The Manuscript

I finished the last page of my novel this morning. But I had no sigh of relief, no shout of enthusiasm that my first book was finally complete. I looked up from my typewriter (I'm old-fashioned like that). The living area is nothing special: a couch, TV, coffee table. I never understood why I bought the table and not just a footrest. Who am I trying to impress? The kitchen looks healthy enough when factoring in the amount of garbage that overflows the bin. My bedroom is actually pretty nice, I have a large bed and a pretty high ceiling. The carpet is lovely when all my clothes aren't lying on it. If Mom and Dad saw that this is what they were paying for I... actually I don't really care anymore. I looked down at the slim volume that took three years from me. Why don't I feel anything?

I put my sweatshirt on over my clothes and made some cereal. My apartment is so quiet, empty. Maybe I'm just going through the motions of life, playing it safe for no particular reason. I can't believe I actually lived here, writing a novel. It was my dream for as long as I can remember, the one thing my parents actually agreed on supporting together. I can't believe they're paying my rent. How pathetic. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, some soap opera dissolved onto the screen. I never realized how boring those shows were until I starting working from home, at least it's better than the news.

I put on my shoes, grabbed my manuscript, and walked to the Starbucks. It's a nice place, quiet, small, intimate. The smell of coffee washed over me as I entered. James, the cashier, waved as I came to order.

"Hey did you finish your book?"

"Yeah James, I did actually. And yes, you can be the first to read it just like I promised."

"Thanks! So can you finally tell me what it's about?"

"How about you just read it and find out?"

"Wow sorry, man. Bad day?"

"All the days feel the same now. My mind is in the same exact same state every day while I'm wasting away in my apartment. I want to feel things again. Really... feel them."

" You really are a giant drama queen, you know that?"

"Okay," I said, about to leave.

"Oh come on you're not that sensitive!", James started to laugh.

"Yeah, I guess I start to just go crazy when I'm in there too long. Here, you can take a look at it if you want."

James studied the title of the manuscript. I could feel the slight breeze as he flipped through the pages, seeing if it actually looked like something professional.

"So is it about your big brother?" he asked

"Why in the hell would I write about him?"

"I just thought it would be thought-provoking material, the affect something like that has on a younger brother like yourself."

"If you want to hear his story why don't you go up there and visit him yourself? Just make sure to schedule a phone call and not a conjugal visit."

"I'm just saying it might be something to write about in the future. I have no idea how it affected you at such a young age. "

"Well I know how it affected my parents. They always loved him the most even though he always got in trouble. I was the good son, why didn't they love me? Or each other?"

James lapsed into silence, not really knowing what to say. Why can't the past just stay dead? Next to my sister?

"Is it a love story?", James asked.

"No."

"Mystery?"

"No."

"Fantasy?"

"No."

"Adventure?"

"No."

"Well what the hell is it about then?", he asked half-smiling.

"It's just about a guy all right? It's about him and a very crucial time in his life."

James paused for a second, "Oh that sounds... interesting? See you guys later!", he waved goodbye to a couple leaving the store.

"Do you just become friends with everyone who walks in here?"

"Pretty much."

How can someone do that?

"I don't know how to make friends anymore. It seems like no one even cares about me. They're probably all just jealous."

James rolled his eyes, I looked at my watch. I don't even know why I keep track of time anymore.

"Maybe if you put yourself out there a little more you would feel better," coaxed James, "I know that you've never been truly back to your old self after your sister-"

"Will you just shut up about my personal life? I don't ever talk about yours, but you're always knee-deep in mine. Wading through it like it's your own personal swimming pool."

"I'm just saying you have a lot of baggage..."

"Okay, I'm going to leave now, I'm probably holding up your line anyway." I looked behind me and didn't see anyone waiting for coffee. Great.

"Yeah go ahead, you've complained to me a million times about the same exact things," said James unevenly, "Seriously what are you trying to do? How is trying to deflect all your problems on me a solution to your misery?"

"You know what?", I said, grabbing the manuscript, "You don't have to read this."

"You're just going to leave? I want to help you."

"Sometimes I don't even know why you talk to me," I muttered.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. You don't like me. You just humor me and make fun of me like I'm some kind of clown. You don't even like the idea for my book, how can you not support me at a time like this? You're my only friend and right as I need support you just back out on me?"

"Are you kidding?" he hissed, "All I've done is given you support. You come in here and confess all your problems and I listen like a good friend. But what do you do? You're never interested in anything else but your own problems. Don't you have better things to think about?"

"Oh please," I stated, "You're only my friend because you have to be friends with everyone. No one is able to hate James because he's just way to nice. Everybody loves him!"

"You were right, you should go."

"I knew it! I knew you weren't my friend, why would you want to be friends with me anyway right?"

"Because no one else wants to deal with you! Do you think anyone else cares about your problems? Do you think anyone is even remotely concerned about your well-being? Your parents don't thats for sure. And how do they make that up to you? By paying your rent and helping you live out your dream. Oh my God, your life's so hard! You act like you're above us all because you've had some rough spots in your time, condemning people you've never even talked to. Who are you to judge? You're just some guy. Look at yourself. You don't make any money, you don't have any prospects, and you depend on your parents for everything. You need to grow up and do something with your life, get a real job, make a career, do your writing on the side, but stop complaining all the time. It's like you're stuck in this loop of self-loathing and isolation, thinking and not doing, mulling over past mistakes instead of trying to do new things. Stop acting like your some sort of god. All you do is wrap yourself up in your own personal problems so you can avoid dealing with the bigger issues that are pressing down on you. You don't want to think about the years you've wasted, or that you have no idea what's going to happen next for you. So what do you do? You fill your head with issues and obstacles to keep you in the dark about where you truly are in life. Wake up. At least I know where I am, in a Starbucks, going nowhere. I'm not happy about it, but I can do things to move forward in life because I know where my starting line is. You don't even know there's a race going on."

I stood silent, the rest of the customers stared at us with undivided attention.

"Wow... did you rehearse that?"

He sighed deeply, "Just get out," he whispered.

I left enraged, kicking the door open on my way out. It was night-time now, the moon shining brightly. The stars twinkled in and out of sight, time machines. I hated how he was right about everything. He's always right. Sometimes I look up at the stars. Can't we all just go home now? I walked past the bum who sometimes loiters by my apartment building. It was freezing and he had his hands over the fire that was burning in the barrel. He seemed lonely so I stood beside him. I looked at the manuscript in my hands. Is this what was holding me back? Was this the lock on my happiness? The fire was warm, bright. I felt the light weight of the manuscript. James was right, who would care about me? Some no-name writer with little ambition or drive to succeed? My book was a mental institution, keeping me locked up and slowly going insane, even though I was self-committed.

Before I knew what was happening the manuscript was burning up in the barrel. My hands were outreached as if I just dropped it in, I guess I did. There was no weight lifted off my shoulders, no feeling of freedom attached with this action. I knew it had to be done though, maybe because deep down I knew it was just a culmination of my cynical attitude towards people in general. Well that's fading slowly, a sunset. James knew what he was talking about though. My life isn't the center of the universe, but it's the center of my universe. I can't let it just slip away anymore, wasting my time writing a narcissistic novel that only fuels my contempt for the hand that's been dealt to me. We're just people. We all have our problems and fears. We're not perfect, we don't agree on everything, but we don't have to. We just are.