Wannabe

Writer's Block so here is something I wrote back in 2001

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Sometimes instant success allows a person to choose between maintaining their respective place in stardom where they can live off of their past accomplishments or they may dwindle into obscurity, not letting the world see the true character behind the mask they choose to present to the world. Erving Goffman would be proud.

“May I take your order sir?”

“Yes, I’ll have the penne with the Alfredo sauce. Oh and uh, no asparagus.”

“Very good sir. Would you care for anything to drink?”

“No…water will be fine, thank you.”

He never drank anything but water when going out to eat on account of it taking away from a well thought out , carefully prepared meal. For him, one drop of alcohol can make any meal taste like that last meal prisoners on death row get before they are to meet their destiny. The meal will always taste fantastic, but as the night progresses and the booze begins to take its toll, eventually the only thing that would seem to be able to ease the pain is either sleep or lethal injection and for some reason sleep never seems like a viable solution. If he was going to drink, he was going do so in the privacy of his own home …alone. This was done so frequently it became worse than a routine, it became a bad habit. Turn the lights down to a dim level, slip on the first C.D. his fumbling hand snatches off the custom made oak shelf designed by Mel, the old carpenter who used to live in the apartment next door to his, and sit back in one of the two chairs in his four bedroom apartment which was situated right in the heart of trendy Gastown where just a few blocks away sleeps the degenerates and the misguided of Vancouver’s version of skid row.

The rest of the apartment is a melancholy blend of all things tasteful and kitsch. Old wedding photos embedded in exquisite platinum displays surrounded by unopened collectible Pez dispensers, Framed Georgia O’Keefe prints showcased on the same walls as movie posters of Shaft and The Big Lebowski, a collection of antique engraved pens being flaunted out of old cans of the now defunct crystal Pepsi. Each room was as diverse as the decorum. The first “bedroom” on the left contained nothing except awards and certificates earned throughout his literary career, cluttered up in a corner as if petrified of whomever entered the room next. He had been meaning to find another shelf or display case in which to put them on however the only time he ever seemed motivated to do so was late at night starring wide-eyed at the ceiling, unable to sleep while making a mental note that “tomorrow I’m finally going to do something with all those awards “, only to drift off and forget come morning which leads to the same one act play the following night provided he was not drinking heavily (which was more frequent than the shelf insomnia). This routine has been going on for close to two years ever since he found his ‘Simon Fraser University Contribution to the English Program’ Plaque on the bottom of the pile, chipped in three corners with a scratch going across his name making it illegible which was more a scar for the ego than a simple scrape, however nothing has yet materialized.

In the room adjacent to that one is unidentifiable to most people however it was originally designed to be known as a bathroom. With the exception of a toothbrush and a stack of Readers Digest magazines with someone else’s name, Joseph Jenkins, and address, 2298 Hempley Ave, apartment 222 on the bottom right hand corner the room was bare. The magazines were courtesy of a seemingly unsuspecting neighbor (John’s apartment was 223) who would repeatedly bang on his door inquiring as to what had happened to his most recent issue. Not every issue was “borrowed”, usually 2 or 3 would go by before another one magically disappeared. That way Joseph wouldn't cancel his subscription, but would get justifiably pissed off over getting a little over half of what he was entitled to. John would always be the first and only person interrogated about the lost issues because Joseph knew about his enthusiastic love of reading as well as his well publicized career in the same field. The arguments were so routine that they gave the impression that both had been preparing their lines for weeks.

“Listen man, I know I've asked you this before but I didn't get my issue of Readers Digest this week. But you don’t know anything about that, do you?”

“Listen, I’m a very prominent figure in the literary world who came this close,” John put his thumb and his index finger about an inch apart and right up to Joseph’s nose, so close that Joseph would have to have gone cross-eyed or moved his head back in order to see in focus, “to winning a Pulitzer prize. Do you think I would EVER be in such an uncompromising economic or social position where I would even care as to what magazines you subscribed to, let alone steal them?”

