‘Lush Greenery’

LUSH GREENERY

       A meditation on the relationship between sacrifice and success, desire and reality.

I walked into the local Starbucks coffee shop with my laptop and the fourth volume of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series; Wizard and Glass. I was a walking cliché, much like this statement itself. However, I was inclined to believe, maybe even desperate enough to believe, that such things were clichés for a reason. After only my first few typing sessions inside the small, dimly lit coffee shop I could say with some certainty that there was something to the cliché. My thoughts were always more focused when I found a way to separate work from home. Add a cup of iced coffee and my headphones and suddenly you had a winning combination. The atmosphere, and subsequent efficiency of my writing sessions, was even enough for me to put up with the lackluster coffee. It wasn’t bad coffee, just not how you would expect the key to a multimillion-dollar empire to taste. That’s the way it works though, right? The real magic, true perfection, is found at a corner vendor in bumfuck nowhere. Is it the abundance of praise or the excess of funds that kills the magic? Or maybe there never was any. Maybe Starbucks coffee was always mediocre at best and there was no rhyme or reason for it becoming the juggernaut of the coffee industry. Regardless, I’m sipping down my lackluster mocha latte, barely tasting it as I continue to try and lose myself in my work. I say trying because in truth I was forty minutes in and quickly realizing I didn’t have as much to say as I had hoped. One of those ideas that felt so vivid the night before, but with a lack of notes or grounded themes it flew away from me like a string-less kite. I kept reaching for it but watched helplessly as it slipped further and further away from me. That’s inspiration though, completely unreliable. What would’ve been twenty raw pages last night had dwindled to a pair of ordinary sentences ‘not so long ago it occurred to me, all the greats are dead or dying. Is there art without suffering?’

            I don’t know what it was that stopped me, but all at once it halted and drifted away. I could only chase after it with desperate cries as it pulled out of North Station, leaving me with a ticket in my hand and only myself to blame. I should’ve typed it last night, but I was seeing my girlfriend. We’ve been going steady almost five years now so, while there’s no ring on her finger, I’m in for the long haul. It wasn’t in me to see things through half-way; I loved her and would stay with her until I didn’t. The idea hit me while we were curled on the couch at about 2 AM last night. She had been asleep for the past four hours, but I knew her favorite part of the day was laying across me in the early hours while I browsed Netflix and Hulu or read my book if I was feeling particularly philosophical. Past 10 o’clock it was understood that she wasn’t going to last another hour, especially when laying against me. She ran cold, shivering in sixty-degree weather; I ran warm, sweating in fifty-degree weather. So, using my body as a heater, she slipped away as steadily as a cat on the windowsill in the throes of summer.

I ran warm, she ran cold; she was a morning person, I was a night owl; Yin and Yang.

            Point being, I didn’t want to bother her. Didn’t want to wake her up just so I could write down a note or two about one of my many nightly existential crises. Besides, she looks beautiful when she’s sleeping.

It was hard work, keeping away from emotional ties in my brief existence and so I was quietly disappointed that she had managed to burrow her way into my life. I had always wanted to be a writer, always. Not in the way a baseball player says, once they’ve won an MVP and look back on the way their father forced them into the batting cages for twenty hours a week since they were six years old, that they always wanted to play baseball. No, I always wanted to be a writer. I had no mentor, no motivational abuse or early vindication as an adolescent. My dream survived solely through passion; from the moment I could hold a pen (a skill I never technically perfected) I was writing stories and illustrating comic books. When I was too young to read, I would pick up bibles from the many hotels I stayed in as a kid and replace the gospel with my own words. I was a writer, in every way except profession. With no other aspirations, except for the occasional fleeting desires for glory as an athlete or performer, I did my due diligence on what it took to be a great writer. As is revealed by the root of my stunted writing session, I came to the conclusion that all the greats are dead or dying. I noticed, without exception, that the most brilliant of my desired contemporaries led lives marred with tragedy. Many of them led short lives bloated with tragedy, the final tragic moment coming by their own hand. Thus, it seemed clear to me: if I desired to be great, I would need to be willing to suffer. I’m not sure what it says about me that I welcomed this thought with open arms. I decided in an instant that suicidal pain and a lack of love were acceptable prices to pay for timeless greatness. I even solemnly conceded that I’d settle for a legacy that didn’t catch fire until after I was dead. Postmortem was fine with me as long as my work took on a life of its own. Maybe I’m crazy, in fact I’m certain that I am, but I never lifted a single book from a shelf without hoping to see my name on it. Never took a single literature class without dreaming of them discussing my work, debating the meanings and labeling me a ‘bigot’ and ‘a product of my time’ with only my enduring fan base left to defend me.

