Marathon

Joe Matar

November 2005

I can't write anymore. That's what it feels like anyhow. I've been run dry on ideas. That's why I'm sitting in front of my computer, cigarette in hand, staring at a blank document, hacking up a lung. I don't smoke, not as a general habit. Picked this pack up because I wanted to look and feel like the desperate writer I think I should be. I have this image, probably perpetuated from the cinema, of an overworked writer: hair mussed, eyes bloodshot. He paws his scalp in frustration as he puffs dependently on the back of a lit cigarette. There's a veritable garden of spent butts sprouting out of his nearly overflowing ashtray; a staple of the cluttered desk. I'm only on my second cigarette and I'm using a Pepsi can. I don't own an ashtray.

Hey. Veritable garden of spent butts sprouting out of a...probably the most flowery sentence I've composed in awhile. I type it in, stare at it for five minutes, delete it. What the hell can I build off of this?

I don't like not having any ideas but something inside me thinks it's fun to play the part. I like to imagine myself at a side angle, hunched over the keyboard (the perfect desperate writer has a typewriter but I'm letting that slide), brainstorming, with my cigarette as co-author. This is, however, ruined by my sporadic coughing, the fact that I can't even begin to imagine how one masters typing and smoking at the same time, and that I'm not getting any ideas so much as a need to take a shit. I'm reminded of an old roommate of mine explaining to me that cigarettes are a catalyst to bowel urgency. I'm not sure what kind of story I could write about that though.

My imperfect writer image is further marred by my desk not being lost under mounds of paperwork. Rather, it's covered in candy and snack foods. A bag of Lays' Bar-B-Q chips, a box of Chips Ahoy! Cookies (the kind with candy coated chocolate in them), some beef jerky, a king size pack of Reese's, and a huge thing of Rainbow Nerds. No piping hot coffee; steam drawing shapes in the air, thickening the mood. Instead I picked up this dumb-looking can of Mountain Dew energy drink. Tastes like instant diabetes.

This is stupid. I stand up and walk over to the window. The headlights from the trucks clamoring down I-81 provide the only illumination. To think I live at a rest stop. The exit has one of those signs with a little picture of a plate with a fork and knife on it. Marathon, New York. Disregarding the freeway, this is quietest place I've ever lived. From what I've gathered, there are rarely more than two life forms on the street at any given time. I see numerous parked cars but it's so rare there are people piloting them that I've started to think the whole town is in on some sort of elaborate scheme in which people jump in their vehicles and speed off when I'm not looking. There's a school system in place, apparently, so I guess there are families but I've never encountered them firsthand. The only place I've encountered life at is the Three Bear Inn and the conversation I get there is hardly what I'd call stimulating. I'm not sure I'd call it life, come to think of it. But am I so much better? Maybe I should get going down there...stomach flips. Drink some of that Mountain Dew thing. Oughta do me wonders.

I've let the cigarette burn down to the butt without taking in much of what it had to offer. I drop it in the Pepsi can. Back to the window. Clutch the window sill with my hands. Put my forehead against it and feel the cold, finely sanded wood. Who does this? Does anybody do this? Fuck. Shit. Bring my head up about a foot and bring it back down. Thud. Didn't hurt.

I sit down again. A third book. How the hell did I write the first two? I don't know what I'm doing. I never did. I put my palms over my eyes and press. Christ, how did I talk to all those people? In kindergarten, I would go off to the bookcase during playtime and read The Very Hungry Caterpillar every day. Same fucking book every time. The concept of me being involved in readings and signings, question and answer...absolutely absurd. "What authors do you consider to be most inspirational to you?" "You know the guy who wrote The Very Hungry Caterpillar?"

Have an urge to lie down suddenly. Dash over to the bed like someone else is going to beat me to it and throw myself on it face down. My bed's on the floor. No box spring. Just like my house in college. Except I lived in the attic then. Can't write? Toss myself upon the bed, fully aware of the fact that I'd usually just fall asleep and wake up with an hour left before I had to turn my work in. Slept pretty well there overall, being all the way up in the attic. Stayed up there a lot, whenever sports were on, anyway. Was up there a lot more once I quit pot. That's really all we ever did. I can't write on it though. Get way too self-conscious. Slept a lot better there than here, come to think of it.

Could write about college but lots of people write about college. I didn't even do anything in college. College from a shut-in's point of view. Sounds pretty riveting. This is fiction though, isn't it? I could make some stuff up, stick in a nice heroin addiction for myself. That usually adds a nice kick.

I jolt up from the bed and sprint back over to my computer to sit down. In the film, I would have fooled everyone into thinking a lightbulb had just gone off. Not so. Failure to deliver. Got nothing. So stupid. So, so stupid. I don't know why I'm even bothering. My mind's not on this. This? There isn't even a this. 10:36. Wonder if I should get down to the Three Bear yet...don't wanna blow in there and run face first into her. Or maybe I do. Could be my opening. Yeah, yeah, like in the movies. Seems unlikely. Jeez, again with the movies. Maybe I should have been in pictures. Summer blockbuster in the making. There's that blank screen again. Whatever, fuck it, I'm going. I can sit in the bar for a bit.

