The Writer
Stephen King was once asked how he wrote so many amazing stories. His response was “one word at a time.” King may be a sincere individual, but I have often suspected that he was taunting me directly with that quote. What an asshole.
I wish it were that easy — one word at a time. I have spent day after boring day in the public library and all I have come up with is the title “JAMIE’S WILD RIDE.” It’s not exactly a unique title, but at least it provides me with a jumping off point.
What I want more than anything in life is to be a great writer. No, a magnificent writer. But I learned at a young age that what I want and what I have are like third cousins twice removed who have never met one another. So, I sit and wait for inspiration to strike. I hand write a line or two on a yellow legal pad, then I quickly cross out what I have written. The fancy black and gold Mont Blanc pen I bought for myself has not helped one bit. Nor have I gained any inspiration from countless writing seminars hosted by pretentious academic pricks wearing turtlenecks.
The lion’s share of my day is spent daydreaming about all sorts of things, including being a fantastic and famous writer. But when I use the term “daydreaming,” it would probably be more accurate if I said my mind was “sprint-dreaming.” Because that’s what it is — sprinting from one unrelated idea to the next without focus or order of any kind. One minute I am fascinating myself with a 20-year-old newspaper article I read about shark attacks in Florida, the next minute I am completely fixated on how many miles I can expect to get out of a new set of Goodyear tires.
I’m going to stand up from the library table now, and take a walk around the block. It’s nighttime, and the library is almost empty, so no one will steal my yellow notepad. I will carry my black and gold Mont Blanc pen with me in my pocket just to be safe. There was a suspicious looking character at the north end of the library earlier this afternoon, and I think he had his eye on my pen. He was wearing a dark trench coat with military boots, and he had not shaved for several days. The man may have been mumbling something to himself, but I could not tell. His eyes were squinty and old, and he walked with an exhausted shuffle.
Also, the front desk librarian has been shooting uncanny glances my way and I think she is whispering to the other librarians about me. The librarian wears black horn-rimmed glasses and her hair is a brown sloppy mess with a pencil stuck through it in an unfashionable manner. I have seen her pacing the halls in her long flowery Woodstock skirt and black Doc Martens, re-shelving books. Who wears Doc Martens anymore? The librarian keeps spying on me from the corner of her eye. I don’t like her.
I’m walking down the middle of the street now and I’m feeling hot. I bump my head into something. I can’t tell what it is, so I keep walking. I take off my blue t-shirt and toss it into the bushes because there is nothing wrong with a man walking shirtless in the heat of the summer. I’m still hot after removing my shirt, though, so I strip off my 501 Levi’s (they never go out of style) and my underwear too. I’m still wearing my purple Converse All-Stars and white socks though, so technically I’m not naked. It is a hot, sweaty night, and there is no breeze. I will make my own breeze by running. I’m running now and the breeze against my chest and legs does not cool me off one bit. I have not showered for three days, and I can smell myself. The last time I took a shower I felt contaminants in the water, so I thought it best to skip showers for just a little while.
Cars are starting to honk their horns. I don’t think they are honking at me, although it is possible since I am running in the middle of the road nearly naked. I run past a row of car dealerships with shiny reflective windows in front of the showrooms. Each time I glance at the car dealerships, I see a reflection of a naked man wearing only purple Converse and white socks running, with blood covering his face and chest. The blood is not just covering the man but is drip drip dripping onto his body like a gentle red waterfall. I can’t figure out how this man found his way into the car dealerships without clothes, and how he runs inside the glass. He looks like me, but I know he must be someone else because I am a faster runner than him. I am also much more thin and muscular.
That old, familiar feeling returns to me. I am now viewing all the world as if peering through the dark green dirty water sloshing inside an old pickle jar. Every sight, sound, and physical sensation is tainted with muddy hopelessness and nausea. The sharp fangs of the dark green dirty pickle water fasten to my Adam’s apple and won’t let go. Then, the pestering voices start whispering the bad things that no one wants to hear.
The red and blue flashing lights are dim at first, then they become brighter as I continue to sprint toward the busy lights of downtown Newport Beach. It’s them again. The men in the white coats. Yes, they still wear white coats after all these years. There will be two men, and they will both have incredibly strong hands like a couple of mountain gorillas. The two strong men at first will call me “Sir” as a courtesy, but their patience won’t last long. The forced injection of Haldol will not just call me down but will make me forget who I am for a few days. That may be to my benefit because I don’t want to be this person anymore.
After the Haldol wears off, I’ll find a notepad and a pencil in the mental hospital, and I’ll write something magnificent.
THE END
Find another story by J. Lender here:
