Fortunes of the Once Downtrodden: A Novel By

By Mike Sullivan

A rags-to-riches tale of two young adult males in their early twenties, Fred Murphy and Mitch Stein, who also help keep the memory of a quiet, lonely, somewhat misfit social studies teacher, Simon Goldberg, who passed away alive by publishing his romance story. Through this journey, Fred and Mitch meet two women, and they are, at the core, loyal to them. The book has a surprising ending, which can only be appreciated by hanging on each word like holding on to the handrails of a roller coaster through a roller coaster ride. The author, himself, practiced abstinence from dating women to improve his romance writing and to also get inside the mind of one of the main characters, Simon Goldberg. It is an amazing adventure and love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496967312

Mike Sullivan

Mike Sullivan lives in Southern California. He is an avid listener and promoter of classic rock music, modern rock music, surf music, hot rod music, and all other types of rock music, live rock bands, and rock concerts/events. He also has a thirst for poetry and philosophy and writes on those two subjects in addition to thinking about them. He sacrificed abstinence from dating women to create a hunger so that his romance writing would improve and to also get inside the mind of one of the main characters, the lonesome social studies teacher, Simon Goldberg.

Book preview

© 2015 Mike Sullivan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/06/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6730-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6731-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901521

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

This book is dedicated to the lonely, psychologically depressed, those out of work, those who hate their jobs, and those who are physically ill,

Those who read it do not necessarily fall into that category…

Don’t give up hope…wherever you are…

—Mike Sullivan

About the Author

book%20cover%20Really%20Definitive%20part%204%20gray.jpg

Mike Sullivan lives in Southern California. He is an avid listener and promoter of classic rock music, modern rock music, surf music, hot rod music, and all other types of rock music, live rock bands, and rock concerts/events. He also has a thirst for poetry and philosophy and writes on those two subjects in addition to thinking about them. He sacrificed abstinence from dating women to create a hunger so that his romance writing would improve and to also get inside the mind of one of the main characters, the lonesome social studies teacher, Simon Goldberg.

Chapter 1

G reetings. I am the omniscient writer of our story. In a way, I am like an omnipresent angel, adding flesh to bone, creating characters to fill in the events that happened or will happen. I remember it now when Frederick and Mitchell first walked in the lobby of the publishing house, the view was fantastic. It was a picture-postcard sunny, clear day, too. I recall that the two writers were on their best behavior. But, what I remember most clearly is the freshly-polished tiles and how they smelled, they were palace-stone light grey and they led up to one of the six large elevators which in turn led to Mr. Rollins’ floor.

I followed them on their shoulder, dividing myself into multiple entities in order to be closer to them. Oh, yes, let me add that it was their right shoulder that I sat on. This is a story that will best be understood if read in continuous chunks of time and if read with hope growing with the passage of time like an overweight man’s appetite. To take notes in the margins of your own personal, new copy would be highly suggested. In this manner, you can underline what motivates you, what impresses you, or what you’d like to remember; also when you write in the book, you make the book your own personal friend—a bit beaten up by an avid reader like yourself, but something handy enough, to make at least doing the laundry pleasant?!

Plus, you can always reincarnate your personal friend buy buying a brand new copy with fresh covers, and then writing your own inspirational thoughts and comments in its new paperback pages. Did it happen? Is it a true story? The truth is that it may or may not have actually occurred.

You are free to decide if it actually happened or will happen, or even if, somewhere, it is happening now…

That damn cage was made of glass. As Mitchell Stein looked out from time to time watching the people with business suits walk home from work after leaving the nearby train station, he wondered when his turn would arrive. It was already the year 2032 and thus far out of that 2,032 years he had occupied twenty-four years and counting. Mitchell yearned for the day when he would be on the other side of the ticket booth, buying tickets and laughing at the losers with the multi-colored stupid movie theater uniforms. But now he was wearing one of those uniforms, waiting for the day when he would receive his certificate of completion as a secretary. Yes, he was ashamed of it, there was no hiding the fact that he was a man entering a traditionally woman’s occupation. But, he kept reminding himself that the help wanted advertisements in the newspapers were nearly filled with openings for secretaries.