I wanted to be a dead horse, my money and credibility long ago beaten out of me.

            So, here I was, twenty-three years old already having sold my soul to the ether. Make me Poe, drinking away the pain of my dead wives only to disappear in Baltimore as the devil comes to collect. Make me Hemmingway, my prized alcohol-soaked brains painting the walls behind me, denying the world a final glimpse into the mind which had captivated them for decades. Make me Cobain, make me Morrison, make me Winehouse; carrying a gift so heavy that my legs- numb with painkillers- give out at twenty-seven. I knew I had the necessary drive, the passion. I knew I had the fucked-up head, filled with original ideas and controversial thoughts. I knew I had the self-loathing humility mixed with paradoxical pride. Now I just needed an assortment of finished works. The type of work that leaps off the page, work that demands to be read, felt, shared. Once I had that, I’d be complete, but no closer to happiness. That’s the life I wanted, the one I chose. However, I had already deviated from the plan. Gone off the beaten path and into the realm of normality. This filled me with anxiety. Anxiety that I would blow my brains out one day, not out of some tragic artistic epiphany but simply from the sheer mediocrity of my existence. It seemed to me that suicide after three or four best-selling novels was far different than suicide after three or four kids. One made you tortured and complex, the other made you cruel.

That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Twenty-three, soul already sold and now settling down. Who was it sold to? The existential gods of artistic inspiration? The nine Muses and Apollo himself? Or was it sold to the woman I knew I loved, the woman who already had my heart. Was I allowed to love her and still be great? Obviously, the question was idiotic, and yet it consumed me, kept me up at night.

Failing to gather inspiration for my writing and my mind wandering, I opened my Stephen King novel and began reading. Wizard and Glass, I was certainly more glass than wizard at this point in my life, but I was still young. I felt there was magic, somewhere in me. The type of magic that’s innate in the minds and souls of the creative. The type of magic that feels so potent in memory, but fades when squandered for years. Years of reading the wrong books and passing days instead of seizing them. In fact, I was so certain of my ability that I had decided long ago I would die broke and alone if it meant I actually finished any of my work. Now, only a couple years of betting on myself and I was already growing tired, frustrated. Not at the process, I knew it would be slow, and not even at myself, I knew I’d be stubborn enough to pull through; the real problem was my relatives and acquaintances. The patronizing looks on their faces when I’d tell them my plans. ‘I want to write.’ I’d say and for a moment they’d just nod. Without fail they all responded the same, ‘Well, what are you going to do in the meantime?’ The not-so-subtle way of saying ‘So what are you actually going to do?’ or ‘Cool, so what school will you be teaching at next fall?’ It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, they are only looking out for me. But, it’s not the caring sentiment that bothers me, it’s the fact that they don’t believe me. They take me for a talker, a faker. They believe I’ll be one more causality in the perpetual pursuit of fame and fortune. I suppose, to an extent, I should thank them; their lack of faith spurs me on. I’ll do it, if not only to prove them all wrong.

            But was I still capable of delivering on that promise? I had my lady now. I’ve tasted love, and now suddenly the question had become significant, real. At one time, when I had nothing, the idea of dying with nothing not only seemed acceptable but likely. It was something I could swallow, but could I swallow this? Could I look in those beautiful brown eyes and see the pity, disappointment, and finally resentment as the public still refused to accept my warped point of view? While each publisher turned me down, one after the other, would I protect my pride by saying ‘they don’t get it.’ While her love faded away, watching me grow more and more consumed with my own self-fulfillment and every passing failure. Could I do that to her? I couldn’t be sure anymore, but here I was, still typing. Of course, I hadn’t typed a word in nearly an hour, just sat staring at my screen.

