How long does it take

I

He had it all along.

Frustration began to arise Monday morning (of course) but not for the obvious reasons.

He couldn’t find it.

All his thoughts were there.

All his ideas.

“We want to hear what you have to say”, the publisher said to him leaning against the chair, like he’s going to fall through the glass wall behind him, “and we are very excited about it”.

He wasn’t sure if his writing will decline, or even plummet; now that he knows that the words are going to be examined closely, by “the professional”.

For the first time in his life his ideas mattered - but the irony was, it was truly enjoyable to write only when he had to steal time to do it.

“Come on! Snap out of that tortured artist pose would you? You think lingering misery is a part of your charm…. It’s so passe”

Usually sweet and enthusiastic Jenny, (the same one who told him “You are a facilitator of thought” in her pep talk leading to the meeting with the “excited” publisher) was now growing tired of him and his tortured-ness.

It was a cliche - choosing a young, sharp protege, with her youthful enthusiasm, and fresh youthful passion ……. Alive and vibrant, nonchalant and curious and dancing on the line between adoration and eagerness to prove him wrong - it was all adorable.

It was odd, that new behaviour of hers. She was constantly happy for a month.

He had spent the weekend away to write and when he came back she was …

Distant. Easily annoyed. Dismissive.

He knew something was going on.

Was it that publisher guy?

That would be the crown jewel of the story.

Just fucking great.

His general inertia was preventing him from making big bold gestures.

Even the ugly ones, even now. He had seen it coming, come to think of it. And chose to ignore it. It wasn’t a pressing issue. She can’t leave him. Not the Sweet Adoring Jenny Bambi Eyes that turns into both cute and scary when she is angry, within a split second.

Wonder how long she was thinking she should lose a loser.

Or give him to the fucking publisher for adoption.

II

Jenny was getting tired of it. The whole act.

She was feeling choked, and not in a fun way.

She stopped asking herself what the fuck is wrong with this picture long time ago.

But the choice between whether he was so inspiring or she was young and stupid was not polling in her favor so far.

Cut the losses.

Or turn them into an opportunity.

If this deal pans out - she can be a new agent/ headhunter for the publishing company.

That other asshole promised her that, but she knew better than to rely on his word.

He got her the foot in the door, though.

And this ignorant asshole of hers might prove a worthy 4 year long project after all.

So she doesn’t write it off as a lost time.

THAT would be a huge dent in her ego. That she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself.

That is NOT in her plans, never has been, never will be.

If only she didn’t find him so intolerable.

All that passive narcissism.

Like he was too precious to work, like what was pouring out of him when he wrote was God given, but then … nothing really works out for him. He doesn’t have the discipline. He can’t tame himself. No, idiot, you need to bust your ass like everybody else.

He wasn’t childish though. Not in the obvious way. It’s like he knew how to contain it and use it in the right amount.

Nevertheless, he has become insufferable.

If only his writing wasn’t so good she would cancel him out in a second.

His writing. “The self is like a well - do you find poisonous water in there? Is it dry? Is it unescapable? Or is it like coming home to drink, to replenish and heal yourself?”

Long time ago she heard someone talk about a poet who “felt the poem come to me across the field”... and she “had to run back home to catch it…. Sometimes by it’s tale - and write it in reverse”. Otherwise it would slip up? Run away?

So that is how she came to think of him. Like an antennae. He was attuned for something else -

And he was HER antennae. She will capitalize on discovering his fucking well, because without her he would be floating towards the island of lost boys…. In his 40s.

III

It was another great day.

After the gym, light sunshine, middle of the week (and he loved those days).

Coffee at his favourite place, with a charismatic creature that he would run into on his way there.

She was always leaving as he was approaching The Coffee Shop. Wednesday Roulette.

She laughed. Noone had ever given her such a cool nickname.

This day couldn't go any better. Maybe if $20.000 came out of nowhere.

“Ask and you shall receive” she giggled.

