Between Transitions

I skated through my twenties on the precipice of a series of very nearly. I very nearly kept good jobs, and I very nearly nurtured good relationships, and I very nearly became the person that—somewhere inside me inching its way to the rise, and very nearly surfacing for air—I knew I was capable of being. There are glimpses of that person, they are probably too few and too subtle for anyone other than myself to have noticed, nevertheless I know he’s there, because I’ve seen him, and sometimes he and I meet at the purview of the precipice that never comes to be. I was thirty when I moved back home. Everything about it felt familiar. The two old houses nestled artfully surrounded by a nursed backwoods just out of sight of the dead end road. The small, German town secluded in obscurity, still lush with a small-town kindred, and the rolling river near the city center. It was exactly as I remembered it, everything, that is, save me.

The thick roil fume rollicked purposeless in front of my face before the wind caught it dragging and redirecting it elsewhere, the cigar held a medium-full aroma with a slight chocolate savor, and I exalt the taste with a cold dark beer. The sun is nearly setting and I’m sitting alone, outside by a fire pit, around several families settling on picnic tables scattered about the lawn, with their food from various food trucks, while their children jump on a giant trampoline. “How is it?” Mark inquired as he nears me, he has a torch in his hand ready to light the fire. “It’s great, thank you for ordering these.” I respond. “I’ve been smoking them like crazy, since they came in.” Mark responds, while he shuffles the wood in the pit before lighting. I’m at a beer garden just north of town. One of the few places unfamiliar to me. I’m content to enjoy this moment without the necessity of having to appeal to any one persons’ thought or conversation. As my beer wanes and I consider whether to get another and sit back down or to leave, a handful of people I have come to know by association only settle around me at the fire pit. They work in a coffeehouse that I frequent while I write a novel, my first novel. Their presence is the deciding factor for me to refill my beer. I’ve spent the last few months nurturing an unrequited infatuation for one of their coworkers, Cassia. She’s always on my mind, and the situation is generally also on the minds of whomever happens to be out with me—anyone also mutually acquainted with Cassia—when we get together, however the conversation rarely navigates in that direction. The six of us sit around the fire and tell stories, or express random thoughts that come to mind.

I have had a guard up now for over a year, and I’m not sure how to get around it. Living with this kind of a demur is not something that I have acclimated to yet, and honestly I’m not sure that I ever will, so obviously I am having trouble getting around it; and, respectively, I open up only when queried, and even then it’s not really all that meaningful. I do always secretly hope that someone else brings Cassia up while we’re sitting around the fire pit, in part because I, of course, like talking about her, but also because I can talk about her, and it would help me to open up about myself with a group of people that are clearly curious about me but unsure how to get me to talk. Few of the coffeepots know me well enough for me to confess my feelings, or concerns, or worries, or anything of the like. I have tried, I think, and I would like to develop more intimate relationships with them—it is possible that I haven’t tried, it’s possible even that I’m not sure anymore what it takes to develop that kind of relationship.

Until recently I read and reviewed independently published books for a journal based in California, a job that I loved but couldn’t maintain with my growing list of projects, since my move back to Texas. I also write short stories with the intent of their publication in literary journals. I fell into the work many years ago while living in a small town in Idaho. I worked, for a short time, in a potato processing plant, maintaining a packaging machine from 8:00PM to 8:00AM, every day, and all week. Plant closed one weekend for Easter, and I drove the fifty miles to the nearest, largest town and spent the day, and eventually the entire weekend in a coffeehouse near the river. I wrote about it. A travelogue, if you will, and left it for the café owners. When they saw me again they asked me to publish it in the local monthly magazine, which I did, and I have been writing professionally ever since. I tried to write a novel shortly after I started writing for Idaho Falls magazine, it was considerably more challenging than I expected, and I ultimately chopped it up and rewrote the chapters to sell as short stories, hence my transition into fiction. I haven’t even considered working on another novel until recently, when I moved back to Texas. And I’ve been writing it now for a month, or so. It’s surprising how much more straightforward the process has been this time around. I guess working as both a writer and a reader makes a substantial difference.