            Times like these I needed inspiration, if I couldn’t find it in the King, Steel or Agatha Christie, then I would switch mediums. Put on my headphones and drift into that comfortable space between focus and hypnosis. Today, and for the past couple weeks, it was an unknown alternative rock band I had grown obsessed with. ‘Brown Liquor’ was the song I had reached by the time my eyes found him. The bearded regular, the tortured prophet. I didn’t know his name and so I had taken to giving him nicknames. He was in here, bushy beard and long graying hair, at the same time and days of the week as me. I was here most days, not everyday obviously, need time to breathe, to relax. Although I didn’t remember the last time I was here, and he wasn’t. Like me, he arrived in the early afternoon and stayed until closing. A couple of ‘hardos’ I guess. Of course, we weren’t at all similar beyond our schedules. Aside from the beard and wild grey hair, he had bags under his eyes and a gut which met the table well before his elbows did. Whatever he was doing in his spare time it wasn’t exercise.

            It wasn’t until I had reached ‘Nada Surf Hotel’ on the album that he glanced my way. I averted my eyes, burning with embarrassment. It was rude of me to stare for what must have been nearly ten minutes. The songs on the album were tight, succinct two-minute spurts, clearly it took talent from every member of the band to make it work so effectively. In spite of that, however, they hadn’t made it anywhere. Two albums, one in 2013 and the next in 2017, both great by the way, but no fiscal sign of success. Hell, the name of the second album was Debt Sounds.

I digress.

 The Starbucks Prophet had noticed me. I didn’t want to look back up from my computer screen, but if I didn’t start typing something soon it wouldn’t do me much good. The last thing I wanted was a conversation with the man. Not that I’m rude, it would just be awkward is all. Like I said, we weren’t alike, we wouldn’t have much to talk about.

            Here’s the thing, he has a way about him, the Starbucks Prophet, a way of talking to people. He would take notice of someone, a pretty girl or a familiar face, and he would try talking to them but, observing from afar, it never appeared pleasant. He’s always smiling, his teeth stained yellow from coffee and who knows what else, but the people he talked with never smiled back, not real smiles that is. Polite ones, strained looks of torment made worse by the inability to express their actual feelings. Social formality serving to worsen their discomfort. He appeared, from where I was sitting, to be perfectly articulate even bright and charming, so it wasn’t an issue of social skills it was deeper. For one thing, he spoke his mind. Not a smart thing to do with a stranger. He talked about what interested him, literature and philosophy. Good luck holding that conversation in the digital age; where the only philosophy was what you were told by the television and literature is just a headline. I felt bad for him if I’m honest, but not enough to endure a conversation the way the others had. I suppose I shouldn’t feel bad for him, he did it to himself after all. Besides, he never seemed bothered by it. He would lose interest in the person after the first few topic changes and then go back to writing.

            He was content. That’s what I had gathered. Must be nice. I’m a gym rat who feels equally guilty for wasting time working-out as I do for missing a day in the gym. Not that it matters, just that I’ve never known how to feel comfortable with myself. This more than likely explained the key difference between us. My dreams of being great, a great writer that is, required me to be restless even spiteful toward myself. I couldn’t be great until I learned how to live for nothing but writing. In my mind, I couldn’t be great if I lifted another weight, or even if I put my girlfriend first. Yet I kept doing both. I had to either be miserable and great, or satisfied with mediocrity. That’s what I had convinced myself. I had to dump my brains onto the page instead of splattering them on the wall behind me. On the other hand, here was this guy, the Starbucks Prophet, content and typing away, but judging by his dumpy old Corolla he never made it anywhere.

            The album had ended by the time the other regular walked up to him. This guy was different, nice suit and watch, flashing a smile at the girl behind the counter who was half his age and getting a smile back, a real one. I saw him eyeing the prophet while he was in line, but never believed he would approach him. You can imagine that most people don’t just walk up to the disheveled man with coffee breath and his nose in his laptop, but here comes ‘mister business’ with a confident strut.

            “Marty.” He said to the Prophet who took a minute to recognize the man in the suit.

            “Brian?” He asked.

            “That’s right. How you been, Marty. Been ages. You still doing the writing thing?”

            It was early in the conversation, but my skin was already beginning to crawl, the condescending tone, the familiarity he used like a weapon.

            “Yup.” Marty the Prophet replied, popping the ‘P’ with surprising charisma. “You still doing the lawyer thing?”

            The man named Brian smiled, but had he snarled at that moment no one would have been surprised.

            “Sure am. In fact, just made partner. Pay raise, new office, the whole nine.” It wasn’t just bragging it was needling, belittling.

            “Very nice.” The Prophet nodded, “The wife must be proud.”

            “She is.”

            “The girlfriend too?”

            They stared at each other before Brian reoriented his tactics.

