A Sentimental Catharsis

Sometimes, things just line up. And sometimes they don’t. This story ain’t over quite yet, but from all indications, it’s gonna end up being one of the latter. I woke up this morning with a single thought on my mind: I wish I was still asleep. It’s my normal thought when I wake up. Life’s been like that recently. I got up, and got dressed. See, today was my day off, which meant I’d be working all day. If that seems backwards and confusing, that’s completely intentional. I pulled on my shirt and jeans, rolled up my sleeves, threw on a tie real quick, and made myself some eggs for breakfast. I didn’t have much, but a steady diet of eggs did miracles for most of my health, save the little cholesterol issue that I’d undoubtedly have to worry about in a decade or two. That, however, was a problem to worry about in the future. The rest of the world was the problem of the now.

My life had gone to crap a couple weeks ago, maybe a month. Time passes real quick. It’s the end of summer, beautiful outside. Despite the fact that I moved into the city and have other cafés, better cafés, closer to me, I still found myself wandering over to my old Starbucks on my days off. Force of habit. I like the environment, I guess, simultaneously homey and corporate, like a cookie-cutter house in a popup suburb. And so, for the entirety of the summer, I’ve been working there, organizing spreadsheets for my job, writing a script that will undoubtedly never be finished, preparing for my tabletop game nights with my old friends. The usual things that some dude in their mid-twenties does with their freetime.

I’d been doing it for two years by now, from before I’d had a consistent gig, from back when I was a struggling freelance writer. However, this year there was a twist. See, last year, I met someone awesome, we chatted occasionally, but she was in college and had to leave. She was only in town for the summer. I got that. I expected that. And I pretended I didn’t give a crap. That was my general attitude. After all, at that point I was a college grad living with my parents working the occasional gig for a hundred bucks or less. I was focused entirely on writing my terrible scripts, trying to sell them and failing miserably. She was an artist in college who, unlike me, was already getting gigs. Small and occasional, but that’s better than me with my scriptwriting. We chatted, hit it off, then she went back to college, and I returned to my life of trying to thrive in a world that felt like it was built to shut me down.

Fast forward a few months, and I found my job. Managing a bar. Well, assistant managing. On off-days. Essentially, my boss shoveled the day to day gruntwork onto me, and I did it happily because that's what I was being paid to do, then she got all the credit. I loved it, because it meant that I myself didn’t have to be a face of anything. My boss got to deal with the owners and investors and the like, and I got to be a fly on the wall. I also loved it because it gave me an excuse to hang around a bar all day, listening to how people act, learning how they think. Soon enough, I’d moved into a crappy townhouse across the street with a couple coworkers, and we were living it moderately survivably. To be fair, that has always been my goal in life, to support my own survival, then everything else I get to be given to people who bring beauty into the world. Cheesy and over the top, but I find the sentiment important.

So, this summer rolls around, and I’m commuting every Friday around noon across the city and a bridge, To my old Starbucks. My home away from home. In fact, if I’m being completely honest, the only home I’ve really known in a long while. And, as the weeks of summer come to a close, I once again ran into that wonderful artist. She was having the time of her life in college, and had grown even more successful. She asked me about my scripts, and I showed her a couple of my finished ones. I didn’t show the one I’m working on right now, not because it was unfinished, but because it was far more personal than any of the others. She was freaked out by my slasher script, which is a good thing in my book. She was intrigued by my interrogation room drama, which, again, a good thing. I looked at some of her commissions, and as expected, they were beautiful. Crisp and realistic, with just enough fantasization to pull you from your own reality into hers. For the three weeks we ran into one another, in the beginning of August, we gelled well. Then, once again, she went back to college, and I returned to my life of surviving and trying to enjoy myself whenever I could. And that was that. The story ended once again, without so much as a peep. That, I've found, is the difference between fiction and reality. In fiction, endings are dramatic, intended, or important for character development. In reality, sometimes things just don’t click, the timing just doesn’t work, and people just pass in the night.

Which brings things around to today. One of my housemates, Jake, yells at me, “Yo, idiot, some of us got work tonight.” He’s generally grumpy if anyone ever gets too loud Friday before about one in the afternoon.

I shout back, “Get back to your beauty sleep, Jake, that wasn’t me. Melinda’s showering.” Melinda, who woke up whenever she felt like it, always showered while blasting EDM, for some ungodly reason.

There is pause as Jake begins to listen for the telltale drop of Melinda’s music. When it hits, he shouts more pleasantly at me, “Sorry Adam,” then he yells out, “Melinda, shut that off. Like, now!”

