by J. R. Rogue
“Yep.” Bingo.
“Wow. I love it,” I gushed. “Why did you bring it up here?”
“For you to write on.”
“What do you mean?” I turned to him. He was laying out on the blanket, propped on his elbows, his crossed legs next to the typer. His artificial one resting on top.
“You said you can’t write. That you get distracted. Well you can’t check Twitter on this. No Facebook. Nothing. It’s just you and your words.” He smiled shyly, proud of himself.
“True. But I can’t imagine writing a novel on that.” I was definitely born into the perfect era. I adored my Macbook.
“Just try it. You told me you moved across the country for writing. This isn’t that crazy of an idea. What’s the craziest thing you have done for writing?”
Basically prostituting myself was definitely the worst, but he knew that now and he still wanted to be around me. “I’ve done a lot of weird things. I myself was once in the bartending profession.”
“Do tell.” He sat up, leaning to one side on his arm.
I frowned. “For one month. I was horrible at it. I broke bottles and messed up drink orders. I assure you the character born from that experience was much more adept at it.” I cringed at the memory. Worst month ever.
“What else?” He laughed
“I bought a pickup truck with one of those tops over the bed of it, I threw a mattress back there and lived in it for three weeks in Montana,”
“Just three weeks?”
“Yeah, that’s all I could manage. When I was a kid, I didn’t want to be a writer. I wanted to be an actress. I loved pretending to be someone else. I would perform little shows for my stuffed animals. My mom encouraged me to write down the stories I was acting out. I don’t know how she knew I would excel at it. Maybe she didn’t, maybe she just knew I would have been a horrible actress.”
She was right. I couldn’t hide my emotions from my face, and I couldn’t fake ones that were not there. I was not talkative, I didn’t need to be. It was always evident in my face.
“Okay, so using a typewriter doesn’t seem all that crazy.” He stood. “I’m going to walk around a little. I’ll be close. Just shout if anyone tries to kidnap you.”
I situated myself cross-legged on the blanket in front of the machine. I ran my fingers over the round black keys again. I hadn’t used a typewriter since I was in high school. I wrote poetry on it. I loved the sound it made. I loved throwing the words out as they came. No backspace. No delete. It was all so real and permanent. I bled for that machine. I burned most of the pages.
My mother purchased a 1940’s Royal for me. Ebony and beautiful. She said it matched me. I reached up and pulled my ball cap off, loosened my hair tie, and piled my dark strands into a knot. How did I ever forget the way it made me feel? I couldn’t imagine using the one in front of me for anything else. But I had not written poetry in years. I did not know why I abandoned it. The idea of making money from it back then seemed ludicrous. Poetry seemed to be a forgotten art, and modern poetry was not as it used to be.
I had witnessed poets reach some fame after posting their work on Instagam. I browsed through a few of their accounts, but grew disgusted quickly. The most popular ‘writers’ wrote one-liners and clearly sought out ‘Insta-fame.’ They weren’t writing honestly. Not the way I had as a child. I didn’t click the follow button on any of the shallow, soulless accounts. They were easily identifiable. I did manage to find a handful of gems though.
I banished my thoughts of the digital world, actually glad my phone wasn’t within reach, took a deep breath, and began to type. The words fell from my fingers. I should have known they would be about Chace. I didn’t want them to be. I didn’t want to repeat old habits. He wasn’t like the others I had burned. I didn’t want to make a dime off of anything that might come from this. Perhaps, that is why they fell so freely. He was walking poetry.
I hoped that he would not ask to read my work when he returned. I pounded the keys quickly. The typewriter was in immaculate condition, but still, old fashioned. It took time to get everything out. I tapped out poems, scattering them randomly across the single page, front and back. I ripped the paper out and folded it over many times, then slipped it into my pocket. I pulled out a fresh sheet from the back of the box and inserted it. I felt as if I had never stopped, that poetry had been spilling from my hands for years.
