The Ugly Cardigan

Or the price for a writer’s success. My entry in the Wicked Writing contest. It was damn fun to write!

“What the hell, Debbie?!” Jeff’s yelling resounded through the whole house.

“What is it, honey?” His wife hurried to the basement on her tip-toes; better not upset her mister any more. He seemed annoyed already.

“What did you do?!” The fourty-year-old man had a desperately-childish expression of horror all over his face. He clutched a fuzzy clump of yarn in his hands. Once it may have been a grown man’s cardigan, but now it could only fit a skinny teenager. Jeff shook it in Debbie’s face. Then held it to his chest - oh the heartache!

“It’s… it was my lucky cardigan! My writing cardigan and you knew it!” Tears gathered in Jeff’s eyes, “you knew it! How could you do this, Deb?”

“Well, I didn’t… I don’t remember putting it there with the rest of… oh, Honey!” Debb attempted to embrace him, but Jeff pushed her away.

“It’s the same every time, Deb! I know what you think - you ain’t getting anywhere with the writing, Honey! Now why don’t you do something useful, like fixing the kitchen sink?!” Jeff mimicked his wife.

“No, Honey, please! I don’t even sound like that! But the kitchen sink could use…”

“Don’t!” Jeff screamed,  and stormed out of the basement, out the house and into his car. He drove off with the tires howling.

It was always the same - ever since he decided to persue his dream, and what a dream it was! It couldn’t go wrong! Jeff just knew it. He was made for writing. Each and every step he took throughout his life had led him to the sudden realization - he was born to write. No! Not just write! To become a best-selling author. He had everything to succeed - the talent, the time, all the right ideas, both the typewriter and the laptop, but most important - his lucky cardigan. The old wool thing had belonged to Jeff’s Grandpa - a best-selling author. His books graced the shelves of every library of the state and Jeff shall bathe in this glory! No, he will surpass the old man, for sure. It took a while for Jeff to comprehend, but the gut feeling, the gut feeling was telling him - you are destined for great artistic depths.

Grandpa wore the cardigan every single time he wrote. It had never EVER been washed, but this woman dared to commit the heresy - she destroyed it. Of course, it was on purpose - today was the day. The Big day. Jeff’s Grandpa’s good friend, the publisher, agreed to take a look at the finished manuscript. Two years of methodical writing, one - editing, this would culminate in the perfect moment - Jeff would sit by his desk, steaming-hot coffee on his left, laptop on his right, glasses on the tip of his nose and the crown jewel, the lucky cardigan hugging him reassurringly. He would take a deep breath and press “send”. Perfection! Not anymore. Ruined. Desecrated. The wool misery laid on Jeff’s lap, while he drove… where? Jeff’s eyes searched the shop windows for salvation, until he turned onto a tiny dead-end street. This was his life now - a dark place with no way out. Maybe Debbie was right? Writing could get him nowhere… once he did have a good job, a normal life. Away with the vile thoughts! His gut feeling was louder than all of Debbie’s well-meanth advice. He had sacrificed far too much for the cause, and Jeff was willing to do whatever it takes. He will succeed at any cost!

Jeff stopped the car. His grey eyes widened staring at a dusty window of a second-hand and antiques shop. It had no name. The place looked abandoned. What cought Jeff’s attention was a glorious cardigan - moss-green, knitted wool angel, it shone in the morning sun, hung on a manikin. It was a sign! The gut feeling could not be misunderstood - it whispered “your work will be a timeless classic, but you need the cardigan!” Jeff ran to the shop, the door opened, a tiny bell rang, clouds of dust glittered in the sunlight, risen by Jeff’s quick stride. He paid no attention to the junk in the room - there! There it was! The last ingredient to his success.

“How can I help you?” a low, idle voice followed him. Jeff glanced back. A man appeared from the darkness of the shop. Jeff grinned to himself - the guy himself was a piece of antique furniture. He very much could be mistaken for a plastic skeleton, like the one on their left; the man was a mess of wrinkled skin pulled over bones, his eyes sunk in the dark holes of the bold skull.

“I’m buying this, I don’t care how much it costs,” Jeff replied with his eyes glued to the cardigan.

“You don’t care?”

Jeff rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, I’ll pay cash or card or whatever you want, just give it,”

“What’s the hurry?”

The man paced to the manikin, his stringy fingers unbuttoned the cardigan.

How slow can you go?! Jeff cursed internally.

“It’s not cheap,” the man didn’t hurry not one bit. He carried the moss-green-saving-grace to the counter.

