Post by Dirk Zephyrs on Sept 3, 2007 22:36:13 GMT -5
Here you are:
“It was a dark and stormy night,” he had written; that was his first attempt at writing, all the way back in fifth grade. He smiled as he reread the story he had written so many years ago, a document he had saved and moved from the family computer and onto his new Dell, which had cost him at least a week of healthy eating, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed Ramen.
So he read, using only the pale blue light emitted by the LCD screen, trying to lighten up his mood from the events of Tuesday. Three weeks ago, his shit-mobile of a vehicle slammed into another car when the transition had stalled out, and then the court decided that he was at fault; he had to take out another loan simply to pay the charges. He shook the memories out of his mind and continued reading.
For two years he had lived in this bloody little apartment complex in the Bronx, and he had always hated it. He couldn’t position his bed in a way to keep leaking rain from falling on some part of his body while he slept, and he had to drive to the library if he wanted to access the internet. The water from the shower was almost red with rust, and the tap water was literally undrinkable. Most of the rooms were infested with cockroaches, but he did his share of work exterminating the little buggers by laying poison about every Friday. Even so, the place had been gassed four times in the last month alone.
Unfortunately, the onset of rain interrupted his reading, forcing him to madly dash for the pots and pans that sat idly on the far wall, but by the time he had placed them around the room, most of his apartment was soaked. A peel of thunder rolled off in the distance, and he cursed loudly as the lights flickered once, then twice, and then shut off.
Some people would say he was too lazy to get a job, and part of him agreed, but the other part of him jeered and held up a middle finger, and it was always this brash, uncaring and thoughtless mindset he followed. Most of his years at Hamilton had been spent higher than airplanes or three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk, but he had, at least, managed to graduate. After writing two books which sold relatively poorly, he tried working several other jobs, an attempt to connect with his inner square, but in the end had quit, citing that, “This sucks.”
Shaking his head, he crawled into the wet cot beside the desk and tried to fall asleep. The pittering of rain into the pans was no help, but worse was the shaking of the near wall as the whores next door took care of their customers.
The librarian, Eden, greeted him with a frown from behind her Versace glasses, which had fallen down to the tip of her nose from bending over a list of books, and said, “You’re two weeks overdue on your copy of Flowers for Algernon, Mr. Evans.”
He shrugged off her immediate impulsion towards the rules as he walked over to the diminutive desks that huddled together in the center of the room, and proceeded to unholster his laptop from the satchel on his side, forcing the strangely voluptuous woman to come out from behind her desk to chastise him on promptness, but this time he was ready. He waited until she was just about to open her mouth and popped the question, “Would you like to go out for sushi some time, Eden?”
She was stunned by the comment that came out of nowhere; she had always been considered “cute”, a euphemism for “I’ll pass, let’s find someone else to pick up.” Before she even knew what direction up was, she said, “Yes!” and a look of satisfaction from Rodger Evans told her that she had fallen into a well-designed trap. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she would be paying, too.
It was Tuesday again, and Rodger drove through the rain in a sullen mood. His date with Eden hadn’t gone over so well; in his rush to prepare, he forgot his wallet, and she had to pay for his meal. They had discussed literature, books like Huck Finn and the Foundation novels of Isaac Asimov, and he had talked about writing. She was impressed, despite his lack of success, and the night had been going well up until the check came to the table.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” he had written; that was his first attempt at writing, all the way back in fifth grade. He smiled as he reread the story he had written so many years ago, a document he had saved and moved from the family computer and onto his new Dell, which had cost him at least a week of healthy eating, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed Ramen.
So he read, using only the pale blue light emitted by the LCD screen, trying to lighten up his mood from the events of Tuesday. Three weeks ago, his shit-mobile of a vehicle slammed into another car when the transition had stalled out, and then the court decided that he was at fault; he had to take out another loan simply to pay the charges. He shook the memories out of his mind and continued reading.
For two years he had lived in this bloody little apartment complex in the Bronx, and he had always hated it. He couldn’t position his bed in a way to keep leaking rain from falling on some part of his body while he slept, and he had to drive to the library if he wanted to access the internet. The water from the shower was almost red with rust, and the tap water was literally undrinkable. Most of the rooms were infested with cockroaches, but he did his share of work exterminating the little buggers by laying poison about every Friday. Even so, the place had been gassed four times in the last month alone.
Unfortunately, the onset of rain interrupted his reading, forcing him to madly dash for the pots and pans that sat idly on the far wall, but by the time he had placed them around the room, most of his apartment was soaked. A peel of thunder rolled off in the distance, and he cursed loudly as the lights flickered once, then twice, and then shut off.
Some people would say he was too lazy to get a job, and part of him agreed, but the other part of him jeered and held up a middle finger, and it was always this brash, uncaring and thoughtless mindset he followed. Most of his years at Hamilton had been spent higher than airplanes or three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk, but he had, at least, managed to graduate. After writing two books which sold relatively poorly, he tried working several other jobs, an attempt to connect with his inner square, but in the end had quit, citing that, “This sucks.”
Shaking his head, he crawled into the wet cot beside the desk and tried to fall asleep. The pittering of rain into the pans was no help, but worse was the shaking of the near wall as the whores next door took care of their customers.
The librarian, Eden, greeted him with a frown from behind her Versace glasses, which had fallen down to the tip of her nose from bending over a list of books, and said, “You’re two weeks overdue on your copy of Flowers for Algernon, Mr. Evans.”
He shrugged off her immediate impulsion towards the rules as he walked over to the diminutive desks that huddled together in the center of the room, and proceeded to unholster his laptop from the satchel on his side, forcing the strangely voluptuous woman to come out from behind her desk to chastise him on promptness, but this time he was ready. He waited until she was just about to open her mouth and popped the question, “Would you like to go out for sushi some time, Eden?”
She was stunned by the comment that came out of nowhere; she had always been considered “cute”, a euphemism for “I’ll pass, let’s find someone else to pick up.” Before she even knew what direction up was, she said, “Yes!” and a look of satisfaction from Rodger Evans told her that she had fallen into a well-designed trap. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she would be paying, too.
It was Tuesday again, and Rodger drove through the rain in a sullen mood. His date with Eden hadn’t gone over so well; in his rush to prepare, he forgot his wallet, and she had to pay for his meal. They had discussed literature, books like Huck Finn and the Foundation novels of Isaac Asimov, and he had talked about writing. She was impressed, despite his lack of success, and the night had been going well up until the check came to the table.