Furthermore, that was the only course of study he could afford, having wasted his money and some of his brain cells on drugs, mostly on smoking marijuana and occasionally sniffing cocaine. Now here was Mitch, sitting at the box office in a Modesto City, Long Island, New York movie theater—another dork in a city of uneventful dorks—reading his typing handbook, partly to pass an upcoming exam, partly to look busy and not stare out the box office window like some whimpering puppy, getting fed scraps in the form of a minimum wage by a major corporation.

Mitch’s hair was dark, dark brown, a sharp contrast to his childhood friend and fellow employee, Fred, Fred-the-Red. Fred Murphy was not as smart as his friend, but it was not something to be jealous about. Mitch was not too smart either. They were two poor young adults, children of parents who belonged to labor unions. They worked under a Filipino manager with ten other Hispanic workers at the Carlton Theater.

Uh, can I take my break, Jesus? the rusty haired punk spoke like an intoxicated rock star being approached by a reporter.

"I told you my name is Hay-sus, not Jee Zus," scowled the Filipino who had chiseled features and looked handsome for a fifty year old.

"Sorry, Hay-sus, won’t happen again."

It’s okay. Go ahead. Business is slow anyway, responded the newly hired manager, not making eye contact with Fred, even though he was half a feet away from him. Fred hid his government jobs newspaper underneath the theater trash can and gave a fake cough that lasted ten seconds, enough to draw the attention of his fellow, recreational drug user and signal him to take his break as well.

Could I take my break sir? Mitch asked quickly, yet timidly.

No. You wait until Fred comes back, answered the theater manager.

But my stomach hurts and I got to take a crap anyway, the secretary trainee said, caressing his stomach in a perfunctory way.

All right, but be back soon! snapped the theater manager, holding onto his clipboard to convey authority.

They both met at the back of the theater, near the exit doors. Fred dug his hand into his right hand pants pocket and pulled out a marijuana cigarette as fat as his index finger. It was a little curled like a cursive, lowercase letter L after being hidden secretly in Fred’s pocket for some time.

Yes siree, thanks to Jeez-us for givin’ us our break, we could feel good right about now. His teeth were visible, stained with years of marijuana resin, tobacco, and coffee stains. They sat on the concrete ground and took turns puffing on the illegal cigarette. The whites of Mitch’s light brown eyes gradually turned the color of Fred’s hair.

Mitchell looked over his shoulder after he passed the joint to his friend to make sure nobody was coming over to invade their party, when he noticed a large grey envelope, filled with something, placed neatly near the wall about fifteen feet away, the distance between the free throw line and the hoop in basketball.

He walked toward it. At first he thought it was just the spontaneous curiosity associated with smoking your first joint of the day, but later on he would call it fate, some kind of mystical attraction that would forever change his life and the life of his friend—all for the better. That grey envelope was dirty, and wrinkled with liquid that had long dried. As he read a stack of papers holding onto them with shaking hands, he could hear Fred cough fervently in the background.

Fred’s face twitched. What the hell are you doing?! Come on and take a hit off this joint, we gotta soon get back from our break anyway. Mitchell’s hands tried to flatten a thick collection of loose-leaf papers stapled at the corner, like some term paper. His eyes then landed their dazed look on the red brick wall which made up the alley. Mitch saw a cloud of warm herby marijuana smoke pass by the wall like a smoky blowfish, as Fred continued hungrily bobbing on the joint between coughs.

"Wait a second. I found something that we might be able to trip off…Simon Goldberg, hey wait a minute wasn’t that the guy who was stabbed not far from here? Yeah, that funny-looking social studies teacher who we saw on Channel 11, last Saturday when my folks weren’t home and we were puffing on a fat one, just about to watch the Farewell Concert of Cream on DVD," Mitch said, insisting excitedly.

Fred slowly walked towards his friend, passed him the joint, as he looked at his wristwatch and then looked at Mitchell in a stern way. So what? Just another loser high school teacher who got stabbed because he looked like a victim, like a young Bernard Goetz. He probably left his mail here just before the cops found his body six blocks from here.

