Flowers in a Dumpster (25 page)

“Well,” Ness said, “I love you. That’s passion.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, isn’t there a part of you, independent of everything else, that
defines
you? Something you’ve always felt, loved and known about?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Richard drew his hands out of the water and stood. As he dried his hands, he said, “Okay. Real Estate. It’s what you do, right? But have you always wanted to do it? Did you dream about it as a kid?”

Ness laughed. “Of course not.”

“That’s the difference. Writing . . . I dreamed about that. It isn’t what I do, but who I am.”

Ness’s face was still red and dreamy from her bath and Richard had no idea if she understood what he was saying. He meant to say more, to make it clear how important it was to put passion above everything else, when the downstairs doorbell chimed. Richard’s mouth hung open, words about to be spoken.

“That’s the food,” Ness said.

“Right,” Richard said, heading for the bathroom door. Behind him, Ness closed her eyes and submerged herself deep into the warm water.

***

Richard was hunkered down in front of his computer screen, soft lamplight spilling over one shoulder. He and Ness had finished supper a few hours earlier. After the leftovers were put into the fridge and the containers into the trash, Richard came upstairs to continue with his writing. Now Ness had found him, calling his name and drawing him out of his make-believe world.

“Hey, babe,” Richard said, spinning around in his chair and pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

Ness wore a silk negligee that highlighted her figure. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.

“You’ve been in here forever,” she said. “I thought I might get that foot rub before bed.” She smiled teasingly.

“I want to wrap up what I’m doing. Okay?”

Ness came over to the computer and peered over Richard’s shoulder. He felt a twinge of annoyance, as if his privacy were being intruded upon. It passed, however, when Ness put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Wow! You really have been working.”

“That’s what I told you.”

She read a few lines. “This is really good. Is it new?”

Richard tapped his fingers absently on the keyboard. “Uh huh.”

She stepped away from the computer. “Well, I’m glad you’ve had such a productive day. But . . . it’s getting late. Will you come to bed soon?”

Richard nodded. “Right away. Promise.”

Ness leaned down and kissed him. “I’ll be waiting.”

After she’d gone, Richard swung his chair around again. The words on the screen glowed. In the past, even the slightest interruption had been an excuse to stop writing. Now, however, he easily slipped back into his story, finding the rhythm without so much as a missed step.

The next time he leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock, he was shocked to see that it was almost two a.m. Ness would be fast asleep by now. Richard felt a moment of guilt—he’d promised her that he would be coming to bed right away. Still, the guilt was assuaged by his sense of success and joy. God! It had been so long since the writing had been this good.

He saved his work for the night and reached out to turn off the computer. After a moment, he reconsidered and opened up his email program.

***

TO: [email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: What a day

Hey Mace, how’s it going?

I just wrapped up the most incredible day of writing and I wanted to share it with someone. I finished up the revisions on ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ I think that you were on the money with your suggestions. I’ll send you a copy and you can let me know what you think. I want to submit this one soon, as I feel good about it. And, believe it or not, I started two more stories today! This is coming from the guy who used to spend two weeks on one story. I think I have your influence to thank for the great output. I haven’t finished either of them yet, but when I do I’m going to share them with you (if you want to read them, that is). But . . . the point is, this was a pretty productive day. I don’t know how things are going to go tomorrow. I’ve got a lot on my plate with the
Gazette
and I know that it’s going to eat up most of my potential writing time. I guess that’s the curse of the working class. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll bring someone else in to shoulder some of the load. As I said before, at least I work from home.

Thanks for the support and kind words regarding my writing. I try hard and I know I have the skills . . . but I need to focus now on discipline and dedication. As long as I have you standing in my shadow (or is it the other way around, ha-ha?), keeping me on track, things will work out. Also, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all of this. I tried to explain my feelings to Ness tonight, but she doesn’t get it. She wants to, and I think she thinks she does, but she can’t fully understand. I think it’s only something us hacks can get, right? You’re a writer like me and I think you really get where I’m coming from. It helps to have someone to share things with.

Anyhow, I should get to bed. Ness is already fast asleep (and she’ll likely be pretty upset at my late hours). I have to get up to work in the morning. In a perfect world, I could get up and go right back to my writing. But, I guess the only truly perfect worlds are the ones we make up.

I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.

Rich

TO: [email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: Different Angle of Attack

Rich, it’s great to hear that you kicked some major ass today! I knew you had it in you if you got yourself on the right (or is that write?) track. You’ll have to send me the revised version of, ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ I think that if you did it the way I think you should have, I know of a great magazine where it might find a home. Send me the other two whenever you get the chance. I’ve only read a bit of your writing, but I’m already a die-hard fan, and I think you know that.

Sorry to hear that your wife doesn’t get how you feel about writing. Believe me, I haven’t found a single person who can relate. They seem to look at me with this blank, expectant expression, as if I am either fucking nuts, or talking another language. It’s probably even harder with a wife, who should know you inside and out. Oh well, you can’t have everything in common with someone, even a spouse. But thanks for sharing with me. If you ever have something that’s sticking in your brain, feel free to dump it on me. We might only know one another online, but I feel a real connection between us, Rich. Hell, I don’t have many close friends in the ‘real’ world . . . why not find someone in cyberspace.

