Don't Get Bone, Get Walking

Don't Get Boned, Get Walking

    Jack was a writer, or at least that's what he liked to call himself. In all actuality though, when he wasn't earning money through the dog walking business, he did nothing but stare at the white page on his computer screen with its black cursor taunting him.     

None of his family knew this, of course. When he moved to Chicago four months ago, dropping out of his second year at U of M, he told his parents that he was going to "find himself" and become a writer. His mother's face had turned blank, like it always did when she was faced with a dilemma involving him. His father, on the other hand, had stormed out of the house, knocking vases and lamps to the floor; he later came back only to scream in Jack's face. How did a boy who grew up wanting to be a lightning engineer suddenly want to go off and write novels?

Honestly, Jack had no idea. He liked English enough and had loved the stories his grandpa used to read to him. Every once in a while he would come up with cool characters and cool plots, though, never being able to actually write the story behind them. He'd heard of so many people ditch the college life and go off to become a writer that he figured he could do it. He did know that after his first math and science course that he hated the subjects, like I'd-rather-be-dragged-behind-a-car-buttnaked-driving-down-a-gravel-road-while-on-fire kind of hate. Jack guess that it just took him this long to finally stand his ground. In a family of science and math majors this development was worthy of disownment. His father made it clear, too, that if Jack failed, disownment would be an option. Jack was lucky enough as it was to still be invited to next years Christmas.

With his blood boiling, some leftover cash, and no regret he had packed his bags and taken the trip to the nearest big city. He found a nice one-bed, one-bath apartment, set up a Writing Table, as he liked to call it, and began his work.

Except his "work" never came and only after the two weeks of living in the city did he realize that things were more expensive here than they were in Michigan, so he set out finding a job. He had walked the streets of Chicago for two days when he realized that none of the shops hiring interested him in the slightest. When he'd gotten back that day, he'd flopped down on his puke green hand-me-down couch and turned on the television. A dumbass chick-flick was playing about some blonde chick falling in love- if Jack could call it that- with this guy who walked dogs for a living.

It wasn't until Jack had finished the movie and changed the channel to ESPN that he shot up out of the sunken cushions, flailing like a beached fish.

Dog walking.

He could totally do that. He liked dogs, for the most part anyways, and he could come up with outrageous prices. Rich people were easy enough to trick; he had learned that much at his time at U of M. That night he made a website. It had cost him a total of fifty bucks, something he wasn't very happy about but knew it would be worth it in the long run. Don't Get Bone, Get Walking the website read.

This was the only success so far, though, that Jack had had while in Chicago: his goddamn dog walking business.

"How's that writing of yours, Jack? Your father thinks you should come back to Ann Arbor and continue your real career. I'm sure you can still get your scholarship." His mother had called him for the first time in four months in her best attempt to worry about him.

"Oh, it's fucking great, Mom."

"Language, Jackson Michael!"

Not apologizing, Jack took swigs from his beer, listened to the deep breathing coming from his mothers end. Her psychologist had taught her this mechanism last spring. Apparently his mother's hatred for cusswords had gotten so extreme that she couldn't control her anger towards the person cursing. Jack waited patiently, grinning to himself for letting the cussword slip, knowing it would send her over the edge and end the conversation quicker. After two minutes she was finally able to force herself to continue with the conversation.