SOC #33: The Write Way

First I'd like to begin with the wrong way: and that is taking a prolonged break when you make it to the halfway point of a novel, because you forget a few things - the most important things - like character's names, especially if their names are truly uncommon. Then you forget details once you glance at the few pages you had written before stopping, when you ask yourself questions you'd know if you didn't stop: Like did you mention the character's parents. "Shit," I thought in my brain, "did I even think of his parents, like at all. Are they dead, or alive?" So begin backtracking by skimming over the 70 plus pages I have written so far, and while attempting to find if the parents were even talked about in the narration, or if one of the character's said anything, I begin to find typos, and sentences that must be rewritten. I begin fixing them and forget why I was going through what I had written. What was I looking for? Goddamn it. Must fix the typos for later, the second draft/rewrite. Now I must try to remember why I was scanning through the story in the first place. Oh, okay. About a half hour - or maybe an hour - later I find no mention of the character's parents, just his sibling he had a short conversation with. Okay, that's done. I scroll back down to where I left off and begin writing. Then I forget how I spelled the main character's last name. So I scroll back up, find more issues in the text that must be fixed. "Fucking shit," I say out loud to myself, "save it until the rewrite, you dumb-shit." My mother walks in, and asks, "What's wrong?" I say, "Just speaking out loud to myself. Just trying to make the book better, if it could ever be." She leaves. I look at the computer screen, and again forget what I was looking for in the first place. Oh, yeah, the character's fucking last name. I find it. I want to stab myself in the leg with my pen for forgetting how to spell the guy's fucking name; I should've known. DUH! I scroll back to where I left off, continue to type. It may be shitty at the moment, but all can be fixed later. I can take my time then when- FUCK! Who was the ex-girlfriend screwing at the moment. Another name I had forgotten. "Never again," I whisper to myself, "I will never take another break that lasts longer than a day, or a short lunch break,  from writing a novel until the first draft is done." You know what? No break until I feel I am satisfied. I again scroll through the text, find who the girl is screwing. A simple name to remember. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I continue writing until I get to a point where a little research is required. The story is a situation that may, or may not happen in real life, but there are moments in the story that at the least must sound authentic. So I go to the internet, google the topic I must research. Find a youtube video to watch, then a few more I must watch for clarification. Then I am totally bored, and find something funny to watch. It's two hours later when I realize that I am waisting my time not writing. FUCK! SHIT! Now where was I. NOTE TO SELF: research things later; you don't need to know everything; it's only a first draft, you fucking moron. Am I even good enough for this? Will I ever be good enough to make a living at writing? You know, I just want enough to quit my day job. Don't think about money, think about the work. A true artist doesn't focus on the money, but on the work. It's three hours later when I finally stop watching the goddamn youtube videos and begin writing again. Fuck it. If I fuck up someone's name, fix it later. I did the same thing when I wrote my first novel: I misspelled someone's name like three times. I didn't realize it until the editor pointed it out to me. The biggest enemy of a writer is not only the gargantuan monster that is Doubt, but the fucking distracting questions a writer continuously asks themselves while writing. Get it done, then bitch about it later is all I got to say.

Gratuitous repentance

"For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth." - Romans 1:18

It was suppose to be a casual encounter after a simple reply from a craigslist posting; Armando wasn't expecting to find a doorman standing outside the dive bar dressed in black as if he were working security for a club that sold a single bottle of Grey Goose for five thousand dollars a bottle to simply sit in a private booth. As he walked toward the bar, Armando slowly realized the street was unnaturally deserted that early in the night, being it was not even nine o'clock at night yet. There was only him, and the doorman standing quietly in front of the bar's closed door, facing out, head slightly turned at the sound of Armando's footsteps, one hand holding his wrist before him. Armando had the feeling the doorman hand a gun under the black coat he was wearing, ready for any threat that would appear. 

    A little nervous, and curious at the same time, Armando stopped before the doorman, staring up at him. 

     He asked, "Is the place closed for a private party, or something?"

   The doorman looked Armando up and down, then moved his head left to right at the street and sidewalk, scanning for anyone else. The street was still vacant of anyone else. The doorman then looked up at the windows of the surrounding buildings, and held up his right arm with his index finger raised. 