And man, do I know about work interfering with what I’m meant to be doing. Half the time I am kicking my own ass to keep things moving, and the rest of the time someone else seems to be kicking it for me. You know what I’d recommend? Another angle of attack. Instead of letting your job work against you, let it work for you. I mean . . . you work at home, right? Hammering out obits for a bunch of dead folks? Hell, push that stuff aside when you can and focus on your writing. The other stuff will get done. I say put what’s important first. Fuck the rest. What’s the worst they can do? Fire you from a job that sucks?

I’ve sent along my latest story. It’s a bit more violent than I had planned, but I think the ending makes it work. Let me know what you think, as I value your advice.

All right, I’ll talk to you again later. Keep writing!

Mace

***

Vanessa awoke gradually, rolling over and reaching out an arm for Rich. His side of the bed was empty. Empty and cold. In the darkness, her eyes sought out the digital alarm clock on the dresser. It was past midnight. She had come to bed before ten, leaving Rich in the computer room. For the fifth night in a row, he had promised to follow her to bed shortly, but she’d fallen asleep alone. Again.

With a grunt of irritation, she kicked the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed. The uncarpeted floor was cold against her bare feet, and she rummaged around under the bed until she came out with her slippers. Navigating the dark room like a blind person, she stumbled out into the hall and headed for the computer room at the opposite end. The door was closed, which was unusual, but light seeped out from underneath.

Ness tried to remain calm, but this was getting ridiculous. She knew that Richard liked to write, and she supported that—hell, she’d bought extra copies of all the little rinky-dink magazines that published his stories over the years and sent them to her parents in Ohio—but this was starting to border on obsession. Even when they’d first met in college, when Richard had boasted dreams of being the next Stephen King, dreams that had been considerably downsized since then, he had never been this compulsive about his writing. It was silly, but she felt neglected, as if he were having an affair with his fictional characters. And it could all be traced back to when he’d started corresponding with that damn Mace Hunter.

Vanessa opened the door without knocking, but Richard didn’t even notice. He was stooped over the computer, his face too close to the glowing screen, his fingers flying across the keys like tap-dancing spiders. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he was looking up internet porn, but she could clearly see the screen and the word processing program was opened and half-filled with text. In a weird way, she’d almost prefer to discover him wanking off to dirty pictures online. At least that would be something she could understand.

“Richard,” she said, her voice not penetrating her husband’s trance at all. “Rich!” she said more loudly.

Rich jerked and let out a startled squeak, looking around with a guilty expression that quickly turned into anger. “Damn it, Ness, what are you doing in my office?”

“
Your
office? Excuse me, but last I checked this was
our
computer room, a computer we share and which I paid half of.”

The anger remained on Richard’s face for another few seconds, but it faded in the heat of Ness’s own anger. “I’m sorry,” he said with a weary sigh, raking a hand over his face. “It’s just, you know, a man needs a place to work. Some place all his own where he can have a little privacy and solitude.”

“Like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, you mean?” Vanessa asked, smiling, using the joke as a peace offering.

Rich’s lopsided smile, the one she had fallen in love with, surfaced. “Yeah, something like that. What are you doing up so late?”

“I could certainly ask you the same question. These late nights are beginning to become a habit. If you’re not careful, I’m going to get used to having that big old bed all to myself.”

“God, I hope not,” Rich said, holding out a hand to his wife. When she took it, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling lonely, but I’m on a hot streak lately. I think I’m finally ready to start that novel I’ve been talking about for the past year and a half.”

“Is that what you’re working on now?” Vanessa asked, glancing at the computer.

“Oh, uh, no. This is actually for the paper.”

“For the
Gazette
? Why are you working on this stuff so late?”

“Gus needs these three obits first thing in the morning so he can get them ready for the Wednesday edition.”

Ness glanced back at the computer screen then frowned at her husband. “I thought you were going to finish up those obituaries this afternoon while I was working the Phelner’s open house.”

“I was, but . . . ”

“But what?”

“Well, I got this email from Mace—”

“Here we go again with Mace.”

“—and he sent me a new story of his, and it was so good that it kind of got me inspired. I started on another new story, which will make it the third one I’ve written this week, and time sort of got away from me and I didn’t get to the obits.”

“Rich,” Vanessa said, bolting out of his lap and pacing around the room. “What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me, Ness. I simply decided to spend the afternoon working, that’s all.”

“No, Rich, that’s the point. You
weren’t
working. You were writing your little stories
instead of
working.”

“My writing is my work,” Richard said, his mouth set in a hard line. “I know you don’t understand that—”

“Your writing doesn’t put food on the table, Richard. Your job at the
Gazette
does. Do you want to get fired?”

“No one’s going to get fired, quit being such a goddamn drama queen,” Richard growled. “The obits aren’t due ‘til the morning, and they’ll be done by then.”

“And you’ll have to stay up all night to get them finished. You know I’m taking tomorrow off, and I hoped we could spend some time together. Instead, you’ll be sleeping the day away. I feel like we’re becoming strangers, Rich. I never get to see you anymore.”

“You see me all the time.”

“I see you, but we don’t interact. You’re always planted in front of that computer.”

Richard breathed deeply through his nostrils, the air pushing out in a loud gust. “I’m sorry if it upsets you that I’ve gotten back in touch with the writer in me. I was stupid enough to hope that you would be happy that I was finally excited about my work again. And even though you don’t see it, my writing
is
my work. The job at the paper is just what I do to make ends meet while I try to get my writing career off the ground.”