            “What are ya’ working on Marty? Something new or the same idea as last time?”

            “Perfection takes time.”

            Brian laughed aloud, “Perfection? All you do is make shit up for a living, maybe if you did something with substance you’d be able to afford a better car, some new clothes.”

            The conversation was no longer subtly hostile but bordering on an all-out verbal skirmish. Finally, the Prophet exhaled and gestured to the framed picture beside his table. The coffee shop walls were lined with photos of coffee-bean fields and appealing portraits of nature, this one in particular was a row of vibrant bushes.

            “What do you see Brian?”

            The man observed the picture with hesitation, “What?”

            “What do you see when you look at that picture?”

            The man looked at it, he furrowed his brow as if trying to look past it. Wanting desperately not be made a fool, he finally shrugged. “I dunno, Marty. A bunch of bushes.”

            “You know what I see?” The prophet smiled provocatively, enough that Brian gave him a look which read, continue…

            Marty leaned in close, never turning toward the picture. “I see lush greenery. In fact, I see life itself. The very slime that our earliest ancestors crawled from. I see the dark green of vitality, the look of small unassuming ancient machines that breathe so that we may breathe.” The prophet was not just a writer, but an orator too. “I see beings so ancient and wise, that their way of life has become inexpungable, the foundations on to which our entire world has been built and still hinges. I see a world before us, before writers or lawyers and through that I see an old story made new again by our ignorance of it. That’s what I see.”

He capped it off with a condescending sip from his coffee before sticking his nose back into his laptop.

            Brian was quiet a moment before delivering his retort.

            “Not bad, Marty. A shame that no publishers were around to hear it. Clever as you are, it’s a wonder how you can’t get your hands on the only bit of greenery that matters in this world.” He patted Marty on the shoulder, the prophet clenched at the irony in the man’s voice. “See you around.”

            The man exited, and despite him having the last word, it was still Marty’s speech that stuck with me. It hadn’t been prepared, he had thought of it off the cuff. For a moment, some part of my perception of the Starbucks Prophet changed. He wasn’t some content, cocky prick- or he was but there was more to him than that- he was talented. There was already a magnetism about him, at least for a ‘people watcher’ like me. He had changed from a curiosity of mine, to an interest.

            Before I even knew what I was doing, I was up and walking toward his table.

            With practiced effort, he spoke without looking up.

            “What do you want?”

            I wasn’t struck by the hostility in his voice, he appeared defensive by nature and after his exchange with the lawyer I already assumed his guard would be up.

            “How did you do that?” I asked, not hiding my intrigue.

            He looked up at me, a face which regarded me as a pest, I took no offense.

            “How did I do what?”

            “What you said. What you saw.” I gestured to the picture by the table, I examined it, looking for any of the things he had said about it but saw only a pretty picture. “How did you see all that in a single picture?”

            Upon closer examination, his words were even more impressive, the photo was good but not great. There was nothing being captured in that moment, the type of picture that doesn’t qualify for a gallery but rather a textbook. More information than imagination.

            He scoffed and then looked at me with jeering amusement, “I don’t know, kid. They’re just bushes.”

            I laughed, harder than he expected. It struck me, mostly because I wasn’t sure if I was laughing at what he said or at myself. I couldn’t see anything special about the picture because there wasn’t anything special about the picture, he was ‘just making shit up.’

            “Nice…” I said, admiring the way he had played into the other man’s insult. I shook my head and turned away only to hear his voice call out.

            “What are you writing?”

            I turned back; he had his hands clasped in his lap. The defensive posture he had taken up at the start had been dropped.

            “How do you know I’m writing something?”

            You would have thought I insulted him, the way he looked at me after that question.

            “C’mon, kid.” He raised his brows, “You’ve been staring at the screen like it kicked your puppy and haven’t touched a single key in an hour. Now, maybe you’re reading, but not many people would keep reading something that pissed them off that much. Not to mention you’re in here most days of the week, same time and same order. You only have two cups though, because whatever is kicking your ass on that laptop needs your undivided attention and even something as simple as getting up to order a coffee could kill the rhythm. You’ve got headphones on too, just to block out the world and keep the creative juices flowing. The only thing that takes your eyes off the screen is the occasional pretty girl passing by, but even those glances are fleeting. Aside from the headphones, you’ve got a novel for inspiration and a notepad for the obvious. Check, check and check.”