It's a pleasant, brisk cold outside. Jean jacket weather, my favorite. I can't help but grin as I start walking. Doesn't take much to perk me up a bit, I've always noticed. Got this goddamned optimism I can't seem to ever completely quash. Air smells nice outside and suddenly I'm grinning like a jackal (where the hell'd I get that, do jackals even grin?). I've never been able to just settle into a nice, deep depression. Then you don't do anything and you're fine with it. You get tons of sleep. Talk about easy living. I sigh. I can never tell if sighs are genuine involuntary inventions of the respiratory system or a conscious decision on my part to make me seem more tragic. I wonder this about all sighs.

Jesus, Marathon is so nothing. This street, all these little craphole cottages, pitch dark. Not even a hint of a nightlight coming from any of these empty little shacks. Cars are parked in the driveways so I guess people live in these. These could easily be vacant. I'd get the same amount of interaction. Nothing to listen for out here but the occasional truck on the freeway. Can't even make out crickets, I don't think. Trucks must scare them away. At least you can see the stars pretty well out here. That's one of the things that never quite gets old.

I really shouldn't make major decisions based on random little musings I had during my early twenties. Stopped at Marathon to eat on the way back from a road trip to Canada. I thought I enjoyed how simple the place was. Based that all on the one street and the only building I saw the inside of, the Three Bear Inn. There were maybe only two guys in the bar section, the food was pretty good and cheap, and the waitress was uncommonly courteous. There was a little bathroom in the bar area that was dirty and small but functional. The walls were covered with graffiti from various road trippers. I remember being delighted to discover that "Joe loves cock"(or at least did at one time) and some disgruntled gentleman had written "Fuck the world." This is the kind of thing I manage to retain.

I also remember saying to my friends that I'd like to get a little place up here when I was older with my hot girlfriend and relax and go to the Three Bear Inn all the time. Except for the glaring omission of the girlfriend and the hot, this had come true. Good Christ, I actually moved here. I release a chortle into the darkness despite myself. Yeah, doesn't seem to bother anybody.

I see the Three Bear up ahead in the distance and a slight feeling of nausea creeps into my throat. This has nothing to do with the cuisine. You think you'd get rid of this type of thing once you're out of high school but no dice. There should be a drug by now that kills off butterflies available by prescription to those of us who suffer from them chronically. Oh, right, alcohol. But there are too many side effects. Plus I can't stand the stuff. Dammit. Time to put on my sane face.

As I approach the inn, I spot one of the few sparks of life I've come accustomed to seeing, Franklin: tattered clothes, heavily bearded, Heineken in hand, dancing (or something like it) just outside the door. He's always out here. He goes inside to buy his alcohol and then drinks and dances on his own in front. I often wonder where he gets the money. I don't think he works. I see him here almost all hours of the day. Come to think of it, I don't think he eats either.

"Eyy, writer!" He always calls me by my profession rather than my name, which he may or may not know.

"How ya doin', Franklin?"

"I come up widda new alphabet. You can use it in yer books."

"Oh yeah? Let's hear it."

"Right, lissen. B, Q, Z, Z...Z, Z. X." He rotates his eyes upwards for a moment. "...N."

"Wow," I say. "That's really progressive."

"It's wat?" he cocks his head at me.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "Doesn't fit into your alphabet."

"Shanks for yer support," he calls after me as I enter the bar.

The Three Bear Inn is divided into a bar, a restaurant, and, I guess, an inn upstairs but I've never had any reason to investigate. It's a wood-based affair, giving it a feeling akin to that of a cozy cabin, if cozy cabins were generally found alongside major interstate highways. Little bathroom's on the right. The restaurant is to my left. I glance over there. All the tables I can see from here are empty. Look at my watch. 10:48 now. Saw her in here at 11 the other two times. Sit down at the bar. Walk naturally.

Billy smiles like always as I sit down in front of him. I buy a beer. I hate the taste but I have to pretend like I'm in here for a reason.

"So, how ya doin'?" Billy starts the polite conversation. It always comes off as labored on both our parts. Guess he sees it as necessary. If anyone else was here he'd be having a ball chatting them up. I feel a small bit of guilt forcing him to wrench this dialogue out of his system in order to accommodate my presence. I'd be okay with us both sitting in silence but he's making the attempt and I don't want to seem ungrateful.

"Fine, fine." Standard response. I'm trying to keep my eyes focused on either the beer or the little carving of the three dancing bears up on the shelf behind Billy.

Billy looks down and starts wiping the bar with a rag. Pops his head back up again almost immediately. Something else?

"Crrrankin' out that new book then?"

Cranking, yes. Like a pathetically outdated assembly line.

"Oh, she's comin' along." I grin. I should have never told these people what I do.

"Hey, ah, I'm up to page, ah, maybe–" his hand stops moving mid-wipe. My eyes widen and my beer stops halfway in its journey to my lips. "Page thirty or so I think, in, ah, your book there."