In that moment, I mourned those years. The years I did not use poetry to feel the kind of relief and release washing over me now. What would have come of those years? From the experiences of my twenties? It may have been wretched prose. It may have been perfection. I would never know. I didn’t need to write to live. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams. No, I didn’t need to write to pay my bills. I, still however, needed to write to survive.
I had been slipping further and further into depression with this writer’s block. I could feel warmth creeping inside once again. I could kiss that kid. I could kiss him. Did he know this would happen? Could I show my fans this style of writing and have them accept it? The anxiety, it was still there.
I laid back down on the blanket, resting my right hand on the typewriter keys, closing my eyes, willing everything to be okay.
Chace found me like that later. A half hour later, a day later, who knows, it all felt the same. “Get anything done?” His voice broke into my daydreaming. He fell onto the blanket next to me.
“Yes,” I sighed.
“Good,” he replied. I waited for him to ask to see it. To ask about it. He didn’t. “Want to put the typer away and hike some? It’s so beautiful up here.”
I sat up and lifted the typewriter out of its box. My mother always put their name there. I had been tapping away, with no introduction. I smiled at the name staring back at me. They fit. She was dark and beautiful and brutally honest. Olivia. I loved the name.
I stood and began gathering everything scattered around me. We trotted back to his vehicle, secured our items and found a trail. I followed him. He was more familiar with the area. I hadn’t been on a hike in years. Many areas left me winded. Chace never seemed to break a sweat. We came upon a few anglers down by the edges of the lake, and a few people riding mountain bikes.
“Do you ride here?” I asked, as a couple went by us. It seemed so scary and dangerous. The steep hills caused me to slip numerous times in my boots.
“I have. It’s fun and definitely challenging,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’d like to try some time.” I don’t know why I said it. It terrified me. But trying new things seemed somewhat safer with him.
“Really?” He stopped and turned to me. I stopped and looked up into his eyes. “It’s not easy. I’m not saying you couldn’t do it. But it can be dangerous.”
“I’d like to try some time,” I repeated myself. “I’ve been looking at a few bikes online.” He turned and began climbing again, holding a branch out of the way, letting me pass him.
“We can do that some time.” We had made it to the top of a bluff. The lake below was beautiful. I held my hand over my eyes and smiled. The blue was clear from up here, which I knew was a lie. Down below you could see that the lake was fairly dirty. It was a party lake. Chace sat on a large rock and rested. I followed suit.
“I used to come here a lot. To think. And write. I would bring my guitar up here and just play a whole Saturday away. I’d scribble the music down in a notebook. Then bring it home and revise it over and over and over. I’m glad I’ll have time now.”
“Why didn’t you go to school to be a music teacher?” It seemed like the perfect job for him.
“It crossed my mind,” he admitted. “Sports and music, I love them both. Both can help children belong. The way the government has been killing the music programs in schools is a crime. It’s just as important as anything else. I was just afraid if I got my degree for that I would have a harder time finding a position.”
“Does Andrew have any gigs soon?” I reached down and
began re-lacing my boots. The trip back down would surely be trickier.
“I’m not sure. I could find out. Would you like to go see him play?”
“Yeah, I definitely should. I’d like to see how good he is. See the thing he is passionate about. He always flew from one hobby to the next as a kid, never really settling on anything. But from what my mother says he really cares about this. I know his dad doesn’t take it seriously, but if he is really good maybe I can help. I know some people in New York who may be able to help him out. He could fly back with me when I go home.”
Chace’s face twitched a little at my last few words. “When do you think you will leave?”
“I don’t know yet. I did write some earlier. So maybe this place is helping finally.” Maybe facing this place was helping. Maybe he was helping.
“Well, I hope it isn’t soon. It’s been nice not living alone.”
“I agree.”
The middle of the following week, I got a text from my best friend, Gemma, in New York. I hadn’t been keeping in touch with her the way I should. I assumed the goings on of a small Ozark town would bore her. She was born and raised in the City.
