Her First Last Laugh

(An excerpt from Day Five of The JOYful Journey)

I love to write. Always have. 

I’ve not always felt it safe to share my words. 

It probably stemmed from that moment when I left my journals behind in my little-girl-room and had them found and called nothing but lies. 

So, while writing for me came easily—putting those words, my stories into the light, into the hands of others to read, to judge, to possibly negate—that was where I sat on my hands, chewed at my lip, thought . . .

Naw, not right now.

Until one day, I was in Paris—I know, right?! Great line. And truth. 

I was there writing, absorbing, traveling, enJOYing. 

It was 1999 and I had wandered into this little shop. A spot more for tourists than anyone else, but it was cute, French and this bracelet caught my eye.

Something to remember my time here, I thought. 

As I went to cash out, smiling at the aloof clerk, I paused. 

I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying but loved her elegant wave of one hand as she looked down her nose at me. 

Diminué. It finally clicked. Declined. 

In broken, butchered French I asked that she please try again.

With a bit of an eye roll, she did. 

Diminué—again. That was a smirk. 

The card handed back to me with flair. 

The bracelet snatched back with a dash of disdain. 

I left, chin tucked downward, as my stomach dropped. 

My only card and my only path to cash, as I traveled Europe alone.  

I had a few francs in my wallet, enough perhaps to enJOY a coffee and a croissant, but nothing more. 

However, I did not stop at one of the open air cafes along my trek back toward Notre Dame and where I stayed. 

I did not pause to take in the sun reflecting off of buildings older than my own country on this perfect June day. 

Head still down, I felt worry claw at my gut and a tingle threaten my nose. 

I will not cry. I will not cry.

This mantra played on repeat as I hightailed it back to safety, to my one room nook. For the first time not enJOYing the journey. 

My bank, still closed for hours, offered no support. So I considered my options one by one. 

Foreign country.
No money.
Call home and ask Dad for help.

Ah, hell no. I had to figure this out. 

And I did. It just took the better part of the day and several calls with long hold times so I could pace the twelve steps from door to window in my room. 

Demagnetized. Canceled. Done.  

A new debt card would have to be overnighted. A three to seven day—minimum—wait. 

My first thoughts—But how will I survive? How will I eat?

At that time, I was plump with a few extra pounds to spare, so while I was not in imminent danger of my own demise, it sure felt as though I was. 

Done pacing I began journaling out my every feel. 

Three to seven days my new constant thought. 

Mind racing. I wondered if I could wash dishes at a little cafe for a daily meal. Was that even legal? 

So my mind had me in jail—a French jail—where at least I’d be fed. But jail!? For washing dishes?

My mind spinning, I knew I could do this. I could figure this out. There must be a better way, another way. 

To ask for help simply sucked in my world. 

And my Dad, well, damn it all!

I wanted to be a big girl. Not one needing to be forever rescued.

Pen to journal page, I wrote one line over and over and over again—

Call her.
Call her.
Call her. 

When my pen ripped the sacred page, I knew I had to do it. 

I had to call her. The one I had been avoiding for half a year.

And with my stomach rolling like a ship out to sea in a storm, I dialed the number I quickly found on the business card inside my wallet, tucked away where a backup credit card smartly should have been. 

I guess she was my backup card. 

An agent in NYC who wanted to rep and sell my book.

Gasp. I know, right? 

Many, if not most writers would have run with open arms into that conversation—and with a sh*t-eating, mile-wide smile. 

But me, Nope. 

I ran from it, from her, at full speed. 

I kept putting her off until suddenly my back was against a Paris wall and it was either talk to her or end up in a French prison after illegally washing dishes . . . 

Or ask my wonderful Dad, yet again, to help me. 

Ah! This sucks. 

The ringing ended and her New Yorker energy immediately hit me like an open palm to the check. “Yes?”

“Hey, Becks, it’s Jill. Um, Stevens. Maybe you remembe—.”

“You ready for me to sell that book?” She’d never yet let me finish a sentence.

“Well, I think, maybe we talk about how—”

“No.” 

I sucked in a harsh breath as my lungs threatened to close. 

When I wrote, I was bold, fearless, powerful. 

But in reality I was timid, shy, oh-so accommodating and thus, easily bulldozed. Shoved aside. 

“Excuse me?” I all but mumbled into the phone.

“What’s wrong with you?” Everything she said came out a demand. 

“Nothin—”

“You sound far away. Like you’re gonna cry. You still in Bumble Fuc—”

I drew in a shaky breath. “—I’m in Paris. And my card, it’s not working. I have no cash. I can’t get another one till early next week—”

She laughed. She actually laughed as I confessed my fears in a gust of breathless, panicked words—and in that moment I hated her. 

And I also needed her . . . 

That one moment, her laugh changed everything.