At the convenience store, the clerk stares at me as I search the aisles for something to stave off the hunger at three in the morning. I know that stare—the stare of a lost mind, anxious for a fleeting connection so it can feel alive. Disillusionment can come at any age, but this kid—this 20-something community college student who probably still lives at home—this kid with his helpless stare—is not there yet. When that look fades into one of detachment, of resignation, he’ll be like me. He’ll see the world for what it is, and he’ll hate himself for it.
“Can I help you find something?”
His voice catches me off guard, and I look at him for a moment before answering. I can see panic well up inside him. Probably he thinks I want to hurt him--shoot or stab him and walk out the door with a fistful of cash while he lies in a pool of his own blood for the next customer to find.
“I seriously doubt it.”
Granted, I have that look about me. It’s been days since I’ve shaved, and my last haircut was too long ago to remember. Old jeans and a stained t-shirt complete the look. It’s laundry day, but he doesn’t know that.
“Look, either buy something, or get the fuck out of here.”
I look up at him over a shelf of beef jerky. His eyes are wide, and I see his hand just below the counter, undoubtedly reaching for a weapon, or worse, an alarm.
“Okay, slick, have it your way. I’ll take a pack of Marlboros.”
As I walk up to the counter, his eyes grow even wider as he realizes I’ve just asked him to turn his back. For a while he doesn’t move, just looks back at me, shaking. I smile at him, wondering if he’ll give me the cigarettes.
“Well?”
Slowly, carefully, he starts to turn his back while watching me out of the corner of his eye. He reaches for a pack and throws them on the counter. I don’t look at them.
“On second thought, give me the menthols.”
Then it happens, like the flip of a switch. He closes his eyes, relaxes his shoulders, and waits. I pull a ten out of my wallet, pick up the cigarettes, and walk out the door. Outside, I glance over my shoulder to see him staring out the window, but not at me. He’s looking beyond me, through me. He sees what I see. He is what I am.
I didn’t use to be such an asshole.
Home is a motel on the south side of town. It’s dirty and run-down and infested, and it’s beautiful because I can be alone without feeling alone. The walls are thin, and at night I can hear everything in the adjacent rooms. A business man with a cheap hooker. A woman who has shouting matches with no one in particular. A coke dealer who blasts rap music late into the night. I hear these people, and I can know them without having to let them know me.
The manager is a short, bald man with sharp features and a thick Russian accent, and when I get back from the convenience stores he’s waiting for me. His speech is slow, strained, but still intelligible.
“I am raising rates of rooms.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen night, seventy week.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my last hundred. He glances at the bill before looking up at me and shaking his head no.
“I cannot change.”
“Can you wait until tomorrow, then?”
He studies me carefully while rubbing his chin. I’ve been here for a few weeks and haven’t given him reason to doubt me, so he nods and walks off without question.
Upstairs in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and smoke a cigarette before starting another short story. All over the floor are the remnants of my last attempts, and I kick the crumpled pieces of paper everywhere as I shuffle across the room to the small table next to the window.
One of the chief ironies of writing is that sometimes the words you use aren’t as important as the spaces between them. But life, I realize as I thumb the edges of a yellow legal pad, is the opposite. The things that define your life happen in moments. And no matter how long the spaces between these moments are, the moments themselves are infinitely more important.
The next morning, I shower, shave, stuff my clothes in a duffle bag, and go to the bank for change. The teller is polite, not annoyed, when I ask her for three twenties and four tens. She smiles as she hands it to me, and I leave without smiling back.
The nearest Laundromat is a few miles away, so I walk to the corner and catch a bus. The seats are all occupied, so I’m forced to stand in the aisle, one hand clutching the bar, the other holding my reeking duffle bag. Some of the people around me can smell my bag—I can see it written on their faces—while others are preoccupied with their own personal odors. Finally, we get to my stop, and as I leave the bus, I can hear someone in the back vomit. For once, my timing is impeccable.
As soon as I’m in the Laundromat, however, my timing returns to normal as I hear someone shout my name. I turn to see an ex-girlfriend from college, Stacy, run towards me.
“Michael, wow! It’s good to see you! How long’s it been?”
“Three years.”
Almost exactly, if I recall correctly.
“Yeah, yeah. You look good.”
I can tell she’s lying, so I lie back.
“You too.”
She pauses for a few seconds, and I wonder if she wants out of this situation as much as I do.
“So how have you been? The last I heard you were leaving school to write full time. You still writing?”
“Yes and no.”
“Anything published?”
“Not for a while, no.”
“That’s too bad. Well keep working at it.”
This is more than enough. I open my mouth to tell her to go fuck herself, but before I can, she interrupts me.
“Are you married? Kids?”
“No.”
“On both counts?”
“Yes.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“There has to be someone. What’s life without love, right?”
“Love is for real people.”
Finally she takes my hint, and gives me a once over before flashing a look of disgust at me.
“Bukowski, right? When we were dating, it was Russo. What happened to you, Michael?”
When I don’t have an answer for her, she turns and walks back to her laundry.
My laundry finished, I catch another bus back to my motel. When I stop in the lobby to pay the manager what I owe him, he hands me a large yellow envelope.
“Mail.”
Upstairs in my room, my hand shakes as I tear open the envelope. The letter inside is typed, but the signature at the bottom is in pen. I close my eyes and take a breath before reading it.
Dear Mr. Collins,
Thank you for your submission, LIFE OR DEATH.
We regret to inform you, however, that is has been denied for publication. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me at…
There's no need to read any more, so I crumple up the letter and throw it on the floor with the others. As I lay down on the bed, I want to sleep. I want to sleep and not wake up.
Is this all I’m going to be?
Across the room, my pen rests on the empty legal pad.
Is this it?