   He then fixed his gaze back to Armando, and said, "Are you the one who posted on the craigslist?" 

    "Yes," Armando answered, a bit confused. "I thought you and I were going to meet inside the bar." 

    "No," the doorman said, "I'm not the one who replied. He's waiting for you inside. Go on in." 

    The doorman opened the door, gesturing to Armando to go inside. 

    Hesitating, almost wanting to leave, Armando said, "This is - " He cleared his throat with the thought that his night would end with his body cut up, all his limbs put in a trash bag, and tossed into the Hudson River. "I have to tell you, dude, this is kind of weird. I'm not being turned on by this...whatever this is." 

    The doorman said, in a most professional and serious tone, "I assure you, sir, there's nothing to be afraid of. He told me to tell you, if you were scared, that there may be true happiness for you at the end of this night. And most of all, satisfaction." 

    "Okay, sounds like it'll be the greatest fuck I'll ever have," Armando said. 

    He slowly entered the dimly lit bar. Usually the place at that time of night would have a small crowd of people from the neighborhood looking to relax and get buzzed in a quiet atmosphere away from the howling parties of the city's nightlife. But on that particular night the bar was empty with the exception of the bartender whom Armando had never seen before. 

    "Where's Charlie tonight?" Armando asked the - he guessed - new employee. 

    The bartender, a well dressed and clean cut man, didn't answer, but pointed at a booth across the room occupied by a man smoking a cigarette with a drink on the table before him which seemed to be a whiskey on the rocks. Armando slowly walked up to the booth. The man, who wore an expensive black pinstriped suit with a red tie with small stripes of blue and white, seemed to have a slight strained expression as he took sometime to look at Armando. 

    "Hello there," the man said. "Thank you for coming." 

  The man seemed he could have been a few years older than Armando, but due to his haggard appearance, dressed in a dirty hoodie sweatshirt, dirty blue jeans, and wearing three year old shoes, he felt almost twenty years older than the man sitting in the booth. 

    "Please have a seat," the man said to him, gesturing with his hand for Armando to sit on the other side of the booth. 

    Armando just stood there, not moving, perplexed not only by the setting he found himself in, but by the polite man sitting before him. 

    Noticing Armando's hesitation, the man said, "Now I know what you're thinking. 'This man here, who replied to my posting for a casual fuck, not only had the bar closed to make the meeting more private, but is smoking a cigarette inside which is banned in this fine city.' Am I close?" 

    "Close enough," Armando said, then sat down. 

    "Cool. What would you like to drink? It's on me." 

    "A Lagunitas," Armando said.

    "You sure you don't want anything stronger?" 

    "And a shot of tequila." 

    The man looked over at the bartender. He said, "A Lagunitas and a shot of tequila for my friend here. And a refill of Van Winkle for me, please." 

    Armando's brow flicked up. He pointed at the nearly empty glass of whiskey on the table, and asked, "That's Van Winkle whiskey?" 

    "Yes it is," the man said. "It's all I drink."

    "Wow, man," Armando said, impressed. "You are one rich motherfucker. For a casual, anonymous fuck, you go all out."

    As the bartender placed the drinks on the table, the man said, "This isn't a casual meeting before a casual, anonymous fuck, Mr. Thadien."

    A flush of shock came upon Armando's face when he heard what the man just said. Paranoia and horror came to his emotions as well as the immense desire to jump out of that booth and make a run for it, but he knew this man would not allow him to get very far. 

    The man noticed the look on Armando's face immediately, and his own jovial attitude to that point was gone. 

    He said softly to Armando, "Swig down that shot of tequila, Mr. Thadien, and try to relax." Then the man said slowly, enunciating each word, "I am not a monster."

    Armando downed the shot of tequila, chased it with the Lagunitas. He looked over to the bartender, pointing to the empty shot glass. The bartender filled another shot glass with tequila. 

    "Thank you," Armando said. 

    He became uneasy, not wanting to look at the man in front of him, scratching his head, thinking about sitting in the bathroom stall, and shooting up the heroin he scored the day before. 