“How much?”

The man’s pale lips curled up in a vicious grin.

“How much are you willing to give for success?”

Jeff furrowed his brows. What kind of a question was that? The gut feeling said - you want the cardigan? Then answer!

“Well, anything. I’ve given it too much time, thought and energy to fail. That’s why I need the cardigan. I cannot fail!”

“Anything?” the man stroke the green wool lovingly.

“Yes, yes, just give it!”

“Would you give your soul?”

“What? My - what?!” Jeff exclaimed. Lunatic! He should’ve guessed - places like these were full of weirdo’s and cultists.

“But if you don’t want it… I was about to burn the damn moth-infested thing,” The man shrugged casually.

“No, no, no, no! I’ll… I’ll take it,”

“And the price?”

“Take my soul, whatever, I don’t believe in that stuff anyway!” Jeff exclaimed. The annoying old cultist!

“Sold! That will be one soul and $ 11.99, sir,” the cash register dinged.

Jeff gave a quick laugh - what a joker! He took the cardigan from the man’s ice-cold hands and held it more gingerly than he had ever held his new-born children.

“You sold your soul for an ugly sweater?!” Jeff’s friend Rod laughed out loud. All the people in the bar stared at Rod, his laughter was the sound of a wild horse neighing. Jeff had to celebrate his new-found lucky cardigan. All the stars had aligned for him to find it and buy it.

“A cardigan. Yeah, that’s what the cultist said. I don’t believe any of that stuff,” both guys finished their beers (Jeff - a non-alcohol one. No need to take unnecessary risks).

“How’s Debb?” Rod asked.

“She’s the one who almost destroyed my success. She’s not supportive. I don’t even know why are we still together. A force of habbit, I suppose,” Jeff shrugged.

“You need to treat her better, man. No other woman would put up with you,” Rod laughed again and tapped Jeff on the shoulder. Both parted, Jeff drove home through the safest streets. He carried the cardigan into the house, his steps reverent; it was a sacred procession from the door to his office. There was no sign of Debb in the house. The place was unusually quiet without Debb’s ungoing “oldies-goldies” blasting all day long. Another way of hers to sabotage Jeff’s grand mission; he had to use ear plugs to write. No kids were yelling at each other just to annoy him, although they were supposed to be back home from school by now. Teenagers, go figure! Jeff approached his desk. Somebody had left a coffee mug for him. Oh, nice try, Debb! Jeff will not forgive her for the destruction of his lucky cardigan that easilly. Jeff unfolded the moss-green wonder and put it on with a sanctimonious determination - the time had come! The moment of greatness! He sat down, opened his laptop and put his black-framed glasses on the tip of his nose. Glorious. He typed the e-mail, checked the  file of the manuscript for the hundredth time. Attached it. One more step to perfection. The scent of coffee tickled his nose gently. The cardigan embraced him like a moss-coloured armor. His luck was well protected. With a stern finger Jeff pressed “send”. The happy “swoosh!” of the e-mail made his heart skip a beat. All was fulfilled.

He reclined in the chair - time for a victory drink. Jeff sipped the luke-warm coffee. He noticed a note glaring from underneath the mug. Jeff grinned - nice try again, Debb! He picked it up - however can that woman explain herself?!

“Dear Jeffrey! You are willing to give anything to succeed, but I am not. I took the kids, we’ll be at Rod’s. He offered to help untill we find a better place.I hope your dream is worth it. Debbie.”

A sudden pain stung Jeff’s chest. The moss-green blessing had turned into a curse - it pierced his heart, the soft threads becoming knitting needles. A skeleton-like old man carved the soul out of  Jeff’s chest with a blunt blade.

“Success is not cheap, it always comes with a high price. Pay up, friend,” he said and gave a low chuckle.

“Do you have any special requests? Maybe the decesased had something peculiar you would like him to be buried with?”

“Yes… yes..” Debb stuttered sobbing, “his lucky cardigan. It’s an ugly old thing, but he would have loved to be buried wearing it,”

“The cardigan,” the man at the funeral services wrote down in his notes.

The funeral guests could swear Jeff’s face had an expression of unnamed horror on it, as the lid of the coffin was closed over his green-cardigan wearing torso.

Green moss grew on the grave. Debb arranged for a large tomb stone to be placed on it. It was no trouble at all since she had the money from her late husband’s book sales. It was an absolute success! A bestseller of unseen splendour, praised by both critics and readers alike. “Here lies the New York Times best-selling author, a husband and a father…”