“You’re not religious are you?” he snapped back half jokingly - “Spiritual, not religious” she was as quick to answer.

“Did you ever try to imagine an object” she said, “and then see how long it will take for it to find its way to you?”

What a strange question.

“No, never” - “Let’s think of something together.” This was, so far, the best date ever.

IV

Thank God it was still there.

He can’t lose it. He is bringing his first draft tomorrow.

As per usual his little notepad was in his inner pocket, but the liner tore. It is, somehow fittingly, floating inside his jacket.

“You have to break out the… not the shell. The mask. You need to let your other self out. Not keep him caged in all of those protective layers that turn you into a fucking stone statue” an old friend - psychology college drop out, once told him.

So yes, his until-recently favourite jacket needs to lose some of its lining.

He envisioned himself turning in his draft, getting his advance check and leaving for another week.

He thought of torturing Jenny by staying with her, pretending he doesn’t see anything.

Maybe she changes again when he comes back.

Maybe the money brings some clarity.

V

She asked him the other day if he knows why he envisioned a “little personal notepad” when he closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure. It seemed that there was nothing he needed to resolve about himself (“HOW is that possible?!!!” she yelled in disbelief), he thought of himself as someone on a winning streak. Permanently. Maybe he just wanted to explore.

One with his body, one with energies around him - as his karate sensei used to say.

What would be under the surface. He might be a different person when he writes. Or many different people. That’s funny.

And now they’re everywhere.

He is seeing people write all the time, and he was sure he hadn’t seen them before AT ALL.

Ms. Charismatic went on and on about these people sketching in them, the stairs with pigeons, people in the subway, or the view of the Florentine Chapel.

As they were walking, his foot brushed up on something. It was softer than pavement.

And there it is. The one that he saw when he closed his eyes.

A little black book.

Leather. Worn out. Written to the last page.

Someone’s history beaming from it.

He almost jammed it into his inner pocket, as if he needs to keep it a secret from himself as well. As if someone is going to take it.

He gently pulled the girl toward the parking lot. Time to go home.

VI

He was sipping his coffee in the worm seat of the bus. Mr. “Antennae”, as Jenny liked to call him, was off.

He felt released. Draft is in. Advance is in. He is out.

Fuck everything.

He reached into his pocket and through the whole in the lining.

The jacket was a tad too light.

He scrambled through the old dark green lining, one hand in inner pocket and one in the hole that he made. It wasn’t there.

It definitely wasn’t there.

He was released alright. Released from, until yesterday, his most prized possession. His torturing thoughts had a life of their own, and a physical manifestation for that matter. And they chose to leave him. Instead of floating in his jacket, now they’re out in the world.

The little black book wasn’t his anymore, and his inner turmoil was gone with it.

VII

This guy thought she was freakin’ magic.

If he wasn’t so full of himself, Jenny wouldn’t be able to stand it either.

But Mr. Young Shark (if he can call her Wednesday Roulette, he gets a nickname as well) was on the top of the wave and it was kind of refreshing.

Maybe it rubbed off of her.

They were passing The Coffee Shop when he brushed his foot on a dark object on the street.

Of course. Unbelievable.

He twitched, the air around him wasn’t as “fresh” anymore. Picked that thing she recognized too well like his life depended on it. He “looked around” while he slid the little black book into his inner pocket, leaving on the floor narrow piece of paper.

Bingo.

She picked it up, knowing she will recognize the name on the check.

She held it close while Young Shark nudged her towards the parking lot, suggesting that the date is over.

Ofcourse. That book is everyone’s mirror. No matter how high you fly you shall fall when you face yourself.

Saying goodbye - apologizing, he said it outloud - “Great things happen when we are together”.

He found the book.

She quietly sat in her car, while he almost frantically drove off; pulled the check out of her purse.

Twenty thousand dollars.

Her four year payoff.

How long does it take for an imagined object to find its way to you?

Tree and a half days.