   The man let out a long, heavy sigh. He placed the cigarette butt on top of the wooden table, squishing the burning raspberry with the palm of his hand. 

    "May I call you 'Armando,' Mr. Thadien?" The man asked.

    "That's fine, sir," Armando replied, still not looking at the man. 

    "I want you to look at me, Armando. You don't have to talk. I just want you to listen to what I must say to you. And I want you to look into my eyes as I say it. Please do that for me." 
    With what seemed like great effort, Armando raised his head and looked at the man's face. 
    The man was silent for a moment as he reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieved a gold cigarette case, opened it, took out a cigarette, offering it to Armando. Armando shook his head. The man lit the cigarette with a gold Zippo lighter, deeply breathing in the tobacco's carbon monoxide. 
   "I've met you before," the man began to say. "Well, actually, I've seen you before. You wouldn't remember because at the time you were blindfolded with a few other boys as you were escorted through the foyer at my father's house. I was sixteen at the time. It was during my so called 'Sweet Sixteen' initiation into the disgusting world my father was apart of. You see, the world people like my father and I occupy is what I consider the 'Above the Law of man' where the worst of human nature can be acted upon if the human has the power to do so without the consequences of being exposed."
    The man took another long drag of his cigarette looking uneasy before he continued speaking. 
    "That night my father had two choices to gain the trust of his wicked friends: keep the lifestyle secret from me - which would give me less opportunity in my own personal life as an adult - or expose it to me, make me watch as he and the others did what they did to you and the others that night. Armando, you must -" 
    The man's breath caught in his throat. His hand rose before him, shaking. 
    "Armando," the man continued, finding it difficult, but continuing to explain, "you must understand I had no choice. I was just a kid. After they began molesting you and the others, I left. And I must've made myself forget about that night, even the gun shots I heard from my room. The memory didn't come back to me until my father was on his deathbed last month. The moments before he died he reminded me of that dreadful night. He asked for my forgiveness, and hoped that he would be able to go to heaven. I said nothing." 
    The man picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it all up. He let out a painful sigh after finishing the drink. Armando's mind was on the horrific night. The night his best friend was shot in the back when he fought the rapist monsters.
    "I killed him," the man said. 
    "What?" Armando said, his painful memory interrupted. 
    "I killed my father." The man now looking down at the table, holding up his hand. Thumb, index, and middle finger close together. "Like this. I closed these fingers on his throat, choking him in his final moments of life. He attempted to stop me, but was too weak to do so. Now I have all his fucking money to do as I please. I had people look for men who posted on craigslist looking to sell their ass under the guise of seeking anonymous sex. I know that you and the others were made to be opiate addicts by assholes like my father. I remembered the birthmark on your shoulder from that night, and the picture you put up with the post showed that same birthmark."
    "Why am I here?" Armando asked. "Do you want me to forgive your father to find some sort of peace?" 
    "No, Armando," the man said. "As the religious would say, 'Only God forgives.' And -" The man reached in another inner jacket pocket and took out a yellow envelope, "'The Devil punishes'" He then slid the envelope across the table.
    "What is that?" Armando said. 
    "It's a list," the man replied. "Now I can't give you the list of all the people like my father, because this wouldn't be an envelope, it would be a book. A fucking huge book. What I can give you is a list of people that help provide the services to the sick, super rich monsters like my father. What you do with this information is up to you. These are people that aren't known to the public. Some are easy to find, some are listed in the phone book, and have Facebook pages."
    Armando picked up the envelope. 
    "Don't open it until I leave, or wait until you get home," the man said, getting up from the booth. "And try getting off the heroin. I want you better. You were a good playwright back in that school. I actually saw it. 'Silent Knight in silver armor.' Great play? After you get off the H, write one for broadway."
    "How could I trust you?" Armando said. 
    "That's why I didn't give you my name. Neither of us can trust each other. Both of us must have faith." 
    Armando said, with the thought of shooting up heroin, "I don't believe in God." 
    Before leaving, the man leaned in close to Armando's ear and said softly, "I don't either." 
    
