As Winston carefully pulled out the ninety-first spaghetti noodle from the bag, he studied its length. Deeming it appropriate, he used two fingers to grip one end and his other hand to cautiously settle it into the hot pot of water burning atop the stove. As Winston proceeded to pull out the next noodle the sharp ring of the telephone alarmingly interrupted him.

“Hello?”

“Hello sir, my name is Emmanuel. I’m a Game Master.”

“A Game Master? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a profession.”

“There are very few of us. It’s quite a competitive industry, frankly. I specialize in Crossword puzzles, though I create other games too. I appreciate you answering this call sir, very kind of you, Mr. … Mr. … , what’s your name, sir?

“Winston. Winston Smith.”

“Ah! Winston Smith, one of the greatest characters ever! A true tragedy! I’m excited now! Do you consider yourself an anarchist, Mr. Smith? Do you “go against the grain”, so to speak?”

“No, I’m just a regular guy. My parents were conspiracy theorists. They loved Orwell. 1984 was practically their bible.”

“Wow, that must have been quite the upbringing. Your head is probably filled with questions.”

The water began to boil and Winston realized he hadn’t reached his one hundredth noodle. Letting out an audible sigh of irritation, he drained the pot and discarded the incomplete soggy noodles. It wasn’t often that Winston’s dinner preparation could be thrown off so easily. Becoming annoyed, Winston continued with Emmanuel.

“Excuse me sir, but I’m cooking dinner. Would you mind telling me why you are calling?”

“Of course, Mr. Smith, of course, my apologies. The reason I am calling is because I need your assistance creating my next Crossword. You see, the theme is ‘The Everyday Man’ and I need an everyday man, like yourself, to provide information on all things constituting an ‘everyday man.’”

“The Crossword will be published in next weeks edition of The New Yorker. For your service, you will be compensated with a quarter of a percent of the overall earnings of the newspaper, which is exactly equal to what I’ll make. That’s half my earnings for your generous contribution, Winston. An hour of your time for what will surely be thousands of dollars, sir.”

After a moment’s pause, Emmanuel continued, “A friend of yours, Julie, referred you as the perfect choice for my puzzle, however, given the implication of your name, I’m now under the assumption that she could have cloudy judgment.”

Winston had been in love with Julie for years and loved reading her stories in the short fiction section of The New Yorker. He often fantasized about their lives together and frequently imagined scenarios in which he could spend time with her. Hearing that she described him as an “everyday man” hurt Winston, but knowing that she thought of him at all was exciting. The last thing Winston wanted was to let Julie down, plus the added bonus of a tidy sum of money was appealing.

The truth was that Winston was, and is, an everyday man. Winston rarely acted on impulse, or took on new opportunities. After a period of reflection, Winston decided to accept Emmanuel’s proposition, seeing it as an opportunity to gain favour with Julie. Through the medium of a crossword, Winston would solve the puzzle of Julie’s heart. From there, he would work on his perception as an ‘everyday man.’

“Emmanuel? I would like to represent your next Crossword puzzle.”

What followed next was a self-admission from Winston, “I am an everyday man, Emmanuel. I don’t revel in it, but it’s true. Looking critically, I don’t believe I possess any distinguishing traits or obtain any unique features. It’s hard to admit, but it’s the truth.”

Wanting to capitalize on the opportunity to gain credit with Julie, Winston continued, “Please acknowledge me in the title of your puzzle, Emmanuel. I would like to be recognized.”

“Oh, but of course!” Emmanuel responded.

“Should we begin then? I think we shall. Are you married?”

“One day, but not currently.” Winston responded. He did, after all, picture himself marrying one day.

“Are you close with your family?”

“Not at all. Like I said earlier, my parents were oddballs, they doubted everybody. I was raised in an environment that encouraged me to approach people with suspect. I choose not to live that way. I believe in authenticity and love people.”

Winston sat at his kitchen table and let his eyes drift across the room.

“Okay, great. What is your preferred method of transportation?”

“I like walking.”

“I had a feeling,” Emmanuel remarked back.

The interview continued in this nature for about an hour and ended with Winston and Emmanuel exchanging payment details and “next steps”.

“What day can I expect the puzzle to go to print? I’ll finally be able to solve a New Yorker crossword!” Winston exclaimed in a dignified sort of tone.

Chuckling, Emmanuel retorted back, “Next Friday, Winston. Thanks for your time, have a good night now.”

Winston felt eager as he hung up the phone. He decided to take a bath. As the hot water filled the tub, Winston grabbed the open bag of uncooked spaghetti noodles and recklessly emptied its contents alongside the flowing water, abandoning his previous inhibitions and snapping several noodles in the process. Undressing himself, he proceeded to guilelessly soak himself in the bathtub among the noodles. Winston imagined Julie lying across from him, her skin as soft and tender as the spaghetti.

Closing his eyes, Winston continued to imagine his life with Julie. The Everyday Man starring Winston Smith, Julie read with pleasure. My, Winston! I didn’t realize you were such a success in print. I’d love to feature you in one of my stories, Winston dreamed.

Over the following days Winston changed all his habits but one, he continued to read Julie’s daily stories in The New Yorker. On Monday she wrote about sunflowers. “A passing jet flew stagnantly across the sky’s blue ocean. The field of golden sunflowers swayed in harmony with the music of the jet,” read one of the passages. Winston envisioned himself among the flowers with Julie at his side, her hand in his. On Thursday, Julie wrote a poem called Red. Winston thought of himself walking up a big red carpet and Julie with bright red lipstick, bestowing her with a bouquet of red roses. Winston imagined Julie wrapping her arms around him, her gentle hands stroking the back of his neck.

Just one day left, Winston thought.

Friday’s edition of The New Yorker arrived a few minutes later than normal, causing Winston to become anxious. When the paperboy threw a copy on Winston’s doorstep, Winston waved happily back at the boy. He ripped open the band circling the paper and flipped to the Arts & Culture section. Today marked the first day that Winston would start with a feature of the paper other than Julie’s stories. He turned to the page containing the puzzles and read the title of Emmanuel’s crossword.

*** BOTANY ***

A misprint perhaps, Winston hoped.

ACROSS:

1: Small shrub (4)

2: A candle’s scent (4)

Not a misprint, Winston grieved. Perhaps he’s just late getting it done, Winston hoped again. It’ll be out tomorrow.

At this point, Winston flipped to Julie’s story. A nice pick me up is exactly what Winston needed. He’d gain comfort in Julie’s soft language. As he turned the final page to reach The New Yorker’s story of the day, his eyes grew to the size of baseballs as he read the title:

The Everyday Stalker: A Profile

Julie Madoff

It could be a neighbor, an extended relative, an ex-classmate, or perhaps a fan of your work. In any case, in today’s age women must remain vigilant to safeguard themselves from the obsessive creeps in their lives. What does he look like? Where does he work? Though simple details of his existence may alter on a case-to-case basis, a few identifiable traits are uniform.

He’s single, lives alone, and takes frequent walks…

The print stared blankly at Winston and the ink lifted itself from the paper. Feeling faint, Winston dropped the paper, tilted his head back and closed his eyes to the darkness.