**Please note that this story contains strong language. Thanks ahead of time.
“Give me another, Barkeep. Straight up.”
“Yep.” The bartender poured another whisky into the shot glass and slid it across the old wooden counter. It was engraved with initials, symbols and the tales of misfortune. Scratched up and ragged, it fit the personality of the man who sat at its foot. The man caught the glass as it sloshed towards him and shot it to the back of his throat in one fluid motion, letting out a grunt as he swallowed and wiped his face with his forearm. He was piss drunk and knew it. He slapped down a five dollar bill and hoped that his head would empty as quickly as his wallet.
“Another.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“No. Not really. Pass another, would you? Same as before.” The neon sign above him shone blue on his tattered face and the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow was tinted in a depressing sort of manner to the bartender. Behind him numerous people shot billiards or threw darts. Music played silently in the background. The bartender looked despairingly at the man, shook his head solemnly, and poured another. Sliding it down the counter again, the man caught it and let it sit on the counter-top. His large white hands fingered the rim of the glass and he looked gloomily into its bottom. I’d just as soon wish it didn’t happen, he thought. But it did happen. He was a wash, and now everyone knew it.
His weather-worn brown leather jacket lay crumpled about the floor and his black tie was pulled out loose to give his throat room to breathe; the first button of his white dress shirt was undone -- his sleeves were rolled up. The drunk’s right elbow was on the table and he leaned upon his open palm. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the shot glass about the base with his thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers spread wide, and shot the hot fluid into his throat. It burned his insides.
He had been writing for some time now. Since he was 16, really, but wasn’t published until about 25. After his first novel, people called him a genius. They hailed him at book signings. Now, though, he was called a “has been” and elementary; redundant. No one taught him how to save the best for last.
“Hey, Buddy. Buddy.” The bartender called to him. “You alright. No dozing off here, chum. You can drink, shoot, throw, wail, complain, bitch. Hell, you can cry if you want. But you cant sleep. This isn’t a hostel. It’s a bar.”
“Yeah. Alright.” He slapped another five spot on the bar and looked up into the bartender’s cool blue eyes. In a scratchy voice, the old author asked, “I’m not a wash, am I?”
“I don’t know who or what you are, Mac. But you’re a paying customer, so I’ve no problem. No, you’re not a wash.” Fucking lush, the bartender thought. That’s what you are. A pity parade.
“Well, thanks, I suppose.” The drunk grabbed his coat and headed out into the night. The streetlights made his face look haggard. He was ready to cry. There was something about his demeanor that made one want to hit them with their car. Not out of spite, really, but out of pity. It was as if one would be doing him a favor. But he got to his car- an old beater- opened the passenger door, and climbed in. He reclined all the way back and lay there, helpless and hopeless. Looking through the dingy sunroof, he could see the stars. I used to be just like them, he thought. Just like them. I was a star once. But his mind would not let him focus on the times of greatness, though he found himself returning to the past few years when his writing really took a drastic step downward.
It wasn’t so much that his wife cheated and eventually left. He didn’t mind his monetary status. He could afford rent, keep a decent library and had a computer to type at. In college, he had to use a typewriter. He knew he was done with that after trying to type his dissertation about a thousand times. He didn’t mind his ugly car or ugly shoes. Life, though different, wasn’t all that bad. But his writing had lapsed. He found that he wrote about the same things and told the same stories. He felt like a dad who respun the same old yarns and whose children were the mass consumers of the world. One day, he knew, they would grow tired and stop buying his books. And they did. Suddenly, without warning, the critics turned on him. The publishing house was not ready to put another one of his stories on the shelves; for the past few years, neither was he. But he had to make a living.
He didn’t like to write anymore and he wasn’t real fond of living. He hadn’t been gifted with a great imagination, so he wrote about what he knew. That’s why people liked his stuff when he had first gotten published. He told it how it was, through his characters. He didn’t pull any punches, but wasn’t heavy handed. He was gritty: raw. In all reality, he told the stories he knew so intimately quite well. The problem was that he hadn’t learned anything for a while; his writing suffered. He was scared to take trips overseas and was tired of the interstates. Road trips are only fun for so long. His newest friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t say much. The publishing house had been hounding him about his final piece so he turned in something he wasn’t very proud of. The critics had a field day. One, quite witty, read “Old Writer at the End of his Road and Cant Turn Back.” Another wrote, “One Way Trip to Bankrupt.” Still another, “Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Tired of Reading about the Old Ones.” But he knew it was coming for quite some time.