Gemma: How’s Missouri?
Me: Good. Nice.
Gemma: Any hotties down there?
Me: That’s not what I’m here for ma’am. Remember? WRITING!!
Gemma: I know, I know, but what’s the harm in having some fun too? But seriously, how is the writing going?
Me: Horrible until yesterday… mostly I am distracting myself with other crap. I’m spending a lot of time with Kat, no complaints there. She is the other reason I am here.
Gemma: How is she taking things?
Me: Okay I guess. She is eating more, and settling in to her new place. Focusing on work, and I try to keep her distracted the best I can.
Gemma: That’s good. Have you heard from Tristan at all?
Me: No? Why would I?
Gemma: Just curious if he has realized what a tool he is.
Me: Doesn’t matter. And don’t forget, I changed my number,
Gemma: I’m sure he could get the number if he really tried.
Me: I hope he doesn’t.
Gemma: Wow. So you’re serious about being over him huh?
Me: Ya.
Gemma: When you said you were moving away to the middle of nowhere I just figured it was because he broke your heart.
Me: I can see how it would look that way, but not the case.
Gemma: Who is the new guy?
Me: What?
Gemma: There has to be a new guy. Spill it.
Me: There isn’t……
Gemma: What’s with all the ‘………’ ???
Me: Super busy. GTG.
Gemma: I KNEW IT!!! Tell me now!
Me: Well I’m living with someone
Gemma: ARE YOU KIDDING ME!! WHAT!!
Me: Not like that. My mom kind of rents the house to one of my younger brother’s friends. Gem, he is perfect. I couldn’t write someone like him if I tried.
Gemma: How long have you been seeing him?
Me: I’m not. He just lives here. But seriously, I can’t think straight sometimes when he is in the room with me.
Gemma: I need pictures. Send me a pic.
Me: Oh that’s not creepy at all! ‘Hey hold up a sec Chace, can I take your pic?’ ??? NO!
Gemma: Facebook?
Me: Oh shit, yeah. Hang on a sec I’ll go to his page and screenshot a photo.
I quickly found Chace’s page and sent Gemma a photo. She began typing immediately.
Gemma: Son of a bitch…… You’re life isn’t fair. It’s not fair at all! You get the best guys.
Me: I don’t have him. Let’s not get carried away. It will never be like that.
Gemma: Why not?
Me: He is 22. I’m beginning to believe my own mother thinks of him as a son. Plus, he lives here with me.
Gemma: You’re bumming me out.
Me: I came here to learn how to write again. To quit acting like I’m a kid.
Gemma: I understand. But I want to visit soon
Me: No way. I know what you’re thinking. I’ll just come to you.
Gemma: I hate you.
Me: You adore me.
Gemma: True. Heading into the office. Ttyl. Hit that.
I laughed at her sign off. I quickly texted Kat to make sure we were still on for lunch. She had worked through lunch the past few days. Which was odd. I knew she was trying to keep her mind off things, but I felt something was more off than usual. She seemed distant in her texts. Not depressed, but just not herself.
She texted back quickly. Confirming we would be eating. I dressed and got out of bed.
I wanted to go to the bike shop a few towns over. I wanted to be able to ride with Chace on the road and the trail at Ha Ha Tonka. After researching one afternoon, I decided on a hybrid bike that would be suitable for both. I was up for the challenge. I had always been a runner in New York. Never brave enough to cycle in the busy streets. I began running to get to the point where nothing on my body jiggled anymore as I went down the pavement. After I completed my goal I found that I couldn’t go more than a couple days without hitting the pavement. I ran through the winter months as well.
When I ran, I let my mind run too. I would often draft scenes in my head, or stop to record them into my iPhone while my body was on autopilot waiting for traffic to cross and the walk signal to blink.
