more than clouds
a short story
My career is on the line.
Will wanted to eliminate the thought from his head, but there was no denying its undeniable truth. Everything he had worked so hard for could evaporate in an instant, and there was no one else to blame. He read his three perfect lines repeatedly, but the fourth was elusive. Writer’s block, so they called it, had been a foreign concept to him for years until this pivotal moment. His penchant for wordplay was his calling card, but now the card was frayed, splitting and cracking at the corners, and the phone was firmly off the hook.
He stepped out of his office and walked to the restroom. A sudden twinge of intense panic startled him, and he furiously gripped the sink. Spinning the faucet handle wildly, he splashed cold waves over his face and the floor alike. His mind felt scrambled as he sank down into the frigid puddle, breathing in and out slowly, and it was there that he convinced himself to admit that he needed to make the call.
“Sam, it’s Will. Call me back when you can. I…” He stopped for a moment and winced. “I need help. Thanks.” He gently replaced the receiver, then stared at it with intense hatred. Help. Get a hold of yourself, man. Will stared a moment longer until the heat receded and decided to clear his mind with a drive. If Sam returned his call, he could leave a message. Will scanned the room and felt his heart sink as he spied his keys resting next to his notepad. They may as well have been on fire in an underground bank vault. That cursed notepad was the holder of his ability and inability, the bearer of his greatest triumphs and now what looked to be his ultimate loss. The yin and yang of his very livelihood was a crude device stitched together and distributed by Moleskine at a premium price.
Will snatched his keys and ran to the front door. He flung it open in madness, punishing the door stop for existing, testing the very will of the door’s hinges against his angst. Will frantically looked back and forth on his doorstop out of habit. No neighbors saw his angry exit, but he found that he didn’t care either way. Everyone was gone, it was Thanksgiving, after all. Los Angeles is a ghost town this time of year and usually that meant peace for Will. But there was no peace now, only war, and even if there were witnesses, embarrassment was a foreign concept; nothing mattered if he couldn’t think. He looked upward and the sky felt oppressive, mocking him for his failures. I have clouds. What do you have? An empty notepad. You have nothing.
In what felt like an instant, Will was careening down a winding California side road. There was no one else driving at 11 AM on a Thursday, and Will felt extraordinary comfort in the isolation. He slowed the car, rolling down his driver’s side window. The wind relaxed him and Will felt the comfort that a glimmer of inspiration brings, but only for a moment. Ahead he spotted a Los Angeles staple; dozens of cars were idle. Horns were blaring, people were screaming, and Will’s introspection was replaced by unfettered anger.
He furiously struck his steering wheel but ceased honking when he noticed a couple shouting at one another outside of a dusty Toyota Camry. His eyes were drawn to the man, a short haired middle-aged brute with a bulging forehead vein. He was angry but did not appear violent, but his wife appeared absolutely unhinged. Will forgot his troubles in lieu of the challenge five feet ahead of him as two angry sets of eyes burned through him. Their delayed acknowledgement of his presence frightened him to his core.
Will hastily locked his car doors and shook when he saw a small child step forward from in front of the Camry. The boy pointed at Will and was mouthing something he could not quite understand, and the man appeared to soften as his lips went from frown to a smile. Then the woman smiled as well – three Cheshire cats eyeballing their next victim. What is happening?!? Will struggled to recall a time he felt more uncomfortable, and quickly slid his car in reverse, crushing the fender of a Buick just behind him. The driver honked. Will whipped off his seatbelt. Enough! he thought and swung his door open.
He ignored the meek Buick driver with insurance card in hand who whispered “excuse me” while staring downward, and also ignored fear, walking toward the still-smiling man, woman and child. He saw past them into the backseat, where a turkey rested in a car seat – not a living turkey, no, but a frozen one surrounded by cans of cranberry sauce, a loaf of bread, and a couple stalks of celery. “It is Will!” he heard the small child say, and he felt nothing but confusion. He smiled at the boy out of habit, and the man looked embarrassed. He began spilling his guts as if Will were his long-lost therapist. Will’s confusion lifted as he remembered today was Thanksgiving. “…and I still have to get the stuffing in it!” the man finished, sighing, pointing at the roadblock and wiping his brow. Will said nothing, but he felt something inside him ignite. He excitedly opened his wallet and slid $550 into the Buick owner’s sweaty palm, and sprinted to his car.