I met everyone at the coffeehouse while working on my novel. I have learned that I write better when I’m surrounded by people, in public places, when I can feel the different energies of people that wander in and out of the café throughout the day. I’ll often engage in conversation with people, which can be counterproductive, considering it takes away from my writing time, but when I set aside, hide in the corner of the coffeehouse, and allow my thoughts to spill onto the page like an overflow of expression pouring out and onto the surface, I can feel both the complement of the people surrounding me and the recognition of myself, in the moment. As I reflect on the story later—and perhaps even years later, as an old man—I’ll remember always the feeling, the only thing routinely lost in retrospect. Melody holds her phone up to her forehead as a blue screen counts down from 3…2…to prepare us for a game of Heads Up! I love Heads Up! And am always up for a few rounds, especially with a few drinks in me, a few drinks in everybody. We swiftly and haphazardly form teams in the midst of everyone yelling, and acting to help Melody guess the cryptic name attached to her temples. She guesses it correctly, and flips the phone over her head to both acknowledge the right answer and to summon the next subject. There is a football game on. An undefeated team is challenging an underdog, and the underdog is winning, there is a lot of indiscriminate yelling, from us and everyone at the bar watching the game. It’s kind of a mess, and yet most people are too drunk to notice or care. This time of year it cools dramatically later into the night, and someone finally says something about the increasing chill and we move inside, around a table underneath a porch heater, which is turned off. I turn it on as one or two of the employees behind the bar exchange glances at one another and then towards me, we sit under the heat for several moments taking a break from the happenings of the night. I catch glimpses of the football game on a flat-screen overhead. I haven’t followed any sport religiously in many years, but it does author a reason to go to bars on off-nights alone and drink, while I loosely follow the game and engage in half-assed conversation with whomever is sitting around me. If I go out it’s because I don’t feel like being alone, and if I do find myself sitting alone at the bar it helps at least to feel people around me.

As I amble to my car at the end of the night overwrought with my ability to walk I chew over how I typically spend my days. I lean towards a depression after I drink. The whole of the next day is always worse, but it begins, usually, on my walk to the car. In the mornings I wake up early and read over what I wrote the day before. I shower, dress, and head to the coffeehouse, where I will spend several hours writing, again. In the evening I find a bar and have a few drinks. If I find someone to talk to I’ll stay and talk, otherwise I’ll go home and huddle up on the couch with a movie and a glass of wine, while I puff on a hookah. And more often than not that outlines my daily routine; as much as I dislike maintaining routines. I feel like I haven’t accomplished much, like I’m only killing, or wasting time, and my life is meaningless.

And the next several months are more-or-less a reflection of a very basic and emotionally conservative lifestyle: the frequency in which I go out after spending the day writing to drink would wax-and-wane, but besides that my life has slipped into a familiar pocket with an indistinct end towards the whoknows future. With my head resting on my knuckles I stare out the windows directly across from me. Sitting in the coffeehouse, per usual, after a long early afternoon of writing, editing, rewriting, talking, wasting time I’m feeling hungry, and tired, light headed, and blurry-eyed. At some point during my doleful phantasy Cassia showed up and was sitting in an armchair against the window, also across from me. She had her hair, which was recently dyed blonde with brown highlights layered beneath, down and draped loosely over her shoulders, a black short sleeve T-shirt with a small green star and banner icon on the top left—I can’t make out what was written in the banner—a pair of torn jeans, and, of course, cowboy boots. As I slipped out of my daydream I was staring deep into her blue absorbing eyes, and felt immediately an expression released from my fingertips. I read my words over and over again, shaking my head, thinking to myself, and feeling more and more content in knowing that I was done, I had inadvertently finished my novel without realizing it! Cassia had graduated from an infatuation to the muse necessary for me to accept what I had accomplished. After feeling complete elation and a heightened joy I remembered that though the book had been written I had no idea in what order I wanted to arrange the chapters…

Shit.