Mitch’s voice was coarse as his vocal chords shared space with the marijuana smoke. Yeah, you’re right about one thing, he must have dumped this envelope of his after he got stabbed right over here for safekeeping, Mitchell exhaled an organized linear stream of smoke and his eyes widened largely in awe at the few droplets of blood on the package. He continued speaking slowly, But this isn’t his mail. It’s kind of like his diary and there’s a story in here, too!

Mitchell mildly licked his lips, stiffened his eyebrows, and silently looked into his Irish friend’s, laughing, yet annoyed eyes to see if he knew the ramifications of their discovery. Mitch said, There might be some money in this! Sort of like finding the hidden files of J. Edgar Hoover, the community-college graduate pondered, and scratched his head. He turned the pages of the social studies teacher’s diary and manuscript, looking for any juicy information, and when he found some he enthusiastically read it aloud.

This diary, my journal, in the masculine sense, precedes my novel, a love story that is the culmination of my twenty years of suffering with loneliness. I intend to make a lot of money from it and perhaps never have trouble finding a girlfriend. I guess that would have been a less noble goal than my other goal of being revered and admired when I’m alive and after I’m dead. If my novel becomes a success, I can achieve immortality like other great writers. The money would allow me to not have to worry about losing my job or getting a promotion and I can have the time to think about deeper things like philosophy and spirituality. Also I would love to maybe even spread more love and happiness throughout the world.

Mitch was motionless for a few seconds. He then flipped a couple of pages and looked for the beginning of the novel.

Ladies and Gentlemen, a Queens-bound R train will be approaching our station in approximately two minutes. This mechanical feminine voice buzzed throughout the subway platform at the 59th Street and Lexington Avenue station in Manhattan, New York. At that moment, Richard Harrington saw a flash of white and he felt dizzy as everything seemed so slow. He fell to the floor gradually; the charcoal-black floor became blurry and he could not hear anything. He fell to his knees at an angle, then rocked briefly, and finally fell onto the foot of the staircase and rested almost motionlessly on his side, his eyes fixed on a strip of yellow.

Hey, this is pretty interesting. I bet we could make some money off this, but we’d have to call it our own, or else we’d have to share the wealth with one of this guy’s relatives, Mitch explained in an opportunistic, yet respectful way.

Yeah, like people are gonna believe two potheads like us wrote this, look at all the fuckin’ big words he uses—this doesn’t sound like us, Fred said and started to head back to the front of the exit doors of the theater to go back to work.

Wait a minute, we could say like we’ve been getting visions, revelations that tell us these things. Hell, people are getting filthy rich off operating those psychic network phone lines, why not us?! Mitchell pleaded to Fred’s back with wide open eyes. Psychics are real popular now, especially with the Recession. Even small town detectives are usin’ ‘em. Mitch added, coughing in dry bursts.

Are you kidding?! Is this like when you tell things with a straight face and then later on you say, ‘just kidding,’ because, I told you I hate that shit…It’s not funny. Fred’s face was turning the color of his hair, red, with anger. Sometimes pot made Fred edgy and hot-headed instead of mellow. To feel a calm mellow-yellow and Rastafarian-cool was what smoking weed made others feel. Fred was not like most others.

No, I ain’t kidding Fred. Think of it, you and I could be millionaires—going to rock concerts in limos and having porno stars come to our mansion—just for typing this little, uh, story and calling it our own and then publishing it! Mitch said, trying to be comical to lure Fred who disliked things being serious, especially now at work where many things were serious.

Mitchell took the diary and love story home and began to type it. He wondered if he should leave Fred out of the game and take all the credit for writing the future bestseller. Fred was acting like a wife who did not take interest in her husband’s best-day-at-work-ever. But the red-head was his best friend, ever since they both were eight years old, and he just had to share the wealth with his long time friend. As Mitch typed he heard the phone ring.

Hello? Hi, Fred. I was just typing the manuscript, Mitch said nonchalantly.

The what? Fred asked in a low voice.

I was just beginning to type the novel, been at it for about half-an-hour, it’s a good thing this guy has neat handwriting, Mitch spewed spit, like a frenzied journalist.

