The Writer Read online

  The Writer

  By Kim Dallmeier

  Published by Kim Dallmeier at Smashwords

  ISBN 978-1-4580-4257-6

  Copyright 2010 Kim Dallmeier. All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  It is hard to explain how it all began. She came into my life like a Storm.

  Her name was Joy, and she was 19. Her dreams were chaotic and inspiring. She drew me into her life, to her, like the moon to the sea: there could be no other way.

  The first time Joy and I met was memorable. She burst into the bar, covered in snow, refusing to wear a hat in a blizzard: she complained they flattened her hair, disregarding the effect of snow on it instead.

  We were university students, doing what the young do: reinventing and deconstructing the world. We were Revolutionaries, Existentialists, and Idealists.

  She sat at our table, and ordered a drink.

  “I’m right!” she exclaimed to a young man that had followed her in.

  “If everyone hung out their clothes, instead of using their dryers, do you know how much electricity we would save?” She went on.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “A lot!” she exclaimed.

  “Maybe you could dip your socks in water to save on ice too…,” he added, teasing her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, sitting back.

  He grinned. He looked vaguely familiar to me. Since he knew most of the people sharing my classes, I assumed he was in one of them too.

  As the evening progressed, people came and went, and Joy took no notice of me.

  I was enumerating the reasons in my head of why a woman like her would never be interested in someone like me, when she smiled.

  “You’re right,” I blurted out.

  “Sure am,” she said, leaning towards me. “What are we agreeing about exactly?” she asked, taking a long swallow of her red wine.

  “The dryer thing” I said, trying to get my voice across the table. “Every bit counts, right?”

  The more we spoke, the more I felt we were alone in the world.

  “You shouldn’t smoke” she said, “It’s bad for you.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m Joy, by the way,” she said.

  “Ben. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Are you an accountant?” she asked.

  “Why? Are you calling me boring?”

  She laughed and looked away, finishing her glass.

  “Another?” I asked.

  Her hair was dark and lush. For a second, I imagined my hand going softly through it as her head rested gently on my shoulder. I wanted to hold her in my arms, have her fall asleep next to me. I closed my eyes and took another long drag of my cigarette, as though nothing else mattered. I exhaled, and realized that she was now standing.

  She threw a piece of paper at me.

  “If you’re ever bored,” she smiled. Then, Joy was gone.

  I picked up the paper airplane, as though it were made of gold; little did I know that I was holding my entire future in the palm of my hand.

  Chapter 2

  I ordered a coffee: black.

  A month had passed, and I still had not called Joy. Whether you called it stage fright or pure idiocy, it did not matter to me. I wanted to hold on for as long as possible to the dream of being with her.

  I knew that the moment she would see me again in daylight, minus the alcohol, she would turn around and never come back.

  Yes. I was going to stay in this illusory state for as long as I could. The brain was a funny thing this way. You could pretty much convince it of anything you wanted, if you tried hard enough.

  In a psychology class, I had learned that if you smiled into a mirror while upset, you would feel better shortly. Apparently, the brain could not tell the difference between a genuine smile and a fake one. Since I felt I was in a relationship, my brain was not about to convince me of otherwise.

  I held the cash receipt, behind which Joy had written her phone number, gently between my fingers. I studied the piece of paper as though a test on its content awaited me: red wine, avocados, Kalamata olives, baguette, brie, vine tomatoes, salmon, and the list went on.

  I imagined myself dining with her on a beautiful terrace late at night, a candle flickering between us. I was not a wine drinker myself, but in these fantasies, I did not need to be.

  I smiled, and folded the paper away, putting it safely back into my wallet.

  I was packing my books and bag, when she arrived. Dishevelled, wiping snow off a newspaper, Joy made her way to a corner table.

  I unpacked my bag, and ordered another coffee. I looked at the time. It was close to 10am, and I only had class in the afternoon. I could afford to help serendipity. I coughed.

  She took no notice of me, even after I dropped accidentally my book.

  I was in the middle of doodling on a matchstick man, when Joy appeared at my table.

  “Are you always this clumsy or did your third cup of coffee helped?” she asked.

  “Uh,” I stared. I was always this eloquent put on the spot. “Hi,” I finally managed to say.

  “Hey,” she said, sitting down, smiling. “What are you up to? An artist I see…”

  I folded the napkin away.

  “I didn’t know you came here,” I said.

  “Why would you?”

  My mind went blank. She laughed. “You never called me…”

  “I figured you had slipped me a Chinese take-away number, and I already know a good one.”

  She smiled. “Nah, it’s my real number. We should do something together some time.”

  “Yeah, I’m totally up for that.” I felt like a cooing 14-year-old girl, and regretted instantly using the word: totally.

  “I mean, sure…” I said, trying to sound manlier this time.

  She laughed, looking away. “You have any plans today?”

  “No. Why?” I asked. It was always good to be open.

  “You want to see a movie at the Palace for a dollar? They have a bunch of oldies playing this afternoon,” she said. She opened the newspaper and pointed at the showings: “Blade runner?”