Melinda ignores him or doesn’t hear him. One can hardly tell. I finish up my eggs and wash the plate thoroughly. I don’t want any reason for anyone to be upset with me. My odd schedule tortures them enough. Placing the plate in the drying rack, I head out to my car. Or, well, Jake’s car. Technically, my car is the van, but we all just use Jake’s to get around normally. Since our days off don’t align and we always walk to work, it works out perfectly. The rule is simply that we share the gas bill proportionally. No one is particularly happy about it, which I’ve been told is a sign of a good compromise. So, I hop into the beautiful, old, loud muscle car and pull out of our pseudo-garage. It’s a driveway that we built up a wooden frame with tin roofing around to keep the rain and snow and mess away from the Charger. Pulling out of the driveway, I rev the engine twice, solely to make sure Jake knew I was leaving, then I drive away headed west north west, towards the Potomac.

In no time, I pull into the shopping center parking lot, and roll through a space into another. Pulling up the brake and shifting the car into park, I order a coffee from my phone, grab my bag, and head on inside. Walking in, the baristas greet me, “Hey, Adam,” and, “How’s it going?”

I nod politely as I walk over to the waiting area, and when they hand me my coffee, I take it and, bowing my head, say, “Thanks, man. Have a good one.”

The barista who made my coffee, Ethan I believe, nods right back. “You too,” he replies as I walk away. Settling into my corner and pulling out my computer, I start to work. My script is nearing the third act, and I am proud of it thus far. It will never see the light of day, to be sure, but I’ve had a cathartic time writing the darned thing. Settling into my routine, I sip the coffee as I write a few pages. Three to five pages a day, one day a week, makes for a script a couple scripts every year. Working from noon until six every Friday helps me focus my writing, and while it isn’t the most consistent, I do well enough. But today, while I’m sitting, sipping, and scripting, someone saddles up in the seat beside me.

“So,” says the artist’s sister, “How are you doing, Adam?” Now, I haven’t seen the sister in over a year at this point. She was in high school, maybe still is, and I really don’t know much about her.

Shrugging, I make a nondescript noise of an indefinite, noncommittal nature. It’s my default response to most things. And I also continue working.

“My sister’s been talking about you a bunch,” she continues.

I snort out a chuckle and shake my head. “Don’t believe you. No one thinks about me, much less enough to talk.”

“Nah,” she replies, shaking her head right back, “She talked a lot. Even told me I wasn’t allowed to come with her on Fridays.”

I smile and, for the first time since she said hello, turn to face her. “I guess that explains why I haven’t seen you this year.”

She laughs. “Well, that, and you’ve been way more focused on working than you used to be.”

I shrug. “This is the only real time I get to write, nowadays. I like to make the best of it.”

She nods. “Makes sense, I guess. What’re you working on.”

I smile but ignore the question. “So, how’s the poetry thing going?” She’d been interested in poetry, at least a year ago when we last spoke.

She shakes her head. “You don’t get to just change the topic like that.” She begins to peek towards my screen. I quickly alt-tab over to my spreadsheets of the bar’s inventory and sales numbers. She gives me a look like I’m being suspicious, which I am. “So, it’s gonna be like that, is it?” she asks.

I smile. “Yep.”

“In that case, I’m not gonna give you Judy’s number.”

I smirk at her. “You weren’t gonna in the first place,” I retort.

She shrugged. “Maybe I was, you never know. She did seem interested.” She let her voice trail off.

Ships in the night, I think to myself, trying to keep that in the front of my mind. This is reality, not some fictional romance story. I smile and take a breath. “It’s just a personal story, something of a sentimental catharsis.”

“So, do I get to read it?” she asks, excitement and anticipation crossing onto her face.

“Nope,” I shut her down quickly and efficiently.

Her smile grows even larger. “What about Judy?”

I laugh at that but don’t give an answer. I suppose that is probably an answer in and of itself, but it might be open to interpretation.

She chuckles, and says, “Fine, I guess. You can have the number. You should really call it.”

I furrow my brow. “Wouldn’t it be weird that I just suddenly have her number?”

She shakes her head, “She’ll like it, trust me.”

I push further, “When would be a good time to call? Doesn’t she, like, have classes or something?”

The sister nods, then says, “Actually, right about, well, now would be pretty good.” As I nod and begin to dial, she starts to text someone.

The phone rings once, twice. Then, Judy picks up. There’s a pause, like she’s waiting for the strange caller to speak. A logical thing, with all the robocalls going around.

“Um, hi,” I say, “It’s Adam.”

“Hey Adam,” she replies, clearly pleased with this turn of events, “It’s good to hear your voice.”

I smile, knowing that it is only for myself. “Honestly,” I say, “It’s good to be heard, especially by you.”