SevenWritez

For the last hour he’d been at his desk, staring down an empty screen. Outside he could hear the occasional car drone by, and earlier he’d heard a dog barking, but since then the world had remained still. He didn’t know the exact temperature of the day—no television or internet—but his stained t-shirt and wet banes said enough. He’d opened the window in hope of a breeze, but outside only the silence carried.

He stared at the screen, his mind debating different variations of the same scene, cutting and gutting until one deemed feasible was found. He typed this, studied it, looked for the flow, the hook, the meaning. Nothing. He thumbed down delete and watched the black wall eat backwards. An hour and two minutes had passed, and here he was, a blank page.

“Fuck this.” He stood and stretched. Anything that could have cracked did. He opened his mouth and spread it wide. His eyes clenched shut. His nose scrunched into a wrinkly ball. A yawn turned into a groan and a groan turned into a sigh.

He pulled his chair away from the desk, sat down, and leaned forward into a leg stretch, head bowed and eyes closed, the white page still there. He sat like this, fingers to toes, for four seconds before his stomach grumbled. He pretended he didn’t hear it. When a hole in his stomached expanded into the Grand Canyon, he pretended he didn’t feel it. When he sat up, walked over to his window, looked outside, and saw a car park along a curb and a kid step out with a Dominoes Pizza box, he pretended he didn’t see it. The smell of baked crust, melted cheese, and seasoned pepperoni rose to meet him like a seductive lover. He shut the window.

The heat engulfed him suddenly, and he peeled off his shirt and threw it into a corner. His chest and stomach glistened.

He returned to his laptop, scooted his chair forward, and attempted a new opener to a new story. It started off with a character named Nathaniel, who he decided would on the surface be both confident and arrogant, but through progression of the tale would be revealed to be in truth a timid and bristled soul.

The scene started off well enough. Nathaniel sat in a chair, looking out his window. The room Nathaniel sat in carried in its description a resemblance to the writers own. Nathaniel had been brooding over a break up he had recently gone through, one that brought to light the insecurities he’d harbored for so long. At this point Nathaniel’s scene in the present took a back drop to the past, allowing time for exposition. Exposition, he knew, was a tool for hacks, but as he’d come to accept his own mediocrity, he no longer cared. Failing to become the literary prince he’d once seen himself as, mainstream was all that remained. When the scene started off with Nathaniel in a Dominoes pizza place, eating a Dominoes slice of pizza, the clack of the keyboard ceased.

He stared at the screen. His stomach implored his rationale. He closed the lid of the laptop, stood, and fetched a button-up t-shirt from his closet. He put it on with perfunctory effort typical to his nature, flattened the upturned collar, and with a lethargic man’s effort scented himself to societies standards through peruse of nameless deodorant. He stepped on an old box of tic tacs on the way to his door. He pinched it off the carpet, shook the container, and emptied it of the two remaining mint capsules. He sighed and imagined winter wind.

He pulled a crumpled twenty out of one of his old shoes and entered the hallway of the building (he was a man prone to hiding his provisions; with an imagination of such caliber, the notion of thieves and break-ins is but second natured paranoia to writers; they will agree to this. Do not begrudge them if there is suspect of pride in their nod). He held his breath and tip-toed along the stained hallway carpet, his eyes focused on the knob of every door he passed. The neighbors were not heinous, but the length to which they chose to banter on was. Rage one moment, sorrow the next, stories which stemmed from work, dreams, relationships, the harsh reality of their own failed lives. He was grateful for the stories they’d provided, but once a person has been leeched for use, a writer no longer needs them, and the attention granted with such astute care beforehand fades in the same manner as a writer’s moral obligation.

At the stairs, he descended and breathed easy. He left the complex and walked to the local café, whistling to himself as he patted his thighs to an incessant rhythm. Cheer on one hand, for he was now free to wander and enjoy himself, bitter self-loathe on the other, for he knew he should write, not flee the act of it.

He entered the café and found the sofa chair that through constant use he’d come to consider his own. Times before he’d bring his laptop, a novel, or a notepad to jot mindless but lyrical sentences. Yet as time had dwindled on and reality kicked optimism from the cerebral premise, he’d began to leave his stock in trade at the apartment, relishing the olden atmosphere captured in only this café, in this chair, in this shadowed corner. It was here he was free to think of his words, but not the future—or lack thereof—they would bring. He sat down and sighed.

“Hey.”

He looked over. A woman sat in the chair next to him. Since when’d they put in a second chair? he thought. He quickly studied the wall from his eye’s corner. A new painting was in the works, too. When’d they start this? he thought. Where the fuck’ve I been for the last few days? The thoughts formed themselves in milliseconds. He smiled.

“Uh. Hi.”

She smiled back. He was taken suddenly by her features. Her hair fell over her shoulder in a braid and ceased descent at the upper swell of her breast. Her teeth aligned in a way that said some time ago, likely high school, she’d worn braces. A row of freckles bridged across the arc of her nose, and from there he looked to her eyes, glacial blue irises that he knew in anger could intimidate, in love could soften. At him they held an amused curiosity.

“So, uh,” she said. “Do you usually sit on people’s papers, or is this a new thing for you?”

She laughed before he’d completely stood from his jump. He looked down, and there in the seat was a thin pile of papers he had not seen.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Here.”

He handed her the papers. She smiled and took them. Leaned into the light, he could see that her hair, which he’d mistaken for brunette, was a dark seductive red. His eyes lingered. She put the papers in a book bag rested against the leg of her chair.

“Oh, you’re fine.” She waved a hand. “My fault. I was just throwing stuff around earlier. I swear I carry a jungle around with me.” She nodded sideways towards the chair, not looking at him. “Was just putting the important stuff over there until I got everything figured out—you’re fine.” She zipped her pack and looked up at him. She extended her hand and smiled. “Amy, by the way.”

The empty of his stomach poked gently into his conscience, reminding him that mere mortals needed supplements to move on. He ignored it. “Earnest,” he said, and took her hand. “So…can I, um”—he nodded towards the chair.

Amy laughed. “Oh! Sure, sure, yeah, of course. I’m sorry.” She waited until he sat down. “I should have moved the papers earlier. Real sorry about that.”

“Oh, you’re fine.” Earnest waved his hand then imitated her nod towards the spot he’d been standing. “Was just doing some yoga for a bit.”

“Clever.”

“I try.” His stomach begged. “So what were you writing? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh, just, um…” she slapped her thighs, which, he saw now, were bare. She wore the type of shorts that were designed to invite men a glance. He imagined her hands to be his, warm palms upon cool skin. “Just a little story.”

A brow twitched and an eye flickered. “Really? That’s cool, you a writer?”

She laughed. “Student. I write in my spare time. I’m, uh.” she stopped to look at him, and in her eyes was the look of a person who estimates the value of trust in an associate. He held her glance and waited. “I’m studying for a bachelor’s degree in journalism at O.U.” She shrugged. “So I guess I write both ways.”

Timidity there, he thought. Journalism’s just a plan B, ain’t it sweetie?

“What about you?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What do you do? Any fun hobbies?”

Call it a curse, babe, and we’ll be on the money, he thought. “Not really. I work at a library. Nothing fancy.”

“Oh, you’re a librarian? That’s neat.”

He laughed. “No, I just shelve the books. I don’t, uh, actually have any major plans right now. Sort of in limbo, I suppose.” He suddenly had the craving to return to his apartment and write. His stomach drummed him from the inside. But, as all of any craft know, it is curiosity that carries the artist forth. “So, what’s your story about? You working on a novel, just a short, or…?”

“Oh, just a little scribble. Mindless stuff. Pretty embarrassing, really.”

“Well, so long as you enjoy it, it’s all good. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He shifted in his seat. “I used to write little stories. I actually wanted to be an author once.”

