In a Freelancer

A Brief Moment in the Life of a Freelancer

“This cheese tastes rank,” I said.

The crackers broke apart at the slightest touch as the cheese slivered out of the plastic container, and I noticed my empty belly moved about as the cracker entered my mouth. I washed it down with a martini, and my face turned hot.

“Revenge is on,” my friend said.
“Oh.” My head ached and my stomach begged me for more food.
“I’m out of money, and I need cigarettes,” I said.
I peered into the pack.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“I only have four cigarettes left.”
“I can loan you some,” he said.

Jesus Christ, menthols.

“Thanks for the support, but no,” I said.

Flick.

“Well, you can always donate plasma,” he said.

I walked off as he spoke—something about “ice.” The glow of the computer doubled, and I plopped down, my hand rested against my cheek and the smell of dirty laundry crept out from the closet.

God dammit.

Deadline. Three hours.

I watched the screen and listened to the pop! as my notifications assaulted my unconscious.

Cheer up sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean…

My eyes snapped open, and the glow of the computer ravaged my eyes.

Okay. You can you do this.

A writing prompt with keywords and rules and a word count cluttered the screen.

I could work at Target. Maybe I should work at target. They’re hiring. That lady with the mole at Taco Bell seemed nice. Yes, Taco Bell,they’re always hiring.

The screen hummed. I listened, but felt nothing. I couldn’t move, paralyzed by writer’s block—no?

Writers block is a cheap excuse for laziness.

The energy surged.

Okay, you’re great. You’re a master of the English language. You’re unconscious will take over and penetrate the very fibers of writing’s being. You’re a god. You’re invincible.

You smell bad.

I sniffed the fabric of my tee.

No. No. No. This must be it.

I changed, throwing the damp tee into the bin.

My friend knocked.

“Hey, do you wanna watch Veep,” he said, smiling like an idiot.

“NO.”

“Oh, okay. There’s a new Colbert tonight.” He shut the door quietly, too quietly for a human.

I grabbed my face and jumped up—danced around the room in a primordial rage.

Finish this. Finish this. Finish this.

My friend knocked.

“Hey, the last episode of The Office is tonight.”

I pivoted. My hair, tangled and unkempt, fluffed out.

“I DON’T. GIVE. A. SHIT-ABOUT-THE-OFFICE.”

I glared at him.

He stared back, motionless, then slammed the door.

I stood, motionless, and all I could think of was $30 dinners and softball—what?—and the lack of maintenance at the apartment.

GOD DAMMIT!

I ran to the computer and poured out my soul to the creaky machine with not enough RAM to word process—yet, it did. The words, pretentious and non sequitur, filled the digital canvas.

I sat back in utter appreciation of my work.

I opened the door with a start.

“Lee! Queue it up!”