I recalled the day we met. I was running the register. She was see-through. Smart people do the same stupid thing: they assume they are the smartest person in the room. Many tag me as an 'asshole' or a 'prick' because I sit silent, waiting to reveal my intellect when it can wipe the egotistical act off someone's face. She walked in. "Fortune from failures. You rely on someone to slip up. Resell their favorite items. I bet you sleep well at night."
"I sleep with my eyes closed, like everyone else."
She smiled, knowing where she was going with this. "Except the ones who lose their shit?"
"The people who lose a storage unit tend to have bigger issues than their vintage collection of arrowheads."
"The rest?" She set a book down. "I guess I will purchase this memento of an individual's legend."
"A 32-year-old Gothic chic. She loved poetry, and fracking was her artistic choice. Her favorite music was from the rap genre. She had her own band at 27 and never quit until she was diagnosed with cancer at 30. Two years of abandonment, and she gave up with no one left to help her. She had no money to hand out anymore. Her family stuck her in a home to die alone. She lasted four months. That'll be $5."
Her face squinted. They all do. I pointed to other items. Told more sagas, until she stared at me, looking hollow. "I apologize. I was unaware of such things."
"Don't apologize for ignorance; it is better to be stupid. We rarely get things right. We're mostly a behemoth of wrongs spitting philosophy and putting quarters in slot machines. I see only comedy. You will know if you ever offend me."
"I'll keep that in mind. Do you write?"
"Retired." My face was emotionless. The next question is always_
"What books have you published?"
"None. I don't need anyone to publish me to say I am a writer. The only thing 'retired' is that I don't share. It's pointless. I write to better the world; they don't want to get better. So, I'm retired."
She went to walk out, spinning in her red dress with a pearl necklace. "How do you know that no one will listen?"
"The same reason you assumed that I didn't keep a record of where•who•why I got my inventory. Why do you ask?"
"I read people by what they write, their word choices. I'd like to see something you want to say." And she walked out.
I remember what I had waiting for her: Time and death are the only things guaranteed. Boredom is the one true sin.
This was our relationship. Her trying to outsmart me. Once or twice a week. Very hard to do, not impossible. I say that without ego, but with stats. The average person thinks aliens are still only a possibility; the discovery of fossils on Mars proved they exist elsewhere. Intelligence is up for grabs. They don't say that, do they?
All those 'hard' questions. Not hard. A person looks at the meaning of life as if they are the only thing that matters. The answer must apply to all life, each animal and person. Another common misconception. You, as a species, are not above another. Top of the food chain? Let's drop you in the ocean or the Amazon with nothing. I doubt you'd make it. Science is not facts, just tested theories. They also once believed that sharks couldn't kill a person or live at the bottom of the sea.
The reader doesn't matter. The last person on Earth could be a poet with no readers, and they'd still write poetry. Then a reader is created and molded from the writing. Spawn. But they are important; they are who you want to change. It's pretty obvious that sentiment comes from upset people who can't write.
My story is told with controlled chaos. My face and imagery are too much for many. You think you have a right to judge me? Many call this hypocritical, as if I write only to be read. No. If no one ever read this, it would be said regardless. It is me working through things in my head because there isn't someone for me to chat with.
Or they say I am judgmental. No. Facts speak louder than duct tape. If I tell you the president doesn't matter_if they did, during the COVID-19 quarantine, do you think the rich had to do what we did every day? Do you think they cared what anybody said? Tomorrow, that same person will be at a parade for their new speaker system. Ridiculous.
I do not control what you do. I do observe. I do make you aware. Let's be clear: I don't think everyone should be like me. But there are some things that make you hilarious to read. Then, after a while, it stopped being funny. Then, I noticed that you ignore reality for comfort. Why challenge society? You choose your stories? Not me. Jack and Rose aren't the best chronicles of that ship that sank. The Titanic also had the most famous moment in musical history, yet you don't know a single member of the band who played to the finale. Why do you know their tale, anyway?
Money. A diamond. The usual bloodstain.