The drive home was quick but felt like a lifetime. Will was afraid that by slowing down he would forget, but that was impossible. He didn’t yet know how he would finish the line but knew deep down that it would manifest. “I have clouds!” he screamed at the open sky. The sun glared a little hotter at him, but Will was unfazed. “More than clouds, way more,” he whispered to no one.
His front door was closed but unlocked. He walked in to see Sam, who was pacing with a cell phone in his hand. “Will! What is going on?! You called me and sounded terrified…I left home immediately. Will, what do you need? Talk to me man, I’m here.” Will grumbled and shoved past Sam, who collapsed on the couch in a heap. Will threw open the doors of his office and slid a drawer completely out, slamming it on the desktop next to his notepad. He rummaged through with incredible focus, hand brushing past a cold metallic cylinder. His father had given him this gun when he moved to L.A., explaining, “I hope you never need this, son. But you never know.” Will let his hand steady on the grip and laughed, then muttered out loud, “Not today. Not ever. Not now. Maybe.”
Sam’s eyes widened as he entered the room, noticing the gun in Will’s hand, and decided when Will dropped the gun that speaking was futile; Will was manic but focused, and Sam knew better than to get in his way. Will’s face was contorted in intense concentration as he pilfered through the exposed drawer. He could have found what he needed if he only would look into the drawer, but his eyes were transfixed on the notepad on his desk. Sam heard Will sigh and pull his hand from the drawer. In his right hand were two Bics – a lighter and a pen.
Will alone heard screams from the wardrobe across the room, screams only audible to the fractured among us, promising relief and focus, something better than clouds. He would soon make his own. He tore open the closet and reached into his jacket, pulling out a stale pack of Marlboros. Sam had never seen Will so much as drink, much less light up, but again knew better than to protest. He was somehow in tune with Will, aware that what was supposed to happen was about to happen whether he understood it or not.
Will poked a cigarette into his mouth slowly, nerves beginning to calm, breathing in the soft smell of tobacco and filter. The Bic flickered on, its heat exciting his lips as he puffed the stick to life. Nicotine did its job quickly, firing temporary jolts of joy and calm throughout his body. He felt ethereal, nearly astral, fully in control of himself while at the same time observing instinct as it drove his body. His right hand left the cigarette in his puckered lips and dropped the lighter, now gripping a red ink pen. He was bursting with creative energy, the Marlboro pulsing as it battled his natural high with its relaxing sedative. Will rested the cigarette on his lower lip and exhaled finally, the room filling with pungent fumes, prompting Sam to pry open a window and use his hands as a fan to propel the smoke out. Will paid no mind, instead lowering his proverbial sword to the battlefield of the notepad, red ink spilling like blood over the cream colored land, permanently tattooing his mark on not just paper but on society itself, forever etching words inspired either by the divine or most unholy onto the fabric of our very being for generations to come.
In a moment Will changed, and Sam saw it happen. His face relaxed and a tear dropped from his left eye onto the desktop. Will launched the cigarette across the room and out of his office window, coughing but smiling. He began to laugh, and Sam couldn’t explain why, but he laughed too. Once the pair was quiet, Will stood. He looked at Sam with empathy and explained, “I called you because I was weak. I had a lapse, I could not think. I had no clouds, but now I have something more.” Sam nodded in mixed understanding, and Will sensed as much, so he handed the notepad to his producer, his friend. Sam’s eyes were opened, hyperclarity exploding in his mind as he read the words; the first three lines written days ago in deep black, the fourth line in brilliant red.
GOTTA
PRADA
BAG WITH A LOTTA
STUFF IN IT