“She’s old news, man.”
“Old news? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Bro,” said Frank, who was now to the right of me. He stopped and put his left hand on my shoulder, like a blind man walking next to a person with sight. “I’m just saying this place is like a revolving door; there are new girls in and out of here every day. So if you want to focus on li’l ol’ Mia, be my guest, brother . . . but you’re missing out.”
We walked out the back door and onto the loading dock near the trash and recycling. Frank jumped on top of the giant brown Dumpster, reaching for a latch on a ladder that extended to the roof. He released the latch, and the bottom half of the ladder rushed down, stopping about a foot from the ground.
“Hustle up, lover boy,” Frank said as he began to climb while holding the cigarette between his lips. I gripped the skinny, rusting bar of the ladder. As I began my ascension, I was quickly winded and realized that, for a skinny guy, I was out of shape.
It was peaceful on the roof of the store. Frank pulled out a joint and tried to light it. But the heavy wind blew out the spark. “Ever try to light a joint with a Zippo? It’s the fuckin’ worst,” he said, though he eventually lit it and gestured for me to indulge with him. I politely declined with a slight wave. “Who are you, Ted Daniels? Hit the goddamn joint!” he said.
“Nah, man, that shit makes me paranoid,” I told him.
“Suit yourself,” Frank said, raising his eyebrows as if to say more for me.
“I’m more of a drinker if anything,” I told him. “And honestly, I try my best to stay away from that, seeing as my dad was an alcoholic. Or at least that’s what my mom tells me. She said it brought out his schizophrenic tendencies.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. So it’s in my blood, you know?”
Not seeming to care, Frank just stood there looking forward. Our view from the top of Muldoon’s faced the back end of the store. It was trees as far as you could see. The sun was starting to set.
“I’m gonna be remembered forever,” Frank said. “Immortalized, I can feel it. This is just the start. People will know my name. Maybe it’ll be in infamy, but my name will be known.”
I pulled out my Moleskine to take note of this quote. I found it a bit creepy how sure he was of this. It was even more unsettling because what he was stating was currently happening in my novel. This would be a scene.
And with that, we peered into the horizon. Miles out there were dark clouds punctuated by thunder and lightning. I could feel the storm approaching. Frank’s joint had become a roach. He flicked it over the side of the building and reached for a cigarette. He brought it to his lips, lighting the Zippo. “Looks like rain.”
I went home inspired. I paced back and forth in my apartment, chewing a toothpick, bouncing my red rubber ball. Different ideas, dialogue, and story arcs raced through my head. Thoughts tumbled over one another; they were moving so quickly. Whenever something stuck, I rushed to my typewriter and went to town. The muses were speaking and I was responding. So many things and people—ordinary people I never thought I would meet—having such an impact on me creatively and personally.
I stopped to ponder. Fuck the literary world. I wanted to write something I’d want to read. And isn’t that what art is about, anyway? Expressing yourself the way you want to. Maybe that’s why I had been so scared to actually finish and release a book. Because of what others would think. “You should have done it like this” or “You shouldn’t do that.” A bunch of people, mainly other writers, or people who wished they were, reading your work, telling you why it wasn’t good enough. So fuck them and their established rules. I’m gonna break every rule unapologetically for my audience. The only people I’m writing this thing for, anyway. I mean, think about it. One doesn’t create art for the people who hate it. Plus, when it comes to other writers, if they think it’s bad they’ll hate it because to them it’s bad writing, and if it’s good they’ll be covetous, wishing they had done it, and consequently hate on it all the more. So if you’re making your art based on others it’s lose-lose, and if you say “screw everyone, I’m gonna make something I love,” you’ll win every time. It was actually Alan Watts, the late, great philosopher, who said simply, “Anything you can be interested in, you’ll find others who are,” so this work is for the others . . . like me.
I wrote until 4:00 a.m. As my eyes grew heavy, my fingers slowed down. My head lowered involuntarily. I was asleep at my desk, using my typewriter for a pillow yet again.
CHAPTER 6
PANIC
For the next few weeks it rained. It rained and rained and rained. As dumb as it might sound, Mia was the sunshine through it all.
By then, I was about halfway done with the outline of my novel, and had even written a few chapters. But I was stuck. I’d been experiencing writer’s block because I needed something . . . big. I needed a big event to really fuck shit up, you know? Something the reader absolutely wouldn’t see coming—an event to have them holding on to every word, eager to reach the next page, and the next, and so on.
Back in the supermarket, things were great, but my time in the bakery was done. That was bittersweet because I missed seeing Mia in the mornings, but I was ecstatic I would no longer be working under Bianca the Sucker of Souls.
This week I was in the coffee shop with Cara, and Mia was right, she was extremely sweet and super Mormon, indeed. But she was also super cute and I could completely see why Frank had said he’d had sex with her. As hot as Cara was, my mind was on Mia. I hadn’t had sex, let alone made out with someone, in a minute.
I sat slouched at the counter with the palm of my hand under my chin, allowing the weight from my head to balance lazily.
My mind wandered to visions of kissing Mia, undressing her . . .
Kurtis walked by, with his fucking leather wristband, giving me his usual sneer. It was a look of disdain that I was growing tired of. What a clown. That loser would walk around trying to mack on all the girls at the store. None of them wanted anything to do with his bullshittery. Dude probably subsisted off Monster energy drinks, JUULing, Doritos, and Puddle of Mudd.
His bad energy interrupted my escalating fantasy of Mia. It was a slow day in the coffee shop. And if there weren’t customers, there wasn’t much to do.
I tried to think of something eventful to write about. Writer’s block was the worst. If I wasn’t creating, I felt static. Like a failure. I needed to keep going. I sat daydreaming about possible climaxes. If my book was essentially about nothing, how was I going to bring it to a dramatic resolution?
Cara stood idly, scrolling through her phone. “This bra is killing me,” she said under her breath, adjusting her T-shirt. “Being a girl sucks, Flynn. You’re so lucky . . . Flynn . . . hey, Flynn!”
I snapped back to reality.
“Oh, sorry, what now?” I said, only half paying attention.
“Oh, Flynn, you silly goose, something is bugging me. Can you watch the front for a sec?” she asked, her big blue eyes staring into my soul. Hardly listening, I just nodded, continuing to spitball ideas in my head for something eventful, something not quite climactic but preclimactic. The big bang before the biggest bang!