Amy’s face expressed the same twitch and flicker his had, but unlike her, he’d expected and seen this. “Really?” she asked. “What kind of stuff did you write?”

“I don’t know. No particular genre, just uh…straight up fiction. People in their lives, day by day stories. Ones you see on the street. I’m not into the whole suspense, fantasy, what have you style. Nothing against it, just not my thing. What kind of stuff do you write?”

“I used to write little fantasy stories. Um…” her face turned red, and her lips pursed as if she was about to kiss him. Then and there he wanted to hold her face and lean into her. “Girly things. Talking cats, young girls in the woods.”

“Oh, sounds fun.”

“I was thirteen, jerk.”

They were both smiling now.

“Hey now, fantasy ain’t bad. You write it, you write it. Is it still your thing? Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, all that?” He hated both but decided this was better not to discuss if he hoped, in time, to strip her of her cotton.

“No. No, just regular fiction, like what you said. Things for myself. I don’t think I’d be a good an author, I just write for myself.”

“Ah, well that’s cool.” We’re both liars, he thought, amused. And you’re probably thinking the same shit I am. We’re not dumb. Just playing it. Funny.
He thought of the rejection slips, the failed attempts, the nights of anxiety, the optimism that trickled and faded until it had become just another trait of better days held in memory, before he’d put a stop to his boasting that yes, he was a writer, yes, he wrote every day, and yes, one day the world would see him on the shelves, the critical acclaim splashed like fine ink across the jackets of his masterwork. This before he’d become a library worker, before he’d lost hope in himself as writer. But still, every day, at that laptop, typing away until the sun set or the sun rose.

His hunger finally lost patience. A grumble rose from his from his stomach and ended on a high tuned whine. He blushed.

Amy laughed. “Had breakfast yet?”

“I tend to wait till I’m starving.”

“Oh. Healthy habit.”

“Very.” He looked from his chair across the café to the desk, where two young girls in black shirts and visors sat chatting. They were both young and had blonde highlights streaked through their hair. Their teeth were a fake, pearl white. Their tans were of the spray-on variety, an orange that strained to be brown. Ugly women who think they’re beautiful; shame that so many worked at cafes, otherwise all would be the perfect get away. “Um. So. Are you free?”

“Free?”

He summoned all his charm, aimed his gaze, and smiled. “Would you like to get something to eat? If you’re not too busy, I mean.”

“Oh!” She nodded and then laughed. “Of course, yeah. I’d love to.”

“Alright. Great.” Earnest stood up. “You a fan of pizza? There’s a family owned shop just a block down from here. About a two minute walk. The sun’s been a bitch today, but I’m sure we’d make it without too bad a burn.”

“God, I know. I had my air conditioner blowing all the way here. And yeah, pizza sounds great.” She reached down and grabbed her back pack, slung it over a shoulder, and stood. “Let me toss this in my car first. I don’t want to lug it around.”

“Hey now, you could use it as shade. You know, being a jungle and all.”

“Clever.”

He smiled and opened the door for her.

“Why thank you, sir”. They went to her car, dropped the pack in the backseat, and made their way through town.

SevenWritez

“You want anything else?”

Amy shook her head.

“Ok.” Earnest looked up at the waitress, a young, sixteen year old girl who looked too small for the shirt and pants she was wearing. Anorexic, he’d thought upon seeing her. He’d applied to her a back story, a climax, and an emotional turning point. He wondered what he could work with a pizza shop. “So, yeah, just a medium pizza with pepperoni; nothing fancy.”

“Alright,” the girl said. “I’ll just take these for you.” She grabbed the menus. Her wrists looked as fragile as branches in winter. He envisioned her in the bathroom, kneeled over a toilet with her finger down her throat. The bile was pasty, bubbled with saliva and tinted to a dark mahogany from the nicotine and cola of her diet. The girl walked off, and his imagination reached out to her, looked for her soul, her core, the essence of her life, the center of his craft. He sighed.

“So, you go to O.U?”

