?

No, thanks.

"Do you eat or drink anything? I asked from the kitchen. Then I decided to go for funny again. That must be why you’re so scrawny."

I beg your pardon. She suddenly stood at the edge of the kitchen, phone still in hand.

"Well, you are scrawny. No offense."

Her defenses re-engaged. You seem to say ‘no offense’ a lot. Maybe you should actually consider your words before you speak them. Besides, I think plenty of people would disagree with you about my ‘scrawniness.’

I guess. I did not take offense at being chastised for being unfunny again.

She continued. I work hard to stay in shape.

And, I said, that shape appears to be scrawny.

The word you’re looking for is ‘fit.’

Would a sandwich mar your hard-earned fit shape?

Oh, how original. Telling a thin woman to ‘eat a sandwich.’ Never heard that before. But this being Texas and all, I guess I’d have to eat some kind of sandwich stuffed with hormone-injected cow flesh.

I was surprised at the vitriol. "No, Ms. Activist. And we prefer ‘hormone-infested cow flesh.’ Even though now that you mention it, a few meaty sandwiches would put some meat on your bones. Actually, I was gonna have tuna. Which was probably cruelly captured or evilly processed or shipped or something. Maybe you and some of your highfalutin Hollywood friends can organize a protest and host a spiffy benefit. No offense."

She did not smile. I wondered how we got antagonistic so quickly as the oak limb kept banging. I said, trying to sound obviously sarcastic, Here, you can have your own can to do with as you like, like throw it out the window. Just watch that the storm doesn’t blow it back and bonk you on the forehead or break your scrawny arm. I was pretty sure she knew I was kidding.

She stood looking at me, eyebrows cocked. Fine, she finally said, clearly backing off a tad. I’ll have what you’re having.

She pivoted from the kitchen. I made the sandwiches, got her a water bottle, and returned to the living room, but Jennifer Aniston was not there. Before I could call out, she said, What’s this? from deeper in the house. I put everything down on the living room coffee table and sought her out.

She was in the long hallway that led to the back rooms. I clicked on the light so she could better see that one wall was lined with several frames. Are these opera programs? she asked, clearly not expecting that—no one ever did.

Does that surprise you?

Well, yeah. I’m in Texas.

Oh, I see. I must be some kind of hillbilly. You might be just amazed to know that we have opera here. And shoes. See? I lifted my cowboy boots dramatically.

She said, Those are boots, not shoes. Big difference. Cracking a smile, Jennifer Aniston walked on down the hallway. There’s a lot of program covers here. You must’ve been to more than one opera.

Twenty-eight. She half turned, taken aback. Really, I said. Yeah, we hitched up our horses and moseyed over to the big city to see us some ah-pree. Them fat folks sing right good.

Okay, sorry, Jennifer Aniston said, grinning wryly. I just didn’t expect to see something like this. Here. In Texas and all.

You are forgiven, Scrawny.

Jennifer Aniston finally chuckled and turned to the other hall wall that was thick with photos. This must be Jackie.

Yeah, I said, spying the picture of Jackie from the early ‘80s Jennifer Aniston had leaned in to see.

Wow! she said.

Yeah. ‘Wow,’ indeed. She was incredible.

Are those real?

I chuckled this time. Every bit of her was real.

Where was this taken?

The picture showed Jackie impossibly curvy in a dinky bikini with me, thirty pounds lighter, proudly draping my arm around her shoulders. Cancun in 1983. There were just three hotels on the island back then. Kinda different now.

Jennifer Aniston glanced at me. Looks like you’ve put away a few hormone-infested cow flesh sandwiches since then.

"And they all tasted great. Scrawny I am not."

She ambled farther down the hall. Looks like you traveled a lot.

Jackie liked it, and she liked meeting people, so we went somewhere a couple of times a year. I lingered over that Cancun photograph because it always made me smile. That was quite a week.

When I looked up, Jennifer Aniston was just disappearing into the office door midway down the hall. I guess she’s at ease now, I thought, following her. By the time I got to the door, she was standing before one of two bookcases filled with movies on DVD. I stood in the doorway watching her.

She ran her finger across a row of the first bookcase. At the end of the line, Jennifer Aniston turned and said, I don’t see any of my movies here. I didn’t say anything as she walked two more rows. "Nope. Not even Bruce Almighty."

We were kind of waiting for the opera of that one, I deadpanned.

She gave me a knowing head nod and walked toward the second bookcase, passing a slim door that separated them.  A snobby Texan—I didn’t think such a creature existed. Cocky, yeah, but not snobby.

I smiled briefly and started to