A Little Story, About The Failure Of A Man On The Inside.

With one last draw of the crooked cigarette, he found himself looking out the window. Inspiration comes easy to those who are dedicated, new too or in a budding area of interest. But this was his 105th title, ideas were stale. Ideas that got him through his early 20's and into his late 30's were no longer there, was he getting old? He sure felt it.

Granted there was a surplus of things he wanted to say, true he was still considered New York's greatest author on this topic. If you could call him an author.

As another cigarette was lit he leered at a poster on the wall, the sunlight through his one bedroom apartment was just enough to cause the glossy finish to create a reflection. A reflection of himself, he was tired, years in the biz had been very unkind to him. Oily hair that was receding, skin that not much better. His eyes were sunken and very grey. He remembered when they were dark, how did they become so grey, was this healthy? Who knows. His health wasn't the highest of his priorities.

Parties, drugs and women, were all that this industry had brought him. Sure he had his pick of any fresh faced girl at any of the closed door gatherings that were constantly being held around his over crowded city. Even if he left, the parties were always there. Was it he that found them, or did they come looking for him. He thought it was a little of column B and alot of column A.

He knew it was wrong, but he thought it would help him out of the rut he was in. 3 oversized lines and a pot of coffee and the distinct feeling of agitation is rife through his rotten body. For he is sick. He knows it. The doctors told him to take it very easy and possibly retire to a calmer industry. This was all he knew. He was good at it. "Was" being the operative word.

The agitation was unbearable. He decided to go for a 3 smoke walk. In his youth this would do the trick. He would end up at a bar on the second cigarette and find himself inhaling a whole packet by the time they kicked him out. It got the job done. He would be inspired.

These days he wasn't as lucky, his increasing emphysema and frail immune system often meant that the elevator ride was far too laborious. So with that in mind he walked out onto his rickety and half constructed balcony. The ash tray was overfilled and full of water from days of rain that had drenched the apple of larger proportions. The local birds had tossed a few cigarette butts around while he had taken one of his mandatory afternoon naps. He cleaned them up. He shook really bad. 

How did this happen to him? Was America to blame? Was it his fault? Who did this to him? The System? The Industry? The girls? The booze? These thoughts swirled his head has he inhaled another dark drag of taxable nicotine. This was their fault. They got him hooked. They gave him the job. He didn't ask for it. It was their fault. They had to pay.

With this renewed hatred for his work he took to his rusty typewriter. 12 hours. 3 Grams. 14 pots of coffee later, a wired man punches the period mark, this time at least. His hands tremble so much he almost tears the final page as he removes it from the typewriter. This is not good. But he knows there is only a few hours before he can sit down and be at peace. No one will hound him for a new piece for a while. This will give him a chance to look after himself. He knows he is lying. 

Under a cold shower he tries to plan for the day that is after his 2pm meeting. He visions, with cold water pouring on his brow, taking a walk to Coney Island and eating ice cream. This used to make him so happy, but these days happiness was far from his person. What else should he do? He would ask you. If he could trust you. The shower hammer is bad in this building, it makes him irritable. As the final water droplet comes out of the shower head, it is clear he needs to leave. Around the apartment is a cascade of worn clothes, a smell test aids his decision. Once he is ready. He leaves. Work under arm.

The sun is his enemy, everything is his enemy. Children race by on bikes, he hates their youth. Old ladies smile at him on the street, he snarls. Elderly people make him sick. A religious man offers to save his soul. He doesn't need a soul. 

There is a clock above a furniture building, he has 25 minutes. He proceeds to walk into a bar, he feels a beer might calm his nerves. It used to. He was tired of everything working in the past.

The bartender apprehensively serves a beer. Blood shot eyes and a severe case of tremors make it hard to serve this man a beer. 25 minutes was not enough to finish the beverage. Not this time. Not in his state.

The first step off the barstool was the hardest, but once he started moving it got easier. He was proud of himself. He was feeling better. This was cause for celebration. He lights another cigarette. Instantly his demeanor  falls, he feels lethargic, teary and generally ill. How did he think it was going to make him feel? He spent so many years trying to make himself feel better. If he was tired, a line would make it better for a while, this inturn made him anxious, so a line and a cigarette was his answer, this mad him feel worse... he was now out of breath and suffering severe anxiety. A beer and and a shot of heroin, or rolling a joint would fix this, but that made him tired. Coffee anyone?

A security guard of a rather large build asks him who he would like to see. Mr Peter Swanski was the managing director, he disliked Mr Swanski very much. Peter was the son of the late Jonathan Swanski. Peter was ruthless, unkind and very dictatived by youth. You could tell by the garbage he was putting the company name too. Jonathan was more into the classic nature of the business, he thought that the audience should be led into the story. His son, Peter thought that plot wasted the audiences time. 

As the elevator door opens on level 38, he runs into a fellow colleague. He looked much worse then he remembered. The industry had been just as unkind to him, if not worse. This made him feel better, and more confident about his work. It was a cruel way to treat a person you had known for most of your glory years, reveling in the lime light as equals, but times had changed. They were enemies. Enemies fighting for the scraps. With a kind handshake and a promise to reconvene at another time, the two walk in opposite directions. "Fucking loser" is simultaneously muttered. 

Gretel Harger is the secretary for Mr Swanski Jnr. She is small, with a girlish laugh. She dates men who tell her she is pretty, loves believing in crystals and the hidden energy they possess. She has 2 brothers, one who is in jail for rape and the other one a heroin junkie returned from the war and now lives in a bunk house in the back of colorado writing death threats to little old ladies in the local community... he doesn't mean it. He is a hero. Scumbag.

As a childish message is conveyed to a sniffling man through an intercom that was worth more than his apartment, he is called into the office.

Rejection.

His work was rejected.

Who gets rejected as a writer for porn flicks.

Obviously he did

Fucking loser.