I Met a Writer
by Adam Graupe
I stood in
line at Starbucks and overheard tap, tap, tap! I
asked the barista, “What was that?”
She exclaimed
“Oh! That is Lobert.” She pronounced it
Low Bear and let out a purr, “he is
a writer and is so dark and romantic.”
I turned and
studied the solitary figure crouched in front of
a polished black manual typewriter next to the
window. Lobert was shaped like a yard rake
dressed in black with a yellow beret tilted
jauntily to the side. I slunk over and tried to
read over his shoulder, but the folds of his
scarf blocked my view of his typing. I tried to
sneak away undetected, but he turned and said to
me pointing at the window, “The people out
there on the street inspire me.”
I looked out
the window and only saw a gigantic Wal Mart
across the street. I didn’t want to ask but
something forced me so I said, “Where you
been published?”
Lobert burst
out laughing and resumed typing: tap, tap, tap!
I asked,
“What’s so funny?”
Lobert
chuckled and said, “ahhhh, you don’t
know what it’s like to be a writer. There is
much suffering. One doesn’t send out
unsolicited manuscripts. One creates and then one
is called to a publication.” With that he
waved me away and resumed: tap, tap, tap!
I didn’t
mention to Lobert that I had been published in
three countries and that I did all of my writing
in an unfinished basement next to a furnace and
never told anyone outside my family that I wrote
and if someone asked me about one of my stories I
denied that I wrote it. Everything I wrote was
out of compulsion and revulsion.
I know many
believe a writer should look and act like Lobert.
Maybe I should buy a yellow cape, a scarf and
drag out my old Olivetti portable typewriter.
I could go sit at the table next to Lobert and
give him a little competition as I can type fast,
but I like my place here next to the furnace.
It’s whirring right now and a pug is
snoozing on my lap. Plus, there are no other
writers near me now and I think I prefer it that
way.
|