His literary career was coming to a very abrupt end. Perhaps one day his early works would be read in schools, he thought. He tried to console himself, but he was little good at it. By now, he was becoming more tired and more depressed. The warmth of the whiskey was wearing off and the glassiness of his eyes was returning to normal. He took the cool night air into his lungs and shivered. He pulled his leather jacket over himself and tried to think of other things. Life, bills, anything. But it was of no use. He took the yellow legal pad and pen out from his glove box and began scribbling frantically under the amber colored streetlights. He was unsure of what he was writing, but it didn’t matter anymore. With his reputation in shambles, he could write anything he wanted. And so he did.
He cursed the critics and the readers. He said the has-beens are now the classics, so fuck off. Perhaps he wrote for his own amusement. He was defending the words he put to paper and knew he was probably doing a poor job of it. He wrote until he couldn’t write anymore, flipping page after page in the half-light. It was astonishing how quickly the man wrote, though his drunkenness was now beginning to fade and he only felt the residual effects of his multiple whiskey shots. After a while, he tossed the pad into the backseat, put his pen behind his ear and lie back down. He gazed again up at the stars and released a sigh of relief.
I suppose, he thought, this ends life as I know it. No more critics or fans, no deadlines or signings. I am beginning anew.
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7 comments:
I'd like to see what would happen if you expanded this story. I want to experience this character's downfall and eventual redemption. I also find it interesting that you did not give him a name.
I did give him a name.. in the title of the story. I have thought about expanding it, too, but we will have to see. After I wrote this, I became fascinated with what the counters at bars look like; scoping them out is very cool indeed! I am glad you like it.
haha wow I'm a spaz. I read the title too, but then later when I commented about the name thing I only went back through the text. At any rate, I think it is interesting that throughout the piece his name is not mentioned as a name is very important to an author. Well it's important for anyone, but particularly for an author.
Keith,
I don't like to be told what to do. I'm SO not commenting because you told me to. I read this earlier, planned to comment, and then went to dinner with my roommate. I was headed back:)
This reminds me of a conversation we had in the caf one night with Tyler (PB&J-in-the-pocket-days). We were talking about the rule that, if an author wants to be famous, he should not publish his writing during his lifetime. Maybe we just liked saying posthumously. Anyway, it goes with the concept of writing for oneself, as an outlet, rather than for an audience. That's how I see poetry. I write poetry that I wouldn't consider sharing with ANYONE. The product of my writing is often lame, but the process is remarkable. And, when I consider myself the only audience, I am able to write with an abandon hindered by critical readers. Like this guy. He needed to be freed from his critics, yes?
Sherry, first I want to say thank you for not being led here by my elementary ploy at getting you here. (yay!) Also, this is one of the first times in a long time that I have gotten to speak critically about a piece with anyone, let alone mine. So here we go...
I very much think that this author (the protagonist, not the writer) found a need to be separated from the constructs that were placed on him by those that read his works. As a young writer, I see how easy it could be to end up re-writing the same piece told through different eyes, especially if that first piece is well-received.
However, I wouldn't say that Harold's problem is that he wrote for his critics, it is that he did not write for himself. At the end of this piece the audience finds him scribbling his lack-luster thoughts, not to piss off those he has come to disrepect, but so that he can reclaim his own respect, his own voice in writing, his very own humanity.
There is a distinction made between the way he writes, first using a typewriter, then eventually moving on to the computer. If we look closely, we can see that his reversion past the typewriter to the antiquated pen and pad have helped to free him in a manner that brings with it an alpha-male, sort of neanderthalic quality. By throwing out the technology that binds him to his critics, his publicist, etc., he removes the separation between himself and his writing. It becomes less about work and more about passion; his reclamation of his writing must be done with his very own hand.
That's what I was saying: "It goes with the concept of writing for oneself, as an outlet, rather than for an audience."
Interesting character evolution (typewriter to computer).
Thanks, Sherry. And yes, that lengthy, circuitous comment was done just to agree with you. But as I said, it had been a while and it was nice to get out. :)
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