Just Another Day

A close friend recently told me about a character in his building of whom I apparently needed to meet. He too is a writer, and has been published in several nationally acclaimed magazines. Aside from a few descriptive mannerisms, the only details I received were that he had just moved here from L.A., was willing to hang out with anyone for the sake of conversation, and was a bit off. I said, "Great. What's his number? Sounds like he needs a new friend." Perhaps some might find it disconcerting to call someone you know nothing else about, while the counter has no warning of your call, or the fact that you have been given their number, but it seemed perfectly normal to me.

He answered the same way anyone would: "Hello? Hey, hold on I can barely hear you. I haven't slept in over a day while waiting for my medication to come in the mail, and am going to the store to grab a five hour energy drink to keep going. The wind is heavy right now. Wait, who is this?" We exchanged necessary accreditations in time for a quick invitation over to the new place.

He lives on the river. His mail is on the floor, along with everything else he owns; which is not much. A tv flipped upside down represents his only seat. There was transient world music flowing from a guitar amplifier hooked up to his computer, and the rest were unorderly piles of books strewn about various parts of the otherwise empty living room. They all had faded hard bindings with names of authors down a distinguished line of the few who knew of their brilliance. They outnumbered the rest of his belongings, and were the kind that seem to validate someone as a real artist. Whatever that means.

It was hard to finish any sentence with him. The energetic fatigue was apparent in his lack of focus and sporadic movements. Interruptions were constant, though genuine and unaware. He couldn't complete an idea without hearing an insightful line in a song that prompted the next song I "had" to hear. While peering over the screen his long deep drags on a cigarette dropped ashes on his keys. They would have never made it past his flailing hands swirling in the air to try to remember what he meant to say before. I kind of just sat back and enjoyed the spectacle over a cup of hot tea he mixed with pure cane maple syrup and organic half and half. To this bizarre bean who finally fell asleep mid sentence on the hardwood floor of his empty apartment while I quietly let myself out: you know who you are...