Mitch, I was thinking. Ya know there aren’t too many government jobs out there, and I kinda feel like I’d like to, ya know, get rich—get rich fast. So I decided to help you write your novel—if that’s still okay?

Great! Come on over, Mitch replied. He then confusedly shuffled some papers, handwritten notes he had made, and then said over the phone, I think you should read the story, too, so you’ll get familiarized with it, in case some reporter or famous talk show host asks you about it. Heh-Heh-Heh! All right, bye. Mitch was still smiling when he placed the phone on the receiver, eyes staring aimlessly at the doodling he drew on a piece of computer paper. As he typed the words into his desktop personal computer, he read something which affected him. Even though Mitch was alone, without an audience, he read out loud:

Christie Patterson thought to herself while lying on her bed. I believe I met the most romantic man on the face of this cold planet. The most romantic man that was or will ever be. It’s my vacant, hungry lifetime that I’m concerned with right now—He or anyone else like him will never return in my lifetime. His name was Richard and he was dying like a leaf in September. His liver was diseased. I curse all these tiring roles a woman has to play, to be attractive, to be pleasant. But, when Richard put his soft fingers on my cheekbones, I felt rescued and pacified by an Angelic power. At first he would not tell me what was killing him. I asked. I implored him with bitter, stinging tears. I will never forget the day I met him. I will never forget that glorious day…

When Mitch had finished reading this, he paused. He was at first expressionless, but a slight smile emerged after a moment, even though what he just read sobered him a bit. He felt as if he had been civilized and imagined himself wearing a grey bow-tie and white top hat and tuxedo in a pink, red, green garden, the flowers smelled like natural perfumes. He pictured himself on a Saturday afternoon, an afternoon when he did not have to work or go to school, nor did he have to do so the following day. It was an afternoon spent with a lady friend, sitting on a white wicker chair while his hand extended over the table, petting his little rosebud-shaped red wine glass and with a heroic, yet modest smile, as he looked at her and she looked at him. Classical music played in the background. They would soon have cheesecake and tea with sugar to sweeten and moisten their fruity-dry, alcohol-bitter taste buds.

Mitchell paraphrased this revelation by typing it at a speed of 40 words per minute and adding a twist of his own—I, Mitchell Stein, of Jewish extraction, was amazed to receive such a vision on Christmas Eve, while in bed, half asleep. I had to get up from bed and eat something. I felt that I had really worked up an appetite while sleeping! At first I didn’t call it a vision. At first I thought it was just a dream. But later, later that image of that poor girl and her loss made me sad and was stuck with me. Then I kept getting these dreams. All of them were about this girl and this guy and the love story they had together.

At Mitch’s front house door was the red-head punk. He came in with a grin so wide one could see all the battle scars on his slightly beige teeth. Mitch quietly led his friend upstairs to his room.

Sit over here, Fred and read this out loud while I type it. Mitch insisted firmly without looking at his friend’s eyes.

Fred sat down on Mitch’s bed. Yeah, alright…

Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here? A frail, pale man in his late twenties asked gently. No. It was a short reply to a stranger. His hair was black. His eyes were aqua blue, piercing, and he had an air to himself that gave him the look of being royal, approachable, and a genius at the same time.

Fred struggled to read between chuckles induced by marijuana. Hey, all the girls are gonna go crazy for this. It’s like, uh, real romantic!

Yeah. I know, Mitch sounded unimpressed. Just keep reading.

My name is Richard. She thought to herself. King Richard. However, she tried not to show her intrigue.

I saw you sitting there and I felt you might enjoy some intelligent company. I’m originally from Queens, New York and I…

After about thirty-five minutes, Mitchell stopped typing. He was an excellent typist. That is how he decided on becoming a secretary. But now more wealth than forty-five secretaries could ever earn in a lifetime was all at his hands, or rather his friend’s hands, the index fingers of which were stained brown and orange by marijuana resin. Fred’s hands contained a battered diary which was only legible because the writer was always concerned about keeping his handwriting neat. Had Simon Goldberg used a felt-tip pen, the journal and the manuscript would have had been illegible, smeared.

Rainwater on the papers had strengthened the mystique of Simon Goldberg’s gift to humanity—or rather a large part of humanity—the lonely