    
     
    
    

    

    

     

SOC #32: Curmudgeon Elitest

The hordes were out this weekend and I shut down my recluse tendencies for the three days the tides of drunk sheep roved and rose around the city. Leaving my clean and lonely apartment, I wandered the streets along the sidewalks, at first mostly staring at the ground moving under my body. I so do feel apart from this world like an iPhone held by God, or some other deity to your own preference. The people flowed past me, nearly through me at times, for I was quiet, not desiring any kind of conversation if I could help it. If anyone looked at me, I did not care to notice. After nearly eight blocks I arrived at the bar I frequented every time I went out to be around people I don't know, where the only ones that recognize me is the bartender and one of the bouncers. The place was crowded tonight, making it difficult for me to get to the bar. No stool was available, nor any of the booths or tables. It was five minutes until I could order my beer. The bartender immediately recognized me, saying, "The usual, my main man?" I replied, "Yes. And throw in a shot of the best whiskey as well. The hell with it. Tonight I'll get fucked up." The bartender said joyfully, "Now that's what I like to here. Coming right up." Delivering my drinks to me, the man said, "The game is doing great for my business. Big money for the city." I jokingly said, "Maybe I'll get laid tonight." The bartender nearly yelled, "About fucking time. The nights you come here you're always alone, always sit alone, only talk to me and Charlie. The ladies are out all weekend, day and night. Go get some, sonny. You got plenty to choose from." As I took my shot, some random blond chick hollered, "Fuck yeah! PARTY! SHOTS!" I walked away from her. No way I wanted my cock in her. I made my way through the bar, drinking my beer like a bird, observing the groups of people. Attracting no one's interest, I went to the back patio and lit a cigarette. A women came up to me, asking, "Can I bum a smoke?" I gave her one. She then asked, "Got a light?" As I reached in my pocket for my Gold Zippo lighter, she said, "That's right, honey, I want all that you got." I let her light her own smoke and then walked away when she handed me back my Zippo. Standing in a new spot, smoking my cig, pondering what I could say to a girl I actually liked, a fresh twenty-one year old came up to me. She asked, "You going to the game tomorrow?" I answered, "No. I was invited, but I declined." She asked, "Who invited you?" I informed, "Someone you don't know. A person with big bucks, but no one knows about him." She asked, "How do you know the 'man with big bucks'?" She snickered with pleasure as if she found a diamond ring in the sand. I said, "He was the son of my father's friend. He's sort of like a cousin to me." She asked, "Are you a man with big bucks?" I replied, unmoved by her flirting, "I got an inheritance after both my parents died in a car accident, burning to death." I held up my thumb and forefinger close together for her to see as I continued to say, "It's about this much. I have a guy who gives me a check like that chick in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, except he doesn't steal my money, or fuck me in the ass." Her jaw dropped, a dumbfounded look on her face as I walked back into the bar, dropping my cig on the concrete before entering. Charlie, the bouncer noticed me. He said, "Hey you. How are things?" I said, "Better if I found a woman worth kissing." Charlie cackled so bad it hurt my ear. I walked to the bar where luckily there was an empty stool. I sat down soothingly. I ordered another beer. The bartender asked, "Any luck?" I shook my head before gulping my second beer. Very well buzzed I decided to talk to the girl next to me. We began to speak of the election. She wanted this guy over this lady, but considered another guy. I said, "I'll tell you the truth so you won't ever have to stress about any such matters again. After any ass-kissing motherfucker is elected, they sit in a conference room at some undisclosed location with a bunch of fat industrial, bank owning scum fucks smoking blunts laced with coke, then shown footage of the JFK assassination that isn't the Zapruder film." She drunkenly asked, "What's a Sapruder film? Is that like a new Ultra HD television, or something?" I finished my beer and walked right out of the bar. I wanted to throw up on somebody, some big tuff guy who'd beat me because he was a dumb oaf who didn't know what the word "Nobility" meant, and I could have him killed in his jail cell. But I couldn't make myself vomit.