I drop the greed chest off at the shop and call it a day, taking her life and her joke back into the motel lobby. Two pirate chests. I get the third degree for smoking in the hotel. Oh well. I nod and hold back my 'shut the hell up,' ignoring their little spiel of authority. Order pizza. Shower. Get out. Knock. Food. Eat. Now for the life in red lettering.
I open the chest with the machinery, just looking at the hand of Da Vinci that went out of its way to scare me. It had a battery cell and everything. Handmade gears. A text comes in. Her collection of items was appraised at $15k. I'd get half that, usually. I guess she wanted to be sure I'd read. Or she knew that now I had time, with that kind of money.
The first book had a 'one' on it. On the left, I poke around. Two stacks of pages, at least three feet tall. Fuck it. I crack the notebook. Immediately, horror.
She never knew her mother. Never even seen a picture of her. She was beaten for looking like her; her father would twist her features. She was a violent person. Kids tried to pick on her for her demeanor, but her black eyes made her look frail. They couldn't hit as hard as her father, so she was not someone to box with.
She left home at eighteen. A hippie that got into Harvard. Dropped out. Pursued music. Fell in love with the guitarist. Settled down. He became jaded. Beat her. She stood up for herself. Her daughter died in her arms in the road. Her father died and left her the home. She didn't pay for anything but her food•decor•mops and cleaners. The bills were covered. Alone in the middle of a cornfield. Book one is a fucking sad start to her play.
I grasp the book numbered two. Stagnation and depression. Same with three. A lonely woman in a home, hating everything. Then a suicide attempt. She awoke with a mission. Always interesting. Her reasoning was ambiguous, her mission ambitious. To put a female face next to Poe and Lovecraft by going deeper into the abyss than anybody else?
Macabre poetry only, no breaks. Violence•blood•gore•death•painted beautifully, and the effects this writing would have on the brain. Details of other poets' levels of skill and style. She was coming at poetry like an experiment.
That's not how poetry works, is it?
The next book was titled: 'Queen of Madness,' and the number was crossed out.
I blink. The room's paint changed from yellow to green. The lampshades were on and covered in insects. I open my door. Beatrix. Whispering to herself. She mutters a philosophy, the meaning of life, then she says, "The meaning of life is reproduction and death." A keycard appears in her hand. She hunts for a door to open.
One finally does. She enters. I hurry to the door before it closes, peeking in. A large mirror. A twisted reflection rips her inside. I walk up to the oculus. I just see me. This is strangely familiar. She walks out of the quicksilver. Her stilettos click on the floor with a new, more confident rhythm. She passes through me. I follow her, and she vanishes into mist.
She's replaced by a blonde with cat eyes. "Welcome. Who are you?" She sees me.
"Nobody," I say, squinting to see her reaction. I can usually tell the intention of the dream from this response.
"To you, maybe," her throat started to let out a little growl.
"Strike a nerve, puss? Feline sad? Cut the shit. Where am I?"
"Somewhere you shouldn't be."
I wake with a start, pinching myself this time. Not awake yet_nice try. I step outside the room. The same dream replays. Down to me and the lady with feral eyes. New questions, but now, no matter what I say, she says the same thing. Repeat_Over_Over_Then this time. "Welcome, who are you?"
"An abstract piece of art on a bleak canvas."
"You think you're worth looking at?"
I wait, guessing a poetical expression is required here. "We all are statues in Egypt."
"Then why do you hide your shadow?"
What the fuck? "I hide nothing."
"What monster are you inside?"
"What game is this?" I step towards her. "Are you really playing baby steps with me?"
"You are afraid of being forgotten," she smiles.
"Who the fuck isn't?" I wipe the smile off her face fast. "What are you afraid of?"
"Silence."
I wake with a start, again. Pinch. Really awake this time. The clock reads 3 a.m. I step outside for a smoke. "Silence," I whisper. The lighter flicks. Cigarette inhale•exhale. "My own mind." Another drag. "It goes into full gear in the silence. Turns into a cheap lace teddy, leavin' you exposed and ashamed. Button eyes never blink."