“Hey…all I’m asking is if you've seen anyone take….”

“No you’re not. You damn well know you’re accusing me and I’m telling you for the last time I DIDN'T TAKE IT!” John can count on one hand how many times he had uttered the words ‘For the last time’ without mentally cracking up.

At this point Joseph begins to stutter and a dejected look appears. “A-alright John…whatever. I just want to get what I’m paying for, you know?”

John will usually drape an arm around Joseph and tell him it’s reasonable for him o be upset however how many times is it going to take for Joseph to believe him?

And of course Joseph knew that John had indeed stolen them. When the thefts became more frequent, Joseph started taking every second Tuesday off from his job as a day trader, for Tuesday was the day the magazine was supposed to arrive (sometimes it arrived on Wednesday which really threw him off). And every Tuesday between 11 A.M. when the mail showed up and 2 P.M. when he finally went out to get his mail, he would do nothing but spy out of his peep hole anticipating the perpetrators next strike. The first, second and third times he clandestinely caught John, he did not say anything, as if waiting for John to fess up would be more a weight lifted off both of their shoulders. However there was more to it than that for secretly, Joseph was a passionate fan of John’s work and figured that eventually John will crack, and confess to everything while begging for his forgiveness. This moment of vulnerability will create a new found bond between the two and Joseph figured, rather hoped that this will lead to a close friendship between the two and would allow him the opportunity to ask John all the questions that ran threw his mind about the world of being a professional writer. Joseph would mentally visualize the scenario every time he saw John come out of his apartment and ogle the flimsy magazine lying motionless on his doormat. John would come over to his apartment and answer all of his questions while the two of them would stay up until 4 in the morning, getting drunk on red wine and their newborn alliance while gossiping about celebrities.

“Tell me something about Anne Rice.”

“Hmmm….well I bet you didn't know that she was bisexual.” Slurring his words, while giggling.

“NO.” Joseph was in utter shock. They high five each other and down the rest of the wine.

And John knew that Joseph knew for he never made much of an effort to conceal his kleptomania tic and figured that Joseph would have to be a complete idiot or at least missing 3 of the 5 major senses to have not grasped the notion that John was a thief. What Joseph didn't know was that John knew he was an avid admirer of his work. He had no proof of this but he could tell just be the look of awe in his eyes. He could tell by how easily he was able to dominate their recurrent arguments over the lost issues. Most importantly, he could tell by how long Joseph used to pace outside of his door muttering to himself before pestering him about the most recently ‘misplaced’ issue. John would periodically catch him while looking out of his own peep hole and wait until he was about to knock before suddenly barging out the door as if he was on some urgent mission for the CIA startling Joseph enough to get him off his game plan, throwing the argument in John’s favor. If anything was working for Josephs it was that John admired his persistence and how he took his weekly verbal Fuck-offs like a man. But that was not nearly enough to make John like him just merely tolerate him.

The room across the hall way was where John was supposed to sleep in, however for the few times he actually spent the night at home, chances are he became too intoxicated to convince his drunken carcass to shift from the one chair in his living room to the queen size Futon Mattress he had on the floor in his bedroom. He had bought the mattress at full price at Ikea even though Sandy’s, a discount furniture store that sold Ikea knock-offs and was situated on Marine Drive which was much closer to his house, had the same exact Futon more or less with the frame on sale for just a little more than half the price. The difference maker was the fact that Ikea delivered free of charge while Sandy’s would have forced him to cough up a minimal fee for delivery. Even though he would have saved a bundle buying from Sandy’s, it was the principle of it all, the belief that what you see is what you get and that there shouldn't be any more ‘buried’ costs for getting a piece of furniture from their display room to your bedroom. It was also bought at a time in which he did not have to count pennies for he was still receiving substantial royalty checks from his book sales. The Futon was also the only piece of furniture he bought to replace everything that Jessica had taken when they went their separate ways. When they finally got married, every single possession in their quaint house down in Kitsilano was bought by him courtesy of the still prosperous income he had. When things fell apart a little more than a year later, she managed to walk out of his life with almost every non-sentimental possession he had. Thankfully she allowed him the dignity of maintaining custody of the small number of personal items that meant the most to him, or in other words, the items which had very little monetary value. He could have put up more of a struggle considering she was nothing more than an unemployed mescaline-addicted shadow of her former self , but that notion was nothing more than an afterthought for he wanted it to be an amicable separation. Unfortunately she did not, so he figured that by letting her remember him for allowing the opportunity to walk all over him, it would at least show that she wasn’t the one making all of the sacrifices, which she rarely made. It has been just over two years since he has spoken to her and just under one since he’s spoken to her lawyer.