            So, he’s been watching me too. I thought as I took a seat across from him at the table. He shifted his materials to make room.

            “What are you, Sherlock Holmes?” I asked.

            “August Dupin.” He corrected.

            “Who?”

            “August Dupin.” He restated more concisely, as if it had been an issue of pronunciation. “He came first.” He stated with flat absolution. “Arthur Conan Doyle completely ripped Poe off to the point where most people south of a PhD don’t realize that one of the greatest writers of all time, short of his name, actually created Sherlock Holmes. Doyle ripped the whole thing off, all the way down to the secondhand narrator who witnesses the genius detective at work. Same themes of urban horror and enlightened logic, only difference being where Holmes lived in London, Dupin lived in Paris.”

            I nodded, not sure what to say to any of it.

            “But Conan Doyle improved it, surely. Otherwise his works wouldn’t be so famous.”

            He shrugged, “I’d say that’s a matter of opinion. I don’t think anyone could match Poe blow for blow in the art of writing and if Doyle’s best improvements were compelling mysteries and plots, he never made anything as interesting as ‘the Orangutan did it’ like in Poe’s, Murder’s in the Rue Morgue.”

            “That’s an interesting thought.” I said, more talking to myself. I was surprised at how easily I had been swept up in the conversation, as if it were a challenge of some sort. “So then why were they more popular, more influential?’

            “You got me, kid.” He shook his head.

            I though for a moment before speaking, feeling a strange desire to solve this dilemma, a desire to crack the case.

            “Characters.” I blurted. “It must have been characters.”

            He sipped his coffee and sighed, “I already told you the character is a complete rip off, Holmes and Watson both.”

            “Yes, but what about Professor Moriarty or Irene Adler. A rogues gallery that rounds out the stories and adds depth, it creates a world instead of just a concept or a story.”

            This seemed to really strike the Prophet, even though he was careful not to show any signs of being impressed, the effort itself was sign enough.

            “Fair enough.” He conceded before countering. “But when your narrative, themes and primary characters have all been made for you, all that’s left are the secondary characters. Any hack could work with that kind of foundation.”

            I tilted my head; having enjoyed Sherlock Holmes growing up, I took that final jab a bit personal.

            “I’d hardly call Sir Arthur Conan Doyle a hack.” He smiled at my authoritative use of ‘Sir.’

            “Neither would I.” he calmly assured me

            “Then what’s your point?” I asked, growing impatient.

            He sipped his coffee and looked off to the side, searching for the answer to that question himself. There didn’t need to be a point to any of it, I would have enjoyed the conversation all the same. However, there was a point and while we could both feel it neither of us could articulate it.

            He inhaled, “One of the most successful and influential writers of all time creates an entire genre and barely anyone knows about it. Meanwhile, another man is only relevant because of one brilliant idea and the idea isn’t even his own. Yet no one cares. How does that happen?”

            It was the best we could hope for, the closest we could get to putting it into words. The fickleness of fate only matched by the unpredictability of public perception. I strained, wanting desperately to answer the question, not only for curiosity’s sake but because some part of me wanted to impress him, to match him. At this point, I wasn’t sure why, but the reason was there, bubbling beneath the surface of the conversation.

            Before I could answer he cut me off. I was relieved, I had yet to come up with an answer anyway.

            “You never answered my question.” He said, I only tilted my head waiting for him to repeat it. “What are you writing?”

            I shrugged, surprised at my willingness to answer the question but also my inability to answer it adequately.  

            “I’m between a few ideas right now actually.”

            “No.” He said

            “Excuse me?”

            To my surprise he was shaking his head, “No. You shouldn’t do that. Can’t do that.” He looked at me with a seriousness in his eyes that had not been there before, “You need to take one idea and stick with it. No jumping around, no pretending that you can juggle more than one idea. Attempting to get everything done at once is a great way to get nothing done at all. Take it from me.”

            Clawing toward the surface of the conversation was the real substance, the real reason I was still sitting here with him, hanging on his every word. ‘Take it from me.’ He had said and something about that phrase struck me. Take what from him? From where I was sitting there wasn’t much left to take. His stink, a cruel swirl of body odor and coffee breath, wafted into my nostrils even now. His gut, even more pronounced with his guard down as he leaned back in his chair. Obviously, it was advice he was offering, but I had advice of my own. Take a shower, for one. Hit the gym, or hell, just go for a jog. Trim your beard and your hair, brush your teeth and maybe don’t go into every conversation with a sense of entitlement. All of this, I thought of saying but didn’t. Somewhere inside me was a hurricane, spawned from the colliding winds of respect and disgust. There was something genuine about him, something I admired, but there was another part of me, a deeper part, which hated him for reasons I could not yet gleam.      