I was both excited and terrified to entrain on the next stage. It was time to read, but with the lenses of a reader, I would not edit or rewrite. I would read, only. I used to write book reviews, and I loved doing it, when I read with purpose, though, I had to read out loud, so that I could absorb the material, and in doing so I tend to reflect on what I’m reading in two very different ways. I would have to seclude myself while I read, within the confines of my interior, both mentally and physically. Which would mean no people, for a while. But before sitting down to study I decided to take a couple of days off, from everything, to relax a bit, only I didn’t know what to do with myself. I went to the coffeehouse anyway and sat in a chair watching people, the time passed slower than I believed was possible. I finished my coffee much quicker than usual and drove to a Nature Center on the other end of town. The center was kind of a second home for me when I was a child. My mother managed it for several years. I worked each summer, once I was old enough, as a volunteer camp counselor during the first few years that the nature center held their summer camps. I parked and walked, passed the dinosaur foot prints that were molded and transported from elsewhere, and across a small bridge that overpasses a creek spawned by the marsh on the north end of the nature center. I take the path to the right, towards the marsh, and I amble whilst enjoying the unusually hot Texas winter weather. The marsh walk is a winding wooden path built over the water that begins at a large platform with benches to sit and to watch the multitude of marsh life, which can be fascinating but I rarely find this environment relaxing by any means, I think it’s the mosquitoes, though there are fewer this time of year than there would be during the summer and autumn seasons. I walk through the marsh slowly but without stopping to look around. The marsh comes to an end at the corner of the nature center where it and the City Park meet. A natural canopy guides you towards the tall-grass prairie, where the grass can grow upwards to six feet, and onto a hidden trail that cuts through the field where only the birds and the prying eyes of hidden wildlife can find me, unless I happen upon a runner or young couple walking hand-in-hand through the nature center. The deer and horse riders have made their own trails, many of which comingle with the walking path leaving the mud exposed at the center of the trails along with the occasional pile of manure. Large grasshoppers of ostensibly in-numerous colors are parked in the center of the trails, watching and waiting for people to walk by, and following people with their eyes, and the grasshoppers spiral to trace my movements, if the need to jump overwhelms them, then, and only then, will they jump in random and irrational directions sometimes spreading their wings to guide them, though, without any obvious intention. Where this trail ends I am faced with a decision to turn left and back into the tall-grass prairie or right towards both the river and the woodland trails. I usually go right and walk on the trail parallel to, and down river, this trail is almost too overcome by vegetation, which also means that very few people actually walk it, at least beyond a certain point. At the far end of the river trail a series of steps leads upwards to the woodland trail above, this footpath is a circle that will direct you as long as you are willing, underneath the heavy woodland canopy, or, at the start of the trail, you can follow an old dirt driveway—which no longer allows vehicles—back down to the tall-grass prairie. Today, however, I turn left and back through the prairie, a short cut to where I started, by the dinosaur footprints, and to my car. As little as I have to do today I’m tired of walking. Every Wednesday I drive to a nearby town and play pool at a bar that has an open pool table on Wednesdays after 8:00PM. I haven’t missed a Wednesday since I discovered The Coop. It’s a thirty or forty minute drive to Bandera so I made a long playlist that covers the ambit of musical genre. This afternoon after walking through the Nature Center I put on my playlist and tried to get lost somewhere down the many country roads around town, singing along to the music, to the playlist, and mimicking the guitar and drum solo’s on my steering wheel. Cassia is always lingering in the cracks of my conscious mind, I wish she wasn’t, and yet I put very little effort into keeping her away. Sometimes I’ll imagine that she slipped into the back seat of my car and that we’re driving around together, singing and acting like idiots because we can, and that behavior describes us in some way. But she’s never actually there.