"W-wow," I say, genuinely surprised, "You actually picked it up then?"

"Got it from the library."

Nice guy, Billy, going to the trouble and all. I was taken aback when he had asked me for a title last week. Probably figured it'd be a good ice breaker for these wonderful awkward silences we get together for.

"So, uh, you like it at all?"

I watch as the waitress comes out of the kitchen, smiles the requisite smile at me, and walks into the restaurant.

"Yeah, yeah, it's like okay, ya know? Not that much happening in it yet."

My gaze is centered on the entrance to the restaurant. I lean back in an effort to see who she's serving. I realize Billy's still talking to me.

"So this guy kind of just wanders around a bunch, huh?"

"More coffee, hon?" The waitress is asking.

I turn back to him and paint on a smile. "Yeah, pretty much."

"No, thank you." A woman's voice. She's here. Okay, all right, I'm going.

"Yeah, but I mean," Billy was saying, "I like it, ya know? It's nice to fall asleep to."

"That's one of the more accurate reviews I've gotten," I say as I stand up. I turn toward the restaurant. Stomach again. Turn back. Bathroom. I'll go to the bathroom real quick and then I'll go in there.

My hands are shaking. Hard to take a piss. God, this is ridiculous. Ah, there it goes. Right after I'm done here, gonna go right over to the restaurant. Talk to her. I've waited too long as it is. That's always the problem. Ahhhh, Christ. I survey all the old graffiti as well as the new additions as though searching for some advice on the grime-encrusted walls. Instead, I only learn that Brian also loves cock. I wonder if he and Joe know each other.

I walk through the bar and Billy puts his hand up in greeting like we hadn't only just spoken. Yeah, hey Billy, hi, how are ya?

I enter the restaurant, swallowing hard. There she is, at a booth in the back right. Stomach does a little lurch there. Okay, take it slow. Take a booth in the front left. Not all the way in the back but a few booths up. No need to flank the salad bar. Two should do. Best place to be unnoticed by the teacher. How does that apply here? God, shut up. Has she seen me yet? Shit! Just looked at me, I think. Okay, head down, head down. Boy, my hands sure look cool right now. Wish I'd brought a pen or something...look so stupid.

Okay, risk it? Risk it. Look up again. She's not looking. She's pretty all right. At least from here anyway. Short, curly blonde hair. Not my favorite but pretty regardless. Can't tell the eyes from here. She's thin, that much I can see. What's her deal anyway? Nobody comes to Marathon to stay, although I guess this is an inn. You stop, you get some food, you go on your merry way. This is the third night I've seen her here. First night there was that old couple too but last time was like today, nobody but us. Even if I didn't think she was attractive, the desolate nature of the place would certainly support the notion of asking if she wanted company anyway, right? So how about I just get up and go over and–

"How ya doin', hon? What can I getcha?"

Shit, the waitress! Startled the hell out of me. Wonder if it was noticeable. God, I can't even eat right now. Should order something, looks unnatural otherwise. I've only eaten Nerds and jerky today. Just get something, you can always wrap it up.

I order a two bear steak. There are three different types of steaks here. Take a guess what the other two are. The waitress walks off. I take a sip of the glass of water she left me, let my eyes drift towards–shit!

Eyes down, start twisting my napkin up in knots. She was looking right over here wasn't she? Goddammit, why don't I just go talk to her already? The stupid staring contests never go anywhere. This is the dumbest thing in the world.

"'Scuse me?"

I snap my head up so quickly it hurts a bit.

"Oh–ah...hello."

Holy hell, she's over here now.

"Sorry to bother you but, are you–you're not Jack Lindquist, are you?"

What the–? She knows who I am?

"What–yeah, I–I am, actually."

"Oh, wow," she lets out a nervous little laugh. "Wow, I've seen you in here for the past few days and I've just been trying to decide if it was actually you or not." Pauses. "That picture on the back of your book is pretty small."

"Yeah, that picture is awful." I emit what I can only assume to be the worst, fakest laugh ever released from a human mouth. I'm suddenly very aware of my appearance. What the hell was thinking, coming out here to talk to a girl without even taking a look in the mirror? I'm sure my eyes must be bloodshot from staring at the screen in that dark room for so long and I literally don't think I've brushed my hair in years. The least I could have done was shaved. I've got major stubble going on here.

"My name's Molly." She puts out her hand. I look straight up at her for the first time. Blue eyes. Fairly standard. Quite pretty though. Small, slightly pointy nose, thin, pink lips. Bust isn't much to speak of but that's not a huge concern. I realize how annoyed I am by the fact that I've already made an assessment of this. Well, these past months of isolation haven't affected my gender, at any rate.

I reach forward and shake her hand lightly as though some kind of explosion will be triggered by the meeting of our two appendages. I'm debating whether or not I'm supposed to stand up.

"Would you mind if, uh," she scans the length of the room, "Would it be okay if I joined you?"

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