Amen

The day started off like most other days, me popping open a beer and taking a couple of pills. After that, it usually got a little bit better. Or at least tolerable.

She came by my place at 10 a.m. It took some doing, but I was able to convince her that coming inside wasn’t too bad of an idea. She’d been there many times before. Most of the times late at night. Most of the times as drunk as me. But she was never there in the morning when I woke up.

Most guys would think that was paradise. All of the glory, none of the fight.

But I wasn’t most other guys. And it pained me every morning when she wasn’t there as I rose. It’s why the pills started. They put me in a better mood and made it easier to face the mundane tasks that the day would throw at me.

I was a copy editor at a shitty newspaper now. I used to be an editor. Used to be a reporter. But I’d lost the fire to chase after it anymore. It happened while I was unemployed. Laid off by a newspaper that I thought I was doing a good job at. Won some state press association awards, covered some shit no one else wanted to. Shot photos. Shot videos. Laid out pages. Read other people’s stuff. Just a little of everything. But, I wasn’t friends with the folks I worked with. Most of ‘em at least. And I guess that wasn’t part of the plan.

Anyways, while unemployed I wanted to do something else. Anything else. So I applied and applied for jobs. Public relations jobs. University jobs. Business and even furniture sales writing ads. Jobs at recreation departments. Jobs at super markets. Jobs in different states. And I didn’t get any of them. In fact, only a couple even bothered to send me rejection emails or letters. Those days of actually contacting folks interested in your jobs are long gone I guess. I once had an opening that over 200 people sent in their resumes for. I sent a message to all of them.

Finally, I had to bite the bullet and interview for newspaper jobs again. I was broke and my time on the dole would eventually come to an end. So, I did it. And immediately I got interviews. At first, I was rejected for the job but only after they hired a friend. Then I got offers. But I couldn’t pull the trigger on them. I didn’t want to move to some shit hole in the middle of nowhere to work at a job that would barely pay my bills.

So, I called a friend and got a job where I’m at now. A shithole little newspaper, but I live at the beach. And that was enough.

For a while.

Now, it’s not anymore. I want to do more. I want to write. I want to get out of my cubicle. I want to interact with folks. Will it happen? Yes. Where I’m at? Only if they let me. And I’ll find out soon if they will.

She looked at me.

“You’re always somewhere else,” she said.

I looked at her and smiled. She got me. But didn’t want anything to do with me. Well, the me that was me now. She’d met me before all of this. Before depression and hatred took their toll on me.

We used to go to the bars downtown and just laugh and smile and have a good time. Then one day I changed. It wasn’t because of her, but it was because of a she. And that she killed me for a long time. I’m not fully recovered from my death yet. But I’m working on it.

That’s why she still comes around. She’s seen the other side of me, and knows it’s closer to being back than it has been for years.

“Did you write last night?” she asks me.

“Of course not,” I say. “I did scribble some, but it’s not much.”

“How many words?” she asked.

“About 3,000.” I stated with a yawn.

“What did you write about?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “One day you’re going to do it.”

“You’ve been saying that to me for years,” I replied. “And maybe I’m just another one like so many. I’ve only got one story to tell. And I just haven’t figured out how to tell it. Once I do that, I can become the Sparks of my genre.”

“Fuck that,” she said. “You could write about kittens with machine guns and it wouldn’t be funny. It would be awesome.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

She frowned at me. It made me feel small. She was good at that. I slinked over to a cooler I’d left on the porch last night. I kicked it. The lid fell off and inside were two Lone Stars. I reached in and plucked them out. The water was still cold, and so were the bottles.

“To a great day,” I said handing her one of the bottles.

“Amen,” she said, taking the beer and popping the top off.

“You working today?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you?”

“My drive starts in an hour,” I replied pointing at my beat up car. I bought that thing new and it already had over 120,000 miles on it. In three years and seven months. “In my chariot.”

It was a Hyundai Accent. Three doors and a busted air conditioner. I liked going to work all sweaty and gross. It kept the bosses from talking to me. And I liked it that way.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later tonight?” I said in the most hopeful voice I can muster.

“You know you will,” she said with a smirk.

“Amen,” I replied.