I was lost while I ran; my mind was everywhere contemplating my day, my relationships, work, and family. I hated going to the gym. The whirling of the machines, grunts of the men lifting weights, the babbling of women talking about their workweek. It was not relaxing to me at all. I tried listening to music in my headphones but the constant distractions took me out of my mind, out of my reflection.
My mother worried about my running in a busy city. I always ran in the morning, it felt the safest. I took the same route every time. I armed myself with my cell phone, a slim knife, and a bottle of pepper spray. If a man started to run behind me, I would stop to tie a shoe or check my phone, always facing him, and wait for him to pass. Maybe it was paranoia, but I certainly would not be ending up in someone basement or dead in a ditch somewhere. Although I was cautious and aware, I didn’t feel unsafe. Strangely, the crowds of people soothed me. I felt more unsure about running here, and thus had given up that love since coming home. The lack of physical activity only worsened my anxiety and depression.
I was looking forward to exercising with Chace. Though, my mind could already think of better ways to work up a sweat with him. Since that night in the pool, he had infected my mind. Amazingly, ever since the castle, I could write again. It had started early Monday morning. I awoke with a start at four in the morning, my sheets damp with sweat. It was not the first time inspiration hit at such an odd hour. I found that sometimes my best words came to me as I slept. If anything woke me, I had to get to my laptop as soon as possible before anything slipped away. What came to me filled me with unease, and a slight tingling sensation.
I had the most vivid sex dream about Chace. I immediately felt guilty. He took me out the day before to spark my imagination and here I was having perverted fantasies about him. Shit, damn, fuck. Old habits die hard.
I had pushed my guilt aside along with my covers and tip toed over to my computer, powering it on. I couldn’t let it slip away. No matter how bad I felt. And why did I feel bad? I never wrote badly about a man I slept with. The men in my past who had been hurt knew before getting in bed with me that I wasn’t looking for anything serious, if they developed attachments and the inevitable broken heart, it wasn’t my fault. Not that I had any intention of getting in bed with Chace. He was too young, too nice. Too living with me. No no, that would never happen. But fuck, if it was anything like my dream, I’d be ruined for life.
I wrote for three hours about Chace. His eyes, his hands, his touch. I knew too much about it. I had been staring more than I wanted to admit.
&nbs
p; I repeated this every night. Chace had more time on his hands, so he’d been playing below my balcony again. I would lie on the balcony above, a notebook in hand, my typewriter too loud to write as he played. It was the perfect tool for the writing I was doing. I was writing poetry again. I had felt three whole days of calm. I didn’t care that it was not what my fans wanted. I knew this blind passion would not last. Eventually I would let it catch up to me, but for now I did not care. I was writing for myself and for Chace, my muse.
I fictionalized us in many ways. I was doing what I had done before, but without hurting someone. I was using my attraction for him, but it wouldn’t wound him. As long as I kept our relationship platonic. I wanted to share my words with someone, that desire was there. I had never had that with the poetry I wrote as a teen, I would mostly write about things no one could know.
I was always adept at penning tales of unrequited love. Not many burn brighter. I was a masochist. I didn’t have a style, it varied from piece to piece. I had found a small lock box in the back of my closet. I stored each piece there.
I decided I would tell Kat at lunch about my poetry. I met her at the deli across from her shop. They were a small family owned operation with the best turkey sub around. I remembered them from my teens. I had yet to find one to top theirs. We ordered what we used to as kids. Turkey, hot, with pickles on the side.
I dumped my news as soon as our waitress left. “I’ve been writing.”
“What?!” My friend set her phone down and stared at me with her large amber eyes. “Really? That’s great!”
“I know. I feel.” I sighed. “Less heavy.” I raked my hands down the sides of my face, letting them fall into my lap. I sat back and relaxed.
“What’s the book about?” Kat asked.
“No book,” I smiled. “I’ve been writing poetry.”
“Really? Wow. I remember when you wrote back in school. You never would let anyone see it.”