            “Thanks for the advice.” I said.

            He smiled, “Don’t mention it.” It was quiet, but like a child at dinner I had yet to be excused, finally he spoke again. “Why do you write?”

            I considered it, “I’m a fan of the English language, I suppose.”

            He smirked, amused at my attempts to sound intelligent. It didn’t bother me; I’ve often found that being articulate and honest is a good way to open yourself up to criticism. He was different, though, there was something else behind that smile a different catalyst.

            “Not a big enough fan to have read Murder’s at the Rue Morgue?” He asked.

            “I read it, in college. Just didn’t remember the name of the detective when you said it.”

            He nodded, satisfied with the answer.

            “That’s fair. August Dupin isn’t as catchy as Sherlock Holmes. It doesn’t even recognize it on spell check.” He was still smirking to himself “If you’re a fan of literature, why not just be a teacher?”

            I tensed up, a familiar question but one that always filled me with dread. I have no lack of respect for teachers or what they do, in fact some of the most influential people in my life were teachers and professors, but it wasn’t my future, not my destiny. I wasn’t to be the mentor who spurs another on to greatness, I was to be the triumphant conqueror, the success story that returns to the halls of his high school, to his university, serving as a living example to those teachers and professors that their words were not lost on me; living proof for each, that their trust in me was not misplaced. That was the dream anyway.

            “Just not for me, I guess.”

            “Too bad.” He said, “There’s more money in teaching than in writing.”

            “There’s barely any money in teaching.” I said

            “I know!” He laughed aloud, that same sinister smile on his face. An all-knowing look that could only be born from experience, enough experience to find levity in the darkness, or laughter in pain.  

            It was how he smiled. He had a way of smiling. A sick way, I guess. As if by laughing at everything he might wake up one day to find the joke wasn’t on him anymore. When he should grimace, he smiled. When he should shutter, cry, curse; he smiled.

            “What kind of writing do you do?” He asked me.

            “A little of everything, but always fiction.”

            He kept smiling, “Fantasy? Sci-fi? Contemporary? What’s everything?”

            I shrugged, “I’ve tried ‘em all. Don’t have much interest in being pigeon-holed. I write whatever comes to mind, sometimes there’s something really personal about it, sometimes I’m not sure there’s anything at all.”

            “Well,” He said waving it off “everyone chooses eventually.”

            “Chooses what?” I asked, realizing that was exactly what he wanted.

            “What kind of writer they want to be.” He looked at me, seeing that I didn’t fully understand. “If you’ll indulge me.” He began, I gave a look which read: By all means…

            His eyes lit up with excitement.

“I have a theory. The Warden Theory. There’s two types of writers, Escapists and Wardens. The Escapist digs a tunnel out of the shit and into a world of beauty, something just plain better than reality. A place where there’s time to do all the crap you never did, or even things to do you never knew you wanted to. On the other hand, the Warden holds us accountable. Keeps us in our cells, forces us to look long and hard at our own shit, I mean really shoves our noses in it. Makes us breath it in until we understand it, until we don’t fear it anymore- or… until we can’t stand it.”

“You’re talking about fiction versus non-fiction? In that case I already said which one I prefer.”

He shook his head.

“No. I’m talking purely fiction. Any numb-nuts can write about some bullshit that actually happened. Then the onus is on them to make it interesting, yet so few of them are. Fiction achieves a level of entertainment that reality never can and through that, it can result in works which resonate with readers even more deeply than non-fiction. Sometimes, in the case of the Warden, fiction can tell us more about ourselves than fact.”

“Why do you think that is.” I asked with genuine interest.

“I’m of the opinion that it lies in the substance of each. Non-fiction can only tell us about actions and events, things perpetrated and known. Fiction tells about our desires, our passions. Things we hope come to pass, what we fear and what we love.”

“But, in your theory, escapists don’t do that? Only Wardens?”

“They both do, in their own way. Escapists swoop in and fly you away from the problem, help you avoid it with a series of distractions. Wardens lock you in a cell with it, until it either destroys you or you learn to live with it.”