“Mm,” Amy toned. Her lips were wrapped around the straw of the Pepsi she’d ordered. His mind substituted the straw for something else. The image departed through guilt. “Sophomore.”

“Ah. How is it?”

“Oh, it’s great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The campus is beautiful. Have you ever been there?”

“Nope. Only seen the website.”

“Oh. It’s real nice.”

“You live on campus?”

“No. I’m staying at my parents. You know, save money.”

“Ah. Well, that’s smart.”

“Yeah. There’s so much other stuff I need to keep my money for, so.” She shrugged. “Yeah.”

Earnest took a gulp of his water. He had an urge to grab the lemon from the rim of the glass and squeeze its contents out onto a napkin, but resisted the impulse.

“Actually,” Amy said. “I never asked, I’m sorry. Where do you go?”

“Excuse me?”

“School. Is there anywhere you’re attending?”

“Ah.” The million dollar question, he thought. Naw, miss, not me, mister limbo can’t get out of his depression. He wants to write, but he can’t write. I should write you about it. “No, actually. I haven’t applied anywhere. My ACT scores were fine, GPA acceptable, teachers ready to refer me if I ever asked.” He shrugged. “Like I said, I’m just in limbo. Still thinking about what to do.” And that’s the perfect thing to say to a potential fuck that’s an intellectual, right asshole? He shook the thought away.

“Cross roads, huh?”

“I guess.”

“That isn’t too bad. Do you have any idea, at least? What you want to do?”

Write, he thought. “No idea. Just wading a bit, I guess.”

“Ah.” She said it the way he had. He smiled at that.

The waitress returned with their pizza. They’d been leaning towards each other over the table but sat up to make room for the young anorexic, who warned them both to be careful, it was hot. He considered the steam rising from the boiling pepperoni and wondered if she was just stupid or if the warning was mandatory. As she left with Amy’s emptied glass he decided he didn’t care.

“I was like that once.”

“Like what?”

“Wading, like you said. Limbo. I was in high school at the time. I think I was a junior at the time. Yeah, junior.”

“Ah,” he said. “The important year.”

“Yep, colleges down your neck and up your ass.”

Earnest envisioned this suddenly in a way he wasn’t sure she intended.

The waitress returned with a glass of coke, put it on the corner, walked away.

“So what happened? I mean, if it’s too personal or anything like that then”—

“No, you’re fine. I don’t mind talking about it now. Um.” Amy drank from her glass. She sighed. Warm breath, he thought. He wanted it. “I used to experiment.”

“Drugs?”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “I’m not saying what I did and what you do are the same, just uh, you know, that wading feeling made me remember it.”

“No,” he waved his hand. “No, you’re fine. I don’t care. So you were a drug addict?”

“Guess you could call it that, yeah.” Her eyes, fine blue, squinted and reared off to the corner, listing off memories. “Coke, marijuana, the usual high school romp. I never shot up, though. Drank with my friends, acted stupid, did stupider things.” She laughed again. “I kept my grades up, though, which is the funny part of it all. Straight-A student. Went to school, did my homework, then went over my friends to puff up. It was an emotional thing more than anything.” Her eyes once again took on a look of appraisal. He’d seen it many times before, and he knew the exact smile, stare, and expression to return; simple practice. “I guess I was scared of growing up.”

Well, he thought. Druggy you and present me would be great fucking friends if that’s the case. Can I get her number, sweetie? Please? “I still am,” he said with a laugh. He untangled a slice of pizza from the goop of cheese and dropped it onto his plate. “Shit,” he hissed. “That stuff’s hot. Jesus.”

Amy laughed and pinched the tip of crust on her side, removed a triangle, and slid it on to her plate. She unraveled the napkin next to her and retrieved a fork and knife. “This is how the ladies do it.” She cut into the end, stabbed it with her fork, blew away the steam still rising from the sauce and cheese, and bit down.
“Count me in, then.” He did the same.






