Unfinished Portrait of a Writer (Part One)

Unfinished Portrait of a Writer

Part One

Death and Suicide

1

"Any drinks?" the waitress asked.

"Coffee please," Vincent replied in a polite but feeble tone. The waitress nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

Vincent leaned back and studied the diner. From the outside in the rain, its tall neon letters promised the cinematic experience of dining. Its chrome frame and red coat advertised the sleek luxury of a car. If three or more dined here, it was a party; if only two, it was intimate; and if alone, it was mysterious. It was a shame, he thought, that inside it wasn't as photogenic. It was tacky even for the good old times it invoked, but it would do. He stretched out his legs, staring at the window which merely quoted the rain and dark outside . . .

Vincent had just escaped the drunk weight of a party collapsing in on itself. From the very beginning it was doomed to oblivion. He ate little, drank less, and tossed a few words into the bottomless well people call conversation. Not one lasted more than the length of an ad. There were too many people. Most of the topics were trivial and when one or two promised depth, they were instantly diluted by random remarks about this one time or that other time or however many times to keep the idle chatter going . . .

He scanned the menu, hovering over the dish more than the price.

"Are you ready to order or would you like more time?" the waitress asked.

More time, Vincent thought, but not for the order.

"I'm ready," he said. "Can I get an omelet with toast and jam? I'll have the soup of the day as well."

"Of course. Anything else?" with an inquiring click of the pen.

He shook his head. Then he sipped his coffee to melt the frigid lump in his throat. He brushed his hand over his hair, recalling his haircut last weekend. The barber was exquisite in comfort talk. Before Vincent realized it, the barber would pull up a vintage mirror from an old saloon and ask him if he was satisfied. In turn Vincent would request to be shaved an inch higher, perhaps another trim at the top, and the two would resume talking until Vincent realized why he kept requesting more and more from the barber to snip away at the vague and imperceptible. The hair falling around him was fine air at this point.

Back home, he saw the veteran panting and wheezing up to his shabby apartment, his jeans sagging lower and lower until - as he fumbled for the keys - Vincent saw the bare lack of underwear quivering and helpless under his stained shirt. The same veteran showed him a beaming photo of his son with his wife and her bright family spending Christmas abroad. This was going to be the fourth Christmas he spent alone. He just received the postcard yesterday, all proud with his brown moles and yellow teeth. Back then Vincent didn't ask, much less knew about his family, but he understood given the spirit of the holidays the veteran's wheezing excitement as he hobbled over to him on his own accord. He was the first one to share his happiness with.

Four Christmases, four years . . . the days seemed to pass by Vincent like strangers much busier than himself. He felt he could only accompany time briefly. Time would always remain young, fresh, and effortless, already generations ahead of him while he would bear traces of her true age and a passing fraction of her wisdom. At first, she felt like a patron and an ally with prospects. Only later did he realize those prospects weren't hers to give.

"Excuse me," the waitress chimed in.

His dish was served in generous portions. Everything was spread to the edges and heaped high. He imagined this diner was once part of a train heading nowhere, commissioned to serve weary passengers. A warm tunnel one could huddle inside from the cold and dark pressing their long anemic fingers against the glass. When he tried the soup, he felt the satisfied warmth of an invited guest.