His theory was intriguing but somehow my mind wandered back to the teachers of my youth. I remembered many of them, their different styles and approaches. The fun teachers who kept it lighthearted and wanted the kids to be comfortable, wanted them to feel like they weren’t trapped in a classroom and then the strict teachers who demanded your attention and reminded you that one day, you’d be pawning for the old days when your biggest concern was a stiff history teacher. It was here, that I felt his theory carried the most weight. The fun teachers were so concerned with being likeable and agreeable that you would seldom learn anything worth remembering in their classrooms, but the strict teachers (the ones with something to say) they earned a place in your memory. While everyone can look back with a smile at the class where their teacher let them get away with everything, those memories never carry any substance or lesson. Meanwhile, those who cared about their education can draw to mind that one teacher which half the class hated, but whom you could not help but admire. Holding post-class discussions that always felt too fleeting, as if you weren’t quite ready for them and by the time you would be the student/teacher tie you shared would be long since severed.

Marty should have been a teacher; he would have been a good one.

“Escapists get the money, but Wardens, they get the legacy.” He concluded.

            “Is that a fact?” I asked, a bit bitter toward his certainty

“No, it’s an opinion. But also, yes, because I’m right.”

I smiled. I didn’t just respect him, I liked him. At least, part of me did.

“Well what about, say, Tolkien?” I asked.

“What about Tolkien?”

“He’s an escapist. I mean obviously he uses themes from real life to sow the narrative together, but what’s more escapist than The Hobbit?”

“What’s your point, kid?”

“He certainly has a legacy, not just money. He’s the antithesis to your theory, isn’t he?”

He sighed, as if exhausted by the question. I was now certain he had had this conversation before and that a similar, perhaps even the same, author had been presented as the outlier.

“Tell me something kid; what’s more important to the literary zeitgeist, A Tale of Two Cities or The Hobbit?” I sat quietly, feeling that he wasn’t finished; he wasn’t “To kill a Mockingbird or The Hobbit? Huckleberry Finn, Scarlet Letter, even Achebe’s Things Fall Apart or the Hobbit.” He had a way of saying the Hobbit with a softer voice than the sharp authoritative voice he used for the other titles, as if vocally quantifying the significance of each work. “Now, while I may enjoy the Hobbit- and Fellowship, and Two Towers, and Return of the King- more than any of those other books, there is no denying that it falls short of any of the other examples in terms of its cultural significance. The average person can tell you more about Tolkien’s grand work of escapism than these other works, but the other works I mentioned- the truly significant ones- tell you more about the average person.”

He sipped his coffee and leaned back, as if resting his case. Smugly, he sat waiting for my youthful confident rebuttal. To even my surprise, I had none. He was right, as far as I could see. I had no way of refuting it, other than to open myself to further criticism.

“That’s an interesting idea. But it’s changing isn’t it?” He observed me, arms folded “People don’t write literature anymore, not really. Everything has an escapist twist, or people confuse politics for reality and pervert- what you call- the Warden Theory. Instead of forcing people to face reality they just force their own reality on to others. Try to make them conform, so most people only consume escapist literature, if they consume any at all.”

“Now, kid, that’s an interesting thought.” For whatever reason, a reason that to this day I can’t discern, no statement had ever made me feel more proud. Not since, my dad had said, Good game to me back when I played baseball in the sixth grade had I felt this sensation. I had earned his respect, we now sat, not apprentice and master, but two equally cynical intellectuals. He sat and thought deeply before replying “I suppose, that’s a product of many things. Things we can’t hope to solve or settle here in this shit box.” He gestured to the Starbucks ambiance around him. “However, I feel that the true artists have simply shifted mediums. We don’t like to admit it, but most artists are greedy self-absorbed douchebags- I know I am.”

I know I am.

“So, most of them… not all of them, however, as there are still great authors out there, just fewer. Sad to think there are more authors now than ever, yet fewer greats. I digress. Frankly, I believe it’s because the best of them went where the money was. Show Business, the red carpet. Instead of painting fictional characters for the imaginative members of the world, they use dancing monkeys called actors to make those images real. That way, in a time when imagination is at an all-time low, any Joe Shmoe or Peggy Sue can watch and comprehend what their minds would usually be too vacant or underdeveloped to understand.”

I laughed.

“That’s a bit harsh isn’t it. People aren’t dumb just because they don’t read.”