Along with the Futon, the only other thing bothered to be purchased was a small mahogany dresser and an over-sized oak executive desk which had to have the legs dismantled in order to fit it into his office.

The office was the most furnished and the one John was least embarrassed about showing to others. Upon entering, the first thing that sticks out is the oak desk which was obviously too big for the room. While the brownish tint did not match the eggshell white walls nor the moldy green carpeting, it did go with the other two pieces of furniture in the room.

Found himself asleep in his trophy room with his arms embedded deep as if they were a pile of breasts.

Usually before the first notes are heard, a bottle of Absinthe or Wild Turkey is opened, depending on which one is higher in quantity. Always, at some point, the CD begins to skip or the bottle hits the ground with a thud, either way causing a rude awakening.

It was not always like this for me. As recently as four years ago I was being praised by literary stalwarts such as Margaret Atwood and Tom Clancy for my impressive contributions in the field of literature. Everything was coming up roses. I had recently wed my longtime sweetheart Jessica and was on the verge of releasing my second novel in a trilogy revolving around Detective Jarod Madison, a fictional character I developed while daydreaming in Grade seven math class on August eleventh, 1977. This day is still as clear to me as the bonus question I got wrong on the math test the very next day. In all fairness though, are we really going to need to know what the square root of 37,433 is or what 8 times 8 is?? The only ones who will ever need that kind of knowledge are the same people who are so gifted that they could have figured out the answers in Kindergarten anyways, never mind grade seven! These are all the rocket scientists and creators of all those late night infomercials (Come on…are you going to honestly tell me Ron Popeil isn't a genius?) Anyways, the result being my flunking of the class and eventual quitting of school altogether. Of course for me, it didn't matter. No amount of education could have changed my mind, for from that moment on I knew that all I wanted to do was write. And now, a little more than twenty-five years later, that passion has been transformed into frustration and unattainable expectations.

“John-boy, is that you?”

“Christ, Mitchell…how the hell are you?” John frantically wiping the Alfredo sauce that was dribbling down his chin.

“Can’t complain really. I’m on one of those good streaks where life has turned into one positive shot in the arm after another.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“ Never mind, I’m just babbling. It’s been so long since we've talked, I…I don’t know where to begin!” Mitchell hesitates for a moment and John takes another bite, waiting for Mitchell to elaborate thus creating an uncomfortable pause.

“Uh…well for starters, the missus and I just returned from out honeymoon in Fiji.”

“I didn't know you and…”

“Margaret” He quickly blurted out, obviously forgetting that John has known them for several years.

“Yes Margaret. I didn't know that you two were planning on getting married.”

“Yes, after two years we finally decided that now was the time. I mean I’m not getting any younger and the women aren't ogling me as frequently as they used to.” He said with a smile and a wink while nudging John on the shoulder, “I actually sent an invitation out to you but you never RSVPed. I just assumed you were too busy working on another one of your masterpieces.”

“No…I have just been lounging around trying to recapture those masterpiece glory days from the past. It is a shame though but I never did receive your invite,” he lied. “ you know what they say, never let a disgruntled postal worker do a courier's job.” They both laughed, John wasn't sure Mitchell fully got the gist of it.