  I was in love, all over again.

  Chapter 3

  Montreal, in winter, is freezing and lasts forever. When the calendar hits January, you pretty much get minus 30˚ weather every other day. With the wind factor, you might as well be sunbathing somewhere in the Arctic.

  Now, what if I told you Joy and I walked five or six blocks in a blizzard to get to the Palace and I never felt the cold. My face froze. The Tip of my nose froze. My toes froze, and I felt absolutely nothing.

  Maybe it was Joy, maybe it was the frostbites, one way, or the other I felt no pain. Not until we arrived at the movie theatre, and I started thawing, that is. Now, that hurt. Imagine colonies of ants biting you until they decide to heat up like hot plates. No, make those mutant fire ants, who adapted to our crazy Arctic weather trying to colonize me.

  “What are you thinking about?” Joy asked.

  Oh, I am only pondering about mutant insects crusading over my body, you? “Nothing,” I said.

  “You look totally freaked out…”

  “Just happy to be here,” I said.

  “That’s your happy face?” Her wide-eyed look made me laugh.

  She bought our tickets. I got us popcorn. We found seats.

  The movie was great, but the company was better.

  I held my breath so many times; I thought I would pass out. First, I leaned my arm slightly against hers, and held my breath. When my fingers touched hers accidently over a popcorn kernel, I held it again. I wanted to freeze this moment with her, capture it, and pin it to my wall.

  When the movie ended, it was time to take the metro home: we were heading in diffe
rent directions.

  I decided to walk her to her train. We went down the escalator in silence. The moment I saw the lights of the metro appear in the tunnel, I started sweating, almost panicking. Should I shake her hand or kiss her on the cheek? I had no idea!

  The train stopped and the doors opened. As she went in, I stood there, staring. She turned around and smiled. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the train with her. I had no idea where we were going, and I really did not care. I would have followed her across the Galaxy to the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, if she had asked me to.

  “Is that your happy face?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Nah, I’m totally miserable right now.”

  “Thought so,” she laughed.

  We sat and watched the stations go by.

  Chapter 4

  It was 9 o’clock when I looked at my watch. We were making our way slowly to her place. The night was young. The street held more trees than cars, a privilege rarely seen in the middle of town.

  From the outside, the house did not look like much: reddish brown bricks piled on top of each other, framed by some strayed frozen branches of a dying tree.

  She climbed the steps first to unlock the door. As it opened, a familiar warm sweet scent escaped through the crack; one which would become a smell I would come to associate to Home.

  The first thing I noticed when making my way through her house were the tall cathedral-like ceilings made out of golden wood, and the rich red bricks that composed the walls.

  The front windows, which I found to be quite ordinary late at night, became stained glass masterpieces stretched to the ceiling the next morning. They were simply extraordinary.

  How does an Art student afford such a luxurious place?

  Next to the hallway, on the left, was a lounge with leather sofas. She had shelves on each side of a fireplace, which extended to the ceiling, filled with books, a mixture of odd art pieces and new age gizmos. Incense was the smell I had recognized from the entrance hall: Jasmine.

  I walked slowly along the hallway that stretched through the entire house. Peering now to the right, I found her bedroom, which I dared not enter, and a small bathroom. At the end of the hallway was her kitchen and to the left a small studio, within which she painted and sacrificed random pieces of wood in the name of “Art.”

  I walked to the backdoor, peering at a small balcony where an exhibit of dead plants was exposed, one of which decorated with Christmas ornaments. Her second-floor apartment towered over various neighbours that seemed to all share quite conveniently her backyard.

  “Are you living in a commune?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Joy replied.

  “Well, there seems to be a huge collection of tables and chairs in your backyard…”

  She laughed. “Yeah, that’s our communal terrace. We all share it. All the flats you can see use it. Therefore, a while back, everyone started bringing down whatever chair and table each could find, just so that everyone can use it together whenever we want to… It’s actually quite neat.”

  I smiled back.

  “So, tell me again what you do?”

  I did not actually remember telling much of anything about me. I nodded.

  “I’m a writer…” I started, “Well, no. I’m not a writer yet. I just mean I enjoy writing and I study literature. I’d like to be a writer someday.”

  “You’re either a Writer or you’re not.” she said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Do you need to write every day? Do you think about what you’re going to write next? Does it consume you?” She was waving her arms around now, barely containing herself. She started getting up, as though she needed more space to explain what she was trying to get across.

  “If you always have a pen and paper with you, if you’re always thinking about that next thing you’re going to write, if you have a bunch of papers or files filled with ideas, if you absorb experiences collecting them like butterflies for your next poem or book, then…you’re a Writer. So, are you?”

  She looked at me wide-eyed, expectant. A writer or not, I could not imagine wanting to let her down. I sat there, coffee in hand, staring at her blushing cheeks, her ruby red lips.

  “I guess,” was my deep-thought answer.

