38

Placing the beer in the truck, I then make my way into the liquor store and purchase a bottle of Jameson. The bottle is the equivalent of two-pints which means it should last me a couple of days if I’m lucky. I’m also lucky my overleveraged card worked. Getting back in the truck, I see that I have another new text. 

“Please God,” I say aloud, “don’t let it be Jennifer.” 

When I see that the text is from Jenny and Matthew, I feel relieved, even though I can’t help the sharp, dagger-like pangs of jealousy that are afflicting my nervous system at present. I tap on the message and read. 

Looking forward to seeing you tonight, Martin, the text reads. We have some very exciting news for you. 

I start writing a response. I heard, I text. But just as quickly, I delete the two words. It’s not that I’m unhappy for the young, newbie author. Getting your first book deal, especially one so lucrative, is a huge event. No, that’s not quite right. That’s putting it way too mildly. The plain truth of the matter is that it’s more like a Biblical experience. 

First of all, the chances of getting a million-dollar book deal, even for a seasoned veteran who’s sold more than a million books like I have, plus won some major awards and hit all the bestseller lists, is like hitting the lottery. Or let me rephrase it. The chances are like winning the lottery and, at the same time, getting struck by lightning twice in a single day, and living to tell about it. That’s how impossible it is in an era where there are only four major publishers left. 

But while I’m very happy for Jenny, I also can’t help but be reminded that I’m getting older, I’m broke, and it’s quite possible my best days as an author are behind me. Or are they? It’s possible the new book I’m writing could be the best piece of work I’ve put out in years. Maybe Martin Jordan is entering his golden years of writing and doesn’t even realize it. Maybe I’m writing my equivalent of The Old Man and the Sea. Maybe a Pulitzer Prize is awaiting me on the horizon. Who knows what the future holds? 

In any case, I’ll choose to act surprised when I get to their house tonight. That way, I don’t have to spend thirty bucks I don’t have on a bottle of champagne. Cheap of me? You betcha. But then, what choice do I have? 

Staring at my phone, I type, Looking forward to the surprise. See you at six.

I set the phone back into the console cup holder, start the truck, and back out of the parking space, careful not to back-end anyone in the process. Driving the road back to the Shun Pike, I can’t help but think about the alleged plot of Jenny’s book. 

“A deranged writer who’s suffering from seemingly incurable writer’s block,” I say aloud, my voice sounding strange and hollow inside the truck. 

Spotting the beer on the seat as I turn onto the Shun Pike, I tear open the box and pull out a cold one. Cops and state troopers rarely patrol the sleepy country road, so I’m confident I can down a cold one without getting caught. I sip the cold beer and feel its magic go right to work on my nervous system. 

“It’s almost like Jenny knows me and my situation,” I say. “But then, deranged writers suffering from writer’s block is not exactly a new and unique situation, now is it?” 

I’m silently reminded that I’m talking to myself again. When I was in the hospital for the criminally insane, I did a lot of that. Or so they told me. But I don’t remember much of it. They also tell me I repeated a lot of the same words and strange movements with both of my hands, like I was typing, only typing without a typewriter. “Air typing,” one of the white-uniformed workers used to call it. That much I remember. I think the doctors called it stemming, and it was a result of having undergone a nervous breakdown for which I was quickly given electroshock therapy. Thus, I can’t remember a whole lot about my incarceration in the prison-slash-hospital since it erases your memory as if you’re pressing alt-control-delete on your brain and rebooting it.

I drink more beer as the farm comes into view. My stomach goes slightly south when I see the shadow of a figure moving at the far end of the farmhouse’s front exterior. I haven’t gotten a Ring notice over my cell phone, that I know of. I also forgot my gun. How can you forget your gun at a time like this? 

Pulling into the driveway, I make for the barn and kill the engine. I get out and grab an axe off the wall. Jogging out of the barn, I make my way to the house. When I see the deer scoot out from behind the far side of the house, I raise the axe high like I’m not seeing a deer at all, but the hooded and masked Jennifer. As the deer scoots off toward the swampy area of the property, I slowly lower the axe and feel a sudden sharp pain in my ribs. I’d almost forgotten about bruising my ribs last night. With all the excitement, the adrenalin must have masked the pain. 

Note to self: as soon as you bring the booze into the house, pop some Advil. And take a damn shower. You stink and you’re still covered in plaster dust. 

Heading back to the barn, I grab my beer and whiskey, including the can I’ve already opened. I take it all with me to the back door off the kitchen. Setting it all down, I input my four-digit PIN and open the door. Once more grabbing hold of the booze, I head inside and set it all on the table. Placing the beer in the fridge, I open the whisky bottle and drink a shot right off the bottleneck. It feels damn good against my sore ribs. 

Capping the bottle, I set it back on the table. I grab my can of beer and head back upstairs to the mess I made in the master bedroom. Glancing at the GoPro camera installed in the wall, I consider ripping it out, but at this point what difference does it make? Besides, a move like that will only serve to piss Jennifer off. And I can’t have that if I expect her to show up Sunday night. 

Here’s what I do instead: I gaze directly into the camera while pulling off my soiled shirt. Placing my hand against my puckered lips, I blow Jennifer a kiss. I then make my way to the bathroom, stepping on shattered glass and plaster the entire way. It’s time to shower. While the water runs, and I sit on the toilet to remove my shoes, I once more contemplate the plot of Jenny’s new million-dollar, untitled novel.

“A fucked up writer suffering from incurable writer’s block,” I say aloud as a I drop my boot to the floor. “Why does it feel like she’s writing about me?”