“Yes…of course,” Mitchell was attempting to wipe away fake tears of laughter. “It’s too bad you weren't able to make it, you would have fit in quite nicely. We were only planning on having a small ceremony but soon enough, we were getting calls from Dave Eggers and the entire staff of Pendleton Publishing asking to join us. Security had to literally stop Steven King from beating down the door but we felt so sorry for him and everything he had recently gone through that we had no choice but to let him in. But we got the last laugh by sticking him at the kiddy table along with Henry Winkler! It ended up being the literary event of the season that didn't involve a book reading of some sort.” Mitchell was chuckling at his own joke, never being one to shy away from exaggeration.

“Well it sounded like quite the affair. The only thing that seemed to be missing was Edgar Allen Poe” Showing as much enthusiasm as his uninterested mind would allow

“Who needed fictional horror stories when I had Margaret’s family! The sheer sight of her sister alone would have you cowering under your covers for days.”

John remembers how, last year when he and Jessica split up, Mitchell tried to set him up with her telling him that she has ‘exquisite beauty that must be seen to believed’. He chose not to remind him and blocked the entire notion out. “Well had I shown up, everything would have been flipped upside down.”

Mitchell thought about this for a moment and gave up. “What do you mean?”

“ Never mind, this time I was babbling.” John wasn't sure what he meant either, but it sounded witty in his head. “Well I’m glad to hear that it was a success and I wish nothing but the best for the two of you.” He hated cliches but he had to admit there was a time and a place for every one of them.

“Thank you, thank you. Much appreciated by both the wife and I. Well, I must be going, we had not even unpacked yet before we returned to our regular routines. I guess now is as good as any time to do so.” He slipped John his business card, one of many John had collected over the years. “Listen, I still have the next week off from work so if you want to get together and discuss anything, feel free to call.”

“ Perhaps lunch at wazubee’s on Friday?” He wasn't filled with anticipation but knew this was a first-class opportunity to scam a free meal.

“Sounds like a plan, but call me first just to make sure.” And with that Mitchell walked away without waiting for a response. John took a sip of his coffee without realizing that it had gotten cold, and quickly spat it back into his cup. He looked up again at Mitchell as he was waving goodbye, folded up the business card and stuffed it into his half-filled cup of chilled coffee. “A free meal isn't worth sacrificing my sanity for a couple of hours” He thought to himself.

He met Mitchell at a writing workshop on Granville Island close to ten years ago. At the time, I was struggling with getting from A to B and Mitchell was having a hard time creating an A and a B. Fortunately, what we did have in common was our love of nicotine and our inability to last longer than half an hour before the cravings came back and hit us like a ton of bricks, at least that’s how it felt for me. We must have chatted a good two and a half hours spread out over ten or twelve intervals (also known as ‘smoke breaks’) and we both came to the realization that we’re both pretty much in the same boat.

But none of that matter now for all he could think about was what right Mitchell had in assuming that the wife appreciated what he had said? She never seemed to make any attempt at initiating some kind of friendship nor made an effort to show up at any of his gatherings or offer any kid of congratulatory rewards for his literary accomplishments. He thinks back when he released his second novel and he had the release party at a post little steakhouse called Gotham. Not only did she opt not to show at the last possible moment complaining of a headache or some other obscure illness, she even conned Mitchell into staying home with her because she ‘ didn't feel like being alone in her current state of mind’. We may not have gotten along but even she wasn't naive enough to not know how important Mitchell was in getting this novel to print.

He remembered that this kind of thinking usually gets him in nothing but trouble so he erased any notion of it from his mind. He tried to finish his penne but suddenly found himself lacking in appetite.

“Would you care for something else? More coffee or tea, dessert perhaps?”

“No…no thank you. The bill will be all. And, oh, do you mind wrapping up the rest of this? I’m stuffed.”