Ladies of the Deep

I had stopped writing because the typewriter had gotten itself jammed and now there was nothing to do.

At the liquor store, Jeff Ritkins told me about a job offering at the library.

“Government position, eh?” I said.

I thought about it for a brief moment, turned the idea over in my head right then as I was handing Jeff the bottle of brew. I imagined myself surrounded by books, I thought of typing up a resume, I thought of the interview, and then I ended the thought with the fact that I wouldn't pass the drug test.

Jeff rang up the beer and I paid him, revealing my thinning wallet.

"Come on Hal, think it over, it could be a great job for you."

"Jeff, even if I were to apply for a job at the library, they would drug test me and then that would be the end of it."
Jeff bagged the beer and handed it to me over the counter.

"Hal, if you got an interview, that would be a done deal for them, they'd take one look at you and after reviewing your professional history, after you tell them who you are--"
"Who I was."

"What?
"You said after I tell them who I am. I'm not that person anymore."

"You could get the job, that's all I'm saying."

"They would still drug test me though. It's a government position, not some drug store clerk job."

"F**k you too, Hal." He smiled behind his rims. "What is it that would make you fail the drug test? You sniffin' the snow?"

I took off my sunglasses and met his gazing question.

"No, not at all. A little earthly remedy called cannabis. It's what fuels my writing."

Jeff released a suppressed laugh.
"Ahh, you f*****g degenerate, get outta here and go write a book."

"Have a nice day Jeff."

I walked out into the parking lot, out into the f*****g sun, and I sucked that bottle dry.

In the car, I had thought of a great idea for a story. A true piece of literature, one that would be printed in thousands of magazines. The theme and subject matter may strike a controversial tone, and may also be horridly morbid, but its good enough to get me back on the wagon of writing.

Driving and sipping on yesterdays near empty Miller, I laugh at the people. I laugh all the way to my damn, desolate den. I had plotted out the story as I was trying to locate the right key to my front door. I even came up with the last sentence. It was perfect. It would make people laugh and scream  and cry and s**t their pants all at the same time.

I finally chose the right key, (as how I could never find it before was odd to me because it is the only red key) and went into the house. I tossed the empty bottle on the pile of its relatives.

At the desk I sat and faced the typewriter, silent yet screaming at me. Tempting me to just do it. Just do it. Just f*****g do it.

I put a finger on the A key and then remembered instantly that the ribbon was still knotted  and I cursed myself, shouting into the dark silence of the room, left the desk and fell on the couch and went to sleep.

In the morning the idea for the story dissolved out of my ear and onto the rough couch material. Gone.

My stomach made an attempt at a joke and then twisted itself into a knot of pain.

I fell onto the floor and crawled to the fridge for a bottle of beer. Sifting through a smelly swamp of brew. I got to the fridge and opened it and a pound of cherry pie fell on my face. There was no beer in the fridge.

Outside the sun was trying to talk to me. I realized then, standing out on the dying grass, that I was the only person in the world thinking about the sun. The sun replied, burning black orbs onto the surface of my sight, and it said to go f**k myself, or go write.

I went inside and sat at the typewriter.

Knots.

Black knots.

In the evening I walked around the glass to pick the Sears Achiever off of the lawn. 

When I reached out to pick it up, I realized that there was an unfortunate cat lying dead and broken and smashed under the typewriter.

I shouldn't try to write when I am drunk.

The phone rang for the first time in six days as I was rolling a joint. I didn't answer it. 

The smoke wafted in rejoice. Sleep knocked on my door and I answered.

   

   I awoke.

    I fell asleep.

I dreamed about Ladies swimming deep in the Lake.

     I woke to the sound of dogs barking

I fell asleep to cats meowing.

I need a new ribbon.

I answered the next phone call two days later and a foreign sounding voice tickled my ear.

"Go f**k yourself. Or go write."

I dropped the phone on the floor, but only because I wanted to make the situation more authentic.

Author's Note

not finished, not started, not ended, not charted

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

yeah, this was alright. i was hooked. read the whole thing. part about cherry pie was great. cherry pie is a great thing to write about. easily the most literate of pies. you could tighten this s**t up a bit, but really, there isn't too much fat. but there's always fat.

the way you capitalized Ladies was rad. So was the title. nice piece bud. keep it up.

[Chadvonswan]

Hah thankks man I appreciate the commentary. Thanks for reading bromaestro

[Crusty Pizza Stain]

This is pretty good, man.

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks man, I uhh-preeshy-8 the comment!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!sex

[ZackOfBridge]

Go f**k yourself, and then go write(; The busted up structure towards the end was rather poetic and to my liking

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks for reading bro man! This wasn't anything serious, just for my own special delight