March 2021: I talked to my old roommate Patrick this evening. We took a screenwriting class at UCSB years ago, shortly after returning from a marathon roadtrip from California to New York and Massachusetts. More recently he'd been writing a story called Wonder Valley. It doesn't feel like he'll be taking it to completion. It fills notebooks and he hasn't been working on it for a couple years. Before hearing it was in notebooks, I felt the following could act as a bridge between our writing. Perhaps I can work with him to introduce two of his characters, The Detective and Jumbo. He's a master of gritty noir, something I'm lacking.
"There can be no pleasure like the one unknown." - Aurora S., that's me.
As I drove the road home from another crazy-busy Friday night of lugging cheap beer across sticky floors. My whole body was worn out and I was looking forward to curling up with a good book to lull my mind to sleep. Steven arrived home shortly after I did. He parked his jeep in the back. Hugging him at the door, I reached around to grab a bite from the big bag of cinnamon bread from the deli next door, he'd traded two dozen thick slices and they'd thrown in a big jar of fig jam for tomorrow's breakfast.
Steve and I had been dating off and on for most of the previous five years. He was both a mentor, an employer and a security blanket. He'd taken over the pizzeria shortly after his dad died, rescuing it from oblivion, while I rescued him from the loss of his father. We were good for eachother, but not bound at the hip.
There's one book I've been looking forward to every night this week, The Artisan. Funny thing though, I usually fall asleep after only a few pages.
I flip to where I left off.
Before long I'm yawning, I'm already drifting. But that's why I came here, for the dreams that soon follow.
I arrived at work the next day around noon, grabbed my old black sneakers from the cubby and started cleaning up from the night before. A drawing fell out of a paper bag holding a screenplay my friend Jen gave me two days prior. The black lines on it formed a cool pattern. I slid it into my back pocket, moving quickly to get to work.
It was another busy night. With the last customer gone, Nipsy was up on the counter. Her paw jerked back and forth as she tried desperately to unsnarl a ball of yarn caught in her claws. The tips were good, so I didn't mind the late hours, at least until the winter is over back home. Then I'll need to get myself organized, and turn over a new leaf.
...
Several weeks had gone by and the busy season was winding down. I was tying up loose ends online and decided to click on an ad I'd seen several times over the last few days: "Travel School Instructor Wanted - Remote locations, ample rewards"
Sometimes when we write things down, it's a way to let them go. Other times it's a way to build a universe that grows and grows until the writer is living in a space fabricated from the loose pieces woven together from their life.