* The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? Well. This is a little snippet about the place where he likes to write.
Author's note: this story is set somewhere just before the year 2000, in my favorite place in the world: San Francisco.
~~~
If you’ve ever flipped through a National Geographic or perused the Discovery Channel or – at least – been to high school, then you know; the ability to survive hinges on the ability to adapt.
This also holds true in the business world.
In defiant reaction to the past decade’s flailing economy, the city has begun to evolve by breaking out into a pandemic of creatively trendy, multi-purpose business establishments. It’s not a used book store anymore; it’s an art gallery with an espresso machine and a toaster that just happens to sell used books or, perhaps, it’s an ethnic “fusion” restaurant and bar with a cabaret license and an open mic. In this case however, the Brainwash is a laundromat cleverly disguised as an internet café with a bi-weekly poetry night. Upon entering, you might notice the pseudo-iconic, religious candles lining the windows or that the ceiling is edged with terrifically cheesy red, star-shaped twinkle lights. Every available wall of this kitsch Shangri-La has been brightly indoctrinated with framed collages of old Maytag pin-up propaganda. All the tables and chairs, which look as though they were rescued from the city dump, are very purposely mismatched, reconditioned and then arraigned into careful disarray. If you close your eyes, and this is my favorite part, you might hear a lone saxophone preaching in time to the HUM-SH-SH of thirty plus washers or maybe even a few words from the gospel according to Miles Davis weaving in and around the FOOM-CHIK-FOOM of a double load dryer or, like now, the silent wisdom of a local cellist stuffed into a corner, weeping a quite halleluiah.
It’s brilliant, it’s convenient and it reeks pleasantly of fabric softener and coffee.
As I cross the brushed aluminum threshold of the Brainwash, it’s all I can do just to keep myself from genuflecting.
…
With a melodic THOONG, the door swings shut behind me, leaving the horror of my morning tied up alongside a disgruntled schnauzer and a cluster of messenger bikes. Amir, the resident java jock, shoots me the male head jerk of acknowledgement as I approach the counter.
“Hello Buddy!” His flawless, academic English is British crisp with Middle Eastern undertones. “And will we be writing today, my friend?” Like many writers, I indulge in a superstitious methodology.
“Hey Amir,” I say, slipping into a comfortable smirk, “Maybe. Is Sabreal around?” Six years ago, fresh out of college and with the ink still damp on my Lit degree, I stumbled into the Brainwash desperately seeking sanctuary from my overly exclamatory neighbors: “Oh Baby” and “Big Daddy.” The ensuing fit of inspiration sparked a series of sexually charged satire that ultimately lead to my inclusion in the prestigious literary anthology: “The Best Writers You’ve Never Heard Of: Volume Eighteen.”
I’ve been coming here every day since.
Amir dips down behind the register and pops back a second later with a beat-up old bowling bag held together with something like a thousand stickers of concerts past. “I think she is in the back, my friend. Shall I go fetch her for you?” I can never tell if his over-the-top customer service is amusingly genuine or amusingly sarcastic.
“No, that’s OK, man. Thanks.” I grab the bag and aim myself at a small, out of the way table set in direct diagonal of the staging area.
This time of day, the place is still fairly empty though, as always, there’s a line up of people suckling on the Brainwash’s WiFi teat, furiously texting their “BFFs” or squinting intensely into their laptops or tablets to download the day’s fix of Electronic Methadone.
We are America, the anesthetized.
Not that I’m any better. I once spent six lonely hours on a sleepless night instant messaging who I can only hope was some girl in Florence and not some unemployed shut-in living out some weird fantasy in his mother’s basement. Computers, the internet – they’re tools that help me obtain as much instant gratification as I can handle. My writing however, is art and half of that art is in the process, which is why I go through all the trouble of maintaining my Royal beauty.
It’s with the kind of pride usually reserved for new mothers that I unzip the bowling bag and along with a ream of paper, draw forth the fifty-pound, all-metal love of my life: Lenore. My typewriter. Comparing this marvelous machine to a laptop is like trying to compare Rodin’s “Thinker” to a blow-up doll.
There’s a single sheet of fresh paper rolled through the carriage with the word “The” typed boldly in the upper left-hand corner. Unfortunately, that “The” has been there for almost a week. Sighing, I tilt my chair into the wall behind me and let my eyes go out of focus, drifting… “The.” The what? The… day. What day?
“C’mon Lenore baby, talk to me.”
~~~
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