The Old Man Writes

Mornings. The Old Man writes.

He wakes and shuffles into the kitchen to start the coffee. While the glass carafe fills he crosses the worn linoleum, slides open the pocket door and passes the basements steps through the small bathroom into the backroom, his office, and boots up his lapt. Returns to fill a mug with coffee, milk, sweetner and then back to his desk, an old folding table, like the one he used all through graduate school. Maybe this is same one? He can't remember.

The morning after he resigned his position with his Former Employer, he had an interview for another job, something a buddy set him up with, but the moment the doucheback he's interviewing with begins to talk, The Old Man has him pegged for a douchebag. He won't be taking this job. Or any other for the foreseable future. He has some savings. He'll be fine. For a time, anyway. And from now on, he will work to live, and write, and not the other way around. A terrible cliche, but still.

After the interview, he packs up his vehicle and gets on the road, traveling south to West Virginia. Nestled safely (or so it feels) between the mountains, he will finally find his breath and sleep, without the torment of specters. For almost three days straight. He will stick around for at least another week.

There is an exit interview, which he bullshits his way through. Lies. No sense burning bridges with the truth. Although that is exactly what he wants to do. Probably should do. But....

Finally, he is awake. Drinks coffee. Smokes cigarettes on his cousin's back patio, staring off into the hills. He still has that childhood impulse to wander off there and disappear, forever. He needs to give up the smokes, to save money. Already he is counting beans. He reads and goes for walks, wandering the streets of Northview, one part of greater Clarksburg. He remembers this place as a childhood escape on family vacations. He knows it's not that anymore, but maybe he can capture that feeling, in writing. He begins.

Almost every morning now, The Old Man writes. And writes well, or as well as he can. It is all he's ever wanted to do. It feel good. He has no idea if what he writes has any worth to anyone. He wish someone would tell him. But even there was someon to tell him, he would not entirely believe it. He would not trust any opinion. Not even God's. He lives in doubt, and always will. There is no other place for him to live. He will die in doubt. But he can still write. One good sentence. And then another. And another. And on and on and....

Die slumped over his laptop. Vastly better than dangling from a noose in his bleak, cold basement.

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