  “Great!” she exclaimed, raising her hands over her head. “That’s great! Can I read some of your stuff?” She smiled.

  I started sweating. My stomach clenched, my hands started getting moist. I did not actually write for anyone to read. Did that make sense? All I could do was write in my journal... I do not believe I had ever written any essay, outside of University classes anyway.

  “I don’t have anything on me…” I replied.

  “Oh…” She looked at me suspiciously for a few minutes, then dropped the subject, and smiled again. “Whatever…”

  She got up and charged into her small studio. “Come,” she said.

  I followed her in. We had to close the door behind us, to fit into it properly. It was not that small, just very encumbered by her many endeavours. Some people paint with tubes, she painted by the bucket.

  Apparently, she regularly visited the “Reduce to Clear” sections of paint depots, where she bought paint that people brought back, because they were the wrong colour and so on, for ridiculously cheap prices. Of course, the colours were sometime surprising, but by mixing them, she came up with all sorts of unique and interesting colours.

  At this point, she was mostly painting on wrapping paper that she would find in packing boxes. She would stretch them out whichever way she could, paint them, and roll them up like parchment once dry. I had seriously never met anyone like her.

  Across the ceiling of her studio was a washing line, on to which she pegged her wet art. I imagined her climbing up and down the ladder that was resting against the far wall, next to her window: paint dripping all over the floor, all over her. I could not help but stare down at the floor, noticing how perfectly clean it was.

  “I don’t hang my paintings up there when they’re dripping wet…,” she said, reading my mind.

  “I know,” I answered half-embarrassed.

  I made my way closer to an incomplete painting that was sitting on her drawing table. It was quite stunning. Of course, my opinion was entirely biased, as I knew nothing about paintings, but even so, her art still managed to evoke something in me.

  I looked closer. Joy was attempting to sketch the realistic portrait of a man, behind which laid a cubism-styled forest of Magnolia trees. I had never quite seen anything like it. I could not possibly describe the colours she was using as they were each unique in their own right, but a mixture of pinks, browns and greens were found everywhere.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s different…”

  “Thanks,” she replied, blowing on her coffee.

  She slowly made her way to the lounge, and I followed suit. She started up her laptop and put some music on. I envisioned her listening to some Jazzy funk style beat, but to my surprise, “Easy Listening” seemed to be more to her liking.

  I sat on the edge of one of the two couches and slowly looked around, memorizing every detail I could. Crystals, African statues, odd-looking statues littered her shelves.

  “Red?” she asked.

  “What about red?”

  “Wine,” she laughed.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Yeah. Definitely...”

  “Not a wine drinker, I presume,” she said pouring some in a big fish bowl of a glass.

  “All the time…”

  “Is that right?”

  “No. Not really...” I said, extending my hands to encircle it. With my luck, I would spill it all over her white carpet; nothing like drinking half a bottle in one serving to get a good taste of something.

  I smiled, “thanks.”

  She sat next to me, her dark eyes searching my face. I held my breath. “What?”

  She tilted her head slightly, and smiled. “You like me,
don’t you?”

  My mind went blank again. I just stared in disbelief at her question. Who asked outright things like that?

  “I like that you like Blade Runner,” was the best I could come up with under highly stressed conditions.

  She laughed harder, almost coughing out the coffee she had just sipped. She nodded and leaned slowly toward me. “Do you like me?”

  I opened and shut my mouth, twice. Words caught in my throat. “Do you want me to like you?” I asked her. There was nothing like turning a question around to buy some time.

  “Are you sure you’re not a Psychology Major?” she grinned.

  She finally left it at that, though I am sure all the sweating and blushing somewhat gave me away. I smiled back, and we ended up watching some bad television until we fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, when I woke up, it took me a while to orient myself and remember where I was. A sudden pang of panic overwhelmed me, after looking around and not recognizing a single thing. I dove straight into anguish next when I could not even remember which day of the week it was, let alone if I had a class to attend.

  Whether or not I liked to admit it, I was a responsible student and it just felt “wrong” not to attend class. That said I had a feeling Joy was going to be a bad influence on my studious habits and a Great inspiration for the Writer I wanted to become.

  The smell of toast, burned toast mind you, brought me to the kitchen. “Sorry,” she said. “I really suck at this cooking thing…” She laughed, dumping the bread carcass into a compost heap she had in a bucket under the sink.

  She got more bread out, shoving it into the experimental laboratory that was her toaster. I felt sorry for each slice. From the looks of it, their predecessors had not only been heat tortured, chopsticks had also prodded them, as Joy had tried to pull them out.

  I grabbed the cup of coffee she handed me. “Thanks for that, I’m not really hungry anyway…”

  It’s Friday, I thought to myself; 10am, Art History elective. Ah well.

  I sat at the table slowly, Fate had decided for me today. Then, I decided to get up again, just to make sure she really did think I was strange. “Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked suddenly embarrassed for still being here this late in the morning. “I’m sorry. You should have just woken me when you got up. I don’t want you to be late for anything because of me.”