How long it went on he couldn’t remember. The tray where the pizza had been was now but a silver circle sprinkled through with scats of crumbs and blobs of cheese that had been reluctant to leave their home. Amy had gone through her second Pepsi and now busied herself as she drained her third to the halfway mark of its glass. He’d ordered one for himself, and he drank it. The conversation had veered off, returned to a set topic, jumped from one tree to a tangent next, and then swung back with ease. Neither had lost a beat, and Amy had opened up further, while he remained quiet but charming.

“I think that was the problem,” Amy said. “I just kept thinking it was my only way out, you know?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Did you have to go to rehab?”

“Senior year I did. Right after I graduated. Checked myself in and sobered up.” She took her umpteenth sip of cola.

Christ, Earnest thought. How do you not have acne? Is there some make up I don’t know’ bout?

“It was just like, I always felt it was my only way out. Depressed, scared, anxious about every little thing”—

“Insecure?”

She laughed. “Yeah, basically. It was my retreat, and every time I went back I just kept expecting it to get better, for like, magic to take place.”

Know the feeling, he thought. Ain’t a fun one.

“I suppose that’s the problem, then,” Earnest said.

“What?’

“The problem with drug use, the allure of it. I mean, I’m probably talking out my ass, but, like, it’s the hope of a better high. Right?”

Amy sipped. The black liquid was now near bottoms its glass. “Pretty much. The whole idea was to lose yourself to it, the puff, the smoke, any of it. Every time you go back you want something to happen, and when you’re in it you think something will, but”—she shrugged—“nothing does. And you just feel like shit every time after words. It was a bad time, but it’s over.”

Still lingers, I bet, he thought. He wanted to ask her if the after taste ever dried. If, once healed, if truly ever, did you never once look back to who you were and envy them the rush you now live without. He decided against it.

“It was just the life you craved at the time,” he said.

Amy nodded.

He went on. “You aim for magic, and no matter what happens you know you’re too deep into the shit of it to find any good in it.”

She nodded again, but he didn’t see her. “Yeah.” He didn’t hear her.

“The life you crave. Just give it up, though, and you’re better.”

A phone began to ring. Earnest looked up as Amy reached into her pocket. “Aw, sorry,” she said in an embarrassed hiss, but he waved her off just as she had him.

“Hello? Oh. Oh, hey! Yeah, I’m eating right—oh? Oh, when? What?” She turned in her seat to look at the clock hung above where a cash register lay inert. The two hands marked 5:28. “Oh! God, yeah, I’m sorry. Yeah, of course. Of course, alright. Alright. Uh huh. Mhm. Ok. Bye.”

She hung up.

“God.”

“What’s up?”

“I was supposed to meet my friends half an hour ago,” she said. He didn’t press for details. “I’m really sorry. I’m”—

“Hey, no, you’re fine.” Hand wave, a gesture now shared between them. “You’re fine. I had a great time. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Oh, no. I, uh, I had a good time.” She smiled. “I’m real sorry.”

“Well, I’ll admit.” He tilted his head and smiled the charmer’s snare. “I’m a bit hurt. You want to hang out some time? Pick up where we left off?”

Amy perked her lips in a half-snare, half-smile. “Sure.” She nodded towards the door. “My car’s this way, though.”

They paid the tab and left.




He waved as she pulled out of the lot onto the main road. She returned the farewell with one arm out the window. She turned right into traffic, and then she was gone. He looked down at the paper she’d handed him. On it was a number, written in a style near cryptic but very well her own. That was good enough for him.

“Well,” he said to his feet. “Not much else to do but head home.”

And do what? his mind countered. Write?

He laughed.

Only a fool laughs when nothing’s funny, his mind said. Break from this or die to the hopeless high of it, again and again, big boy. Choose.

He looked at Amy’s number and stared. She’d mentioned a cure without intending to. He knew that. He didn’t want to.

Well? his mind pressed. Well?

He only laughed. He pocketed the number, turned for home, and walked.

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” he asked the air.

Nothing answered.

He laughed a fool's laugh.

vasafaxa

Woah, sorry didn't mean to post here.