Reading my novel is enlightening. I didn’t realize how much I was trying to work through during the process, I mean, like, personal things that came up that my characters are also dealing with, and how examining and broadening it is, for me. Somehow my characters actually work through their issues though—my issues—and reemerge as better people, and I have somehow managed to miss that. I didn’t necessarily expect that I would enjoy reading it, at least not to the extent that I have. I woke up early and just started reading, I haven’t been able to stop. I imagine that’s a good sign. I grab a beer from the fridge and sit outside under the trees and the sun, listening to, and watching redbirds warn the setting of my presence while simultaneously begging me to spread seed in various places around the yard. One lands on the chair next to me hopping side-to-side, and turning his head to see me, “Hi.” I say. He turns his head again, and chirps. I take a sip of my Shiner and smiled at him before returning my gaze to the yard and the reflection of the sun in the eternal green trees and the browning grass. There’s a slight chill in the air, one that would probably drive almost anyone accustomed to the Texas weather inside, fortunately I’m coming from a decade living in much colder places, and this feels wonderful. The redbird flew away. I went back to reading and again got lost in the story, and in my characters. In the early evening I quit for the day and drove out to RANDOM where I ordered a beer. I stood around the bar for a while chatting with the two bartenders, before finding a seat outside next to the fire pit, it wasn’t lit. I didn’t expect anybody to join me this afternoon, not in the middle of the week like this. I asked if it would be possible to light a fire and the two girls looked at each other, “There’s really no one here that can light it.” The said, almost in unison. My first thought was that either one of them would be more than capable, and if not I could, but because of insurance purposes, I wasn’t legally avowed. Eh, that’s fine, it just means that I won’t be staying after sunset. In the morning I climbed out of bed and turned on NETFLIX. After finishing one movie I started another, I didn’t necessarily care even what I was watching. Next to me, throughout the day, was a box of coconut water, hot lemon water, and a Shiner, sometimes nachos depending on whether I wanted to be on my feet enough to fill a plate full of chips and then cover them with cheese before the labor of putting the plate in the microwave. Despite how it appeared I did spend the day with my novel percolating on my mind, I was thinking about the progression of the story, the characters, my style, my voice, how it all changed from chapter to chapter and whether it changed too much or too often without bridging in the best way that I was capable, and of course I thought also about Cassia. I pictured her smiling and laughing into her arm. At first thinking about Cassia made it difficult for me to concentrate but then I recognized that thinking about her made it easier for me and sometimes even necessary if I wanted to write, and if I wanted to feel pleased with what I’ve written. Although if I thought about it too much it was frustrating, of course, because, you know, we’re not together. Towards the beginning of the evening I noticed a pattern with my movie decision making process, I seem to be alternating between ridiculous and unfathomably insane comedies and romantic comedies, well well-written romantic comedies, because, let’s face it, there are so many that are really excruciatingly bad. And I don’t mean so bad that they start to become good again, I mean really, really awful. In the morning I started reading again, where I left off, and before the early afternoon I had finished. I couldn’t stop thinking about the story, but I couldn’t decide what it was, specifically, that I was thinking about, so I decided to write a review. I sat down and wrote a review about the book I had just finished writing. For the next few minutes I congratulated myself for having such a seemingly brilliant idea; while it took me a day and a half to write the first three sentences. After three days of throwing shit against the wall and tearing up metaphorical word documents I emailed a copy of my review to myself, and after reading it I had a completely new perspective of my novel. So, regardless of how difficult it was to actually write the review, once I finished it, did help me beyond measure. Starting at the end I went backwards through the story editing it, again, chapter by chapter, which occurred exceptionally smooth and quickly. And then I left it in my computer telling myself that I wouldn’t think about or work on it for a week. That week was the longest of my life, but not necessarily because I wanted to think about or work on the manuscript, I just didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought about writing: working on a backlog of short stories that were left disregarded for too long, but it felt like, I don’t know, I guess I just couldn’t focus appropriately. The idea of getting a part-time job even crossed my mind. I could work at the coffeehouse. Ugh. That could be a disaster. What am I going to do with my life!? I’m sure my father was thinking that exact same question right now, as well. I could entertain myself with the political arena, however that could also quickly turn bad, considering everything that is going on right now. It’s ridiculous. Any reasonable human being who spends their days following our political picnic would find themselves contemplating the merits of self-murder very hurriedly. I could churn butter. I played Quiz Up on my iPhone, a lot. I maintained the standing of 5th in the world in the category of Finish the Book Title. I didn’t make the nightly news or anything, but I told every single person that I talked to. I didn’t talk with too many people. I listened to a lot of people, sitting in different coffeehouses around town I past the time by both people watching and eavesdropping, there is a lot of gossip, and everyone gossips constantly, it really doesn’t matter if you’re in your late teens or a professedly respectful adult. There is very little difference between teenagers and adults aside from their age, and the responsibility that they accept, for some reason people think that responsibility changes who we are and how we relate to one another, but it really doesn’t, that’s a facade that adults accept in order to carry on the illusion of separateness. However, people can change, the trick, simply, is to decide that you want to behave differently, and then to behave differently. I reread my manuscript and started the process of looking for an agent, I haven’t needed one until now, selling short stories as a freelancer, it is easy enough to act as your own agent, and manager, and accountant, and best friend, and counselor, and anything that any one person might need in order to create the illusion of surviving as a fully functional human being. I scoured the internet and found a list of agents currently searching for manuscripts. Once I was pleased with my query letter I submitted it and my manuscript to an agent that I felt would best represent me, and the story that I was trying to tell. Then I waited. I’m going to D.C. next week to help my parents move from one apartment to another apartment down the street. I’ll also have some time to myself to wander around the city, it’s been years since I have been there, to D.C. I’m excited. If I didn’t have something to occupy my mind I could lose it while waiting to hear from the literary agent. In the meantime I went bowling. There is a new big bowling alley not far from here that I keep hearing about but haven’t been to. I played a few frames and nursed a pitcher of beer, or two and afterwards I went straight home and I passed out, and I slept through the night and into the morning as if I hadn’t slept in months, I dreamed of Cassia. In the morning I had the email waiting for me that I wasn’t expecting for another few weeks, at least. I read it over and over again. I wondered too if I was still dreaming. The agent that I had contacted responded favorably. I decided ultimately to call her to talk about my manuscript, about me, and about them, and to do my best to get to know her over the phone. We talked for over an hour, and agreed on a date to meet in New York City next week while I was in Washington.

I’m sitting in my car in the dirt parking lot outside of RANDOM watching the white thoroughbred stallion covered in dried mud staring hapless into nothingness ahead of him, as horses sometimes do—he was probably sleeping. Because I’m so excited I don’t know how to tell anyone about my manuscript, I wouldn’t even know what to say, and, I suppose, since it hasn’t actually sold yet it might be better for me to not say anything, to anybody. Yet. I ordered an IPA and sat outside. No cigar tonight. Lithe and her boyfriend walked out and asked if I would mind if they sat with me. Of course I didn’t mind. The three of us sat in relative awkward silence for a couple of minutes before slipping into conversation. Lithe works in an Italian restaurant at the north end of town, I’ve never eaten there, and I cannot honestly say that I have heard anything good about the place, Lithe’s boyfriend, Eric, is in construction. Something that came up in conversation between the three of us triggered a tangent between Lithe and her boyfriend and in the meantime I couldn’t help but think, again, about what I am supposed to do now that I finished my book.