SOC #31: Dreaming Rant

From my own personal experience, drugs don't work in your dreams. It began with me walking into a lobby of a five star hotel with a ziplock bag in one hand full of multicolored pills, shrooms, and fresh green salvia. I popped the pills like reese's pieces, and ate the shrooms and salvia with glee to no euphoric avail. No one seemed to notice what I was doing to my body, which was really nothing, because it wasn't working. I passed the front desk clerks, not bothering to check in, maybe because I already had a room. Someone stopped me before I made it to the elevators. The latino man had a brown mustache and wore a white Panama hat. He said to me, "You know, she's waiting for you." I said, "I'll find her." With no idea of where she was, the elevator door slid open and I entered. The music playing on the small speakers in the elevator was a metal, bluesy, rock and roll song I was simply unfamiliar with. The doors slid open and I exited to the hallway. I had no room key and no idea what my room number really was, but I walked down the hallway as if I knew where my destination was going to be. The drugs weren't working, my mind was clear and translucent, but the design on the carpet moved and reacted to my steps as if scared of my presence. I made no such acknowledgment of these details because the drugs weren't working. I opened my room's door without a key. "Hej hej," I greeted to an empty room. It was clean, quiet, empty, with the sun shining from the window. "What a lovely day," I said to myself, standing in the middle of the room. Then I threw the ziplock bag full of drugs onto the carpet floor, and screamed, "THERE'S GOT TO BE ANOTHER WAY!" Who appeared before me was my ex-girlfriend, dressed in a way I loved most about her: not slutty. She said, "There isn't, and wasn't much there." I said, "You know nothing but what you blindly seek." She put her hands in the pockets of her dark blue hoodie sweater, quiet for a few seconds, maybe almost two minutes, then said, "You can smash my car as much as you like." I found myself inside her boyfriend's apartment - in the kitchen - with my fists clenched so much I lost the feeling in both my arms. She was staring at me, smiling. Her boyfriend was beside her, took one look at me, then ran out the front door. It wasn't like I was going to do anything to him anyways. My ex-special-ladyfriend escorts me through the front door, down a flight of steps, to her fucking car, parked on an enormous patch of lawn. I immediately begin hitting her car with my fists, making some dents, but no damage going into the thousands. I do kick the lights to pieces. When I look up to the street I see one of the guys she fucked on the side driving by. He sees what I'm doing and shakes his head before doing a u-turn and parking his car. The trunk of his car opens and he gets out, goes to the open trunk, pulling out a sledge hammer. He walks up to me, holding up the sledgehammer in both his hands, saying, "This'll do the job." I said, "Thank you, pal." He replied, "My pleasure. You can keep it. I'm busy." He gets back in his car and drives off. Tires screeching so much smoke goes up into the clear sky. Realizing how much this was a waste of time, even if I did have the permission, I dropped the sledgehammer on the ground. It fell with a thump, but not on lawn as I expected, on desert sand. I looked up and I was in a desert grassland. The light wind on my face, moving my hair around, the smell of the clean air, the sun touching the skin on my face and neck felt refreshing more than ever. I did a complete three-sixty and found myself staring at the girl of my dreams filming a couple with a smartphone. Quietly, out of respect for her art, I lightly strolled up behind her. She said, still looking at the screen of her smartphone, "No reason to be so quiet. They're so in love, they can't hear others around them." I said, "Weird how a phone can capture something..." She interrupted, "Beautiful, wonderful, memorable blah blah. Yes, I've heard it all." It was suddenly cloudy, no blue in the sky, just gray. The couple being filmed didn't notice in the slightest. The girl of my dreams continued filming. I said, "You know what would be cool. If the sun was setting behind the clouds over there, and as it did the clouds parted, the sun shining through in the background of the lovers as they embraced. What do you think?" And it happened before she could answer. She said, still not having looked at me since I've been behind her (focused on her work; so fucking impressive), "That's amazing. Good job. So, are you going to ask me what you've come here to ask me?" I admitted, "There's no point really." She asked, "And why is that?" I said, "Because I know this is just a dream." She let go of her smartphone and let it hang in the air, still filming the happy couple. She turned around and came close to me, staring me right in the eyes, and said, "If you can't ask your question in a lucid dream, then how could you in the real world?" I replied, "Because I have too much respect for you." She playfully socked me in the shoulder, a grin on her face. I smiled, and said, "If our paths do cross out in the real world, I'll ask it then. Until then, let me enjoy this until I wake up."