“I didn’t call them dumb.” He looked at me accusingly “I said they were vacant and underdeveloped. It’s a symptom of the times, not entirely their own fault. I am very particular about my word choice for a reason kid, as a ‘fan of the English language,’ as you say, I would hope you’d pick up on that.”

I bowed my head but couldn’t shed my usual cocky smile

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I had my own theory on that topic.”

He looked at me, head cocked and eyes squinting. He was curious, or worse than that. Looking back on it, I think he was afraid. Afraid of what I was about to say, as if I might unwittingly steal one of his theories, or worse, tread on ground he had never even considered. In either case, I would be a threat. I’d be the young man who stole his idea, before or after he had thought of it.

“The difference between education and genius.” I began “I find it funny that we call people with PhD’s and a long history of education, ‘geniuses.’ It’s always been my opinion that there’s a clear difference between an intellectual and a genius. An intellectual regurgitates popular opinions, while the genius presents their own. Academics spend all day stroking their own egos and affirming ideas they already believe…”

He cut me off as I was beginning to speak quickly, my Mass accent dripping over every syllable.

“You’re saying academics have the debate, but it’s the genius whose work is being debated.”

“Exactly.” I confirmed “A genius takes the next step, thinking for themselves instead of being told what to think, then the intellectuals pick at the corpse of what was once an original idea.”

“But what if no one cares…?” He asked the question, more concerned with this answer than any of the previous.

“What do you mean?”

“What if its an original, interesting, even thought-provoking idea but nobody cares. No one reads it, or the few that do never bother to spread the word? Is that still genius by your definition?”

I replied quickly, too quickly for his liking.

“Then I guess it wasn’t a very good idea.”

Even as I spoke the words, I didn’t agree with them. I’ve been listening to the same two albums on repeat for weeks and haven’t met a soul who had heard them before. It was a good idea; it just never found its way to the surface.

“Do you know what I think separated Holmes from Dupin.” I was surprised at the regression in our conversation, but I could hear the tone shifting in his voice. It was not the cocky, condescending tone it had once been. The façade was cracking and beneath it was a vulnerable dumpy man in an ill fitted T-shirt. “Luck. Not quality or meaning, not even passion. Just dumb-fucking luck.” He was looking ahead, past some invisible barrier, a translucent layer of nothing which separated the man he was from the man he wanted to be. “One day, you’ll end up just like me. Bet it all, put everything else aside only to realize that you weren’t lucky enough to make it. Go all-in and lose everything”

I clenched my fists as tightly as my teeth, until I was sure my palms were bleeding. The barrier between us had been shattered and the conversation had gone up in flames.

“No, I won’t.” My voice was flat and sharp, like a butcher’s blade.

Face to face we sat, no more masks. Not a Prophet and a student, not two undiscovered brilliant minds, just me and Marty. Locked in a cell, each staring at what frightened us most, frozen with fear as it stared back. He looked at me, fearing what I might one day become, and I looked at him, fearing the very same.

“You got a girlfriend?” He asked, suddenly. His tone humble and contemplative.

“Yeah. I love her very much.”

“Love, eh? Then you already got the rest of us beat.” He smiled.

“Thanks.”

The conversation had died the moment we had seen each other for what we really were, a dreamer and a failure. Marty reached into his bag and pulled out a paper-back book.

“I don’t know if you’re interested, but if you are…” He slid it across the table, “…its yours, free of charge. One writer to another.”

I was hesitant, but after glancing back up at Marty’s sheepish face, I took the book and placed it under my arm. Standing from the table an idea occurred to me. I walked up to the cashier; Marty never spoke. Had I left then and there without a word; he would not have protested. I came back to his table with a black coffee, extra sugar; his order. I placed it by his laptop and nodded.

“For the novel, and the advice.”

He said nothing, just looked up at me with gratitude. It took days for me to summon the strength to read the novel, not knowing what to expect. I saw him there, every day, but we never spoke. It was a humble looking thing, the novel, simple and slightly frayed. It was titled, In Another World by Martin Keane. I could feel it, rattling in my bones and swimming in my veins, I had made a decision that day in the coffee shop. What I had decided was still unknown to me, but when I arrived at the crossroads, I was sure I wouldn’t hesitate. With that, I at last opened the paper-back and began to read. A small book handed to me by an even smaller man, a novel which had swollen his belly, grown his hair and stolen his youth.

As I turned one page after the other, it dawned on me, something terrifying… it was beautiful.