Where the hell were the aspirin? Michael searched the shelves of the medicine cabinet but failed to find the rectangular box of pills. He had again been woken by pain. Aching bones. Cramped muscles. Itching skin. Dry eyeballs. Watery nose. The cold he had just recovered from appeared to have returned for a second round, and he despaired at the prospect of being unwell again. The bathroom light hurt his eyes, and a tune was looping inside his head – Judee Sill’s ‘There’s a Rugged Road’ – which Michael realised must have been playing in his brain while he was asleep. He drank one, two glasses of water. Pressed a cold washcloth against his face. Was aspirin going to be enough?
He switched on a lamp in the sunroom and set about rolling a joint of serious intent. His fingers were so swollen that they fumbled with the papers. And his tongue was dry again. Perhaps he was dehydrated. Another glass of water before he began to inhale deeply. The marijuana dulled the pain to a point, but the idea of a few aspirin to help him get back to sleep was insistent. He gave the bathroom cabinet a repeat inspection then decided to check Lucian’s bedroom.
Michael switched on the hall light and partially opened the door, allowing just enough glow inside the room to see the box on Lucian’s bedside table. The spliff was still burning between his fingers, and rather than put it down or out Michael stood in the hall smoking with purpose.
As the roach fell into the sitting room fireplace he realised he had become unsteady. Tiny hallucinations flickered at the corners of his eyes, and once again his mouth was dry. He stepped inside Lucian’s room, successfully avoided a pair of slippers then quietly snatched the aspirin.
What do you think you’re doing? asked Lucian from the shadowed side of his double bed.
Michael jumped, tripped over the slippers and stumbled back to the door. Sorry, he whispered as he regained his balance and held up the box. Just needed some aspirin. Getting a cold again.
Oh what are you complaining about?
I’m not complaining. Go back to sleep.
This is everything you’ve ever wanted. The shortcut you’ve always dreamed about finding.
There’s no need to get upset. Just go back to sleep.
No struggle. No sacrifice. No risk. Especially not to your precious pay cheque. It’s just a promotion for you, isn’t it? I’ve done this, I’ve done that. I know, next I’ll become a writer. Just like putting on a hat. Ridiculous. You’re going to have to stop thinking that by documenting an author’s life you can learn what it means to be a writer. That’s psychology, not literature. Is that why they call it literary analysis? Well it couldn’t be further from the truth. Being an artist is not something you can think into existence. You either are or you aren’t. It is or it isn’t. And no amount of study will alter the situation. You can’t buy your way in. You’ve got to earn it. Take the gamble. Fail. Lose friends. Lose everything. Accept the consequences. How else will you know if it’s in you? Really in you. An imperative to your existence. So much so that success becomes irrelevant. By all means publish a book. Publish two. But it won’t necessarily make you a writer. You have to forget everything you know. Or think you know. And start to feel around for it. Listen. Smell. They’re not meant to be just words on the page. They’re meant to be whispers. Shouts. Songs. Remember? Why anyone would want to…
Michael opened the bedroom door wider and saw Lucian sitting up in bed with his eyes closed. He was dreaming. Prattling on in his sleep. Flabbergasted with his secretary even in his subconscious. The tirade continued as Michael pulled the door to. He then hurried to the bathroom and washed down a double dose of aspirin.