That was what happened when you stared at a screen without doing anything.
He sighed. He was downtrodden.
An hour later, Jack, not a fan of adverbs, had to conclude that not only was he downtrodden but he wasexceedinglydowntrodden. It was almost two o’clock, though, and therefore no longer impossible that the mail should have come.
He pushed himself out of his chair, and something in his back protested. It was a fucking Aeron chair. It had cost a small fortune back when he thought he had one of those to spare.
His wrists hurt, too, which was ridiculous given that he hadn’t written a God damn word for three days.
It was probably psychic pain manifesting in his body. “How can one be well,” Tolstoy asks, “when one suffers morally?”
Jack had a dinner at seven that he was dreading. If he started writing at two, he could get four hours in by the time he had to stop to shower and make himself presentable.
He checked the clock: 1:56.
It wouldn’t take him more than a couple of minutes to go get the mail. It would be good to stretch his legs, get the blood moving.
When the elevator arrived at his floor, there was someone in it, sohe pretended he’d forgotten something in his condo. The second try deposited him in the lobby, but the mail had not yet arrived.
He looked at his watch: 2:04.
If he started writing at two thirty, he could get three and a half hours in before he had to stop.
Coffee.
He would go out for coffee, and by the time he got home, the mail would be here. It would be two thirty, and he would be caffeinated, in receipt of the mail, and ready to write.
It was a beautiful September afternoon, the first hint of autumn in the air. Not decay yet, but a kind of precursor to it, a ripeness that was aware of its own impending demise.
The door at Maud’s jingled. There were only a few tables occupied, it being too late for lunch, at least for Midwesterners, and too early for dinner.
“Jack.” An unsmiling but not unfriendly man lifted a palm from behind the bar at the back of the small bistro. It was Oliver, Maud’s proprietor—and son of the real-life Maud, whose landscape paintings hung on the restaurant’s exposed brick walls. “Americano?” he asked as Jack approached. “Barolo?”
“Too early for wine. I’ve got to write yet today.”
“Americano it is. To go, I assume, if you’re working?”
Jack glanced at his watch: 2:17.
He pulled out a stool. “Make it a cortado, and I’ll drink it here.” If he drank quickly, he could be back at his desk and writing by three o’clock.
Maud’s didn’t really do coffee. Well, clearly it did, as evidenced by the whirring of the espresso machine behind the bar. But it wasn’t a coffee destination.
Oliver set the miniature cup and saucer in front of Jack. “How goes the struggle?”
Jack sighed and took a sip.
“That bad?”
“I have to go to a Friends of the Library dinner tonight.”
Oliver wrinkled his nose. “Libraries. Friends. Dinners. All known bummers.”
Jack rolled his eyes, but something in him loosened a notch, like an overtightened screw being eased.
Jack was aware of his reputation, and he didn’t mind it. Being known as a curmudgeon came in handy. But the truth was, he liked talking to people. Well, he liked talking to specific people in specific circumstances. It didn’t have to be a real friend, or a deep conversation. In fact, it was better if it wasn’t. Jack’s ideal conversation partner was intelligent and quick-witted. Someone who knew him, but not too well. Someone with whom he could skip the small talk but also not be on the hook for any kind of deep, lasting connection.
Oliver was one of those people. He reached under the bar and produced a dish of cashews, and Jack’s innards relaxed another notch. Regular retail interactions were exactly Jack’s speed. Sometimes he thought back to his teaching days and wondered how he had survived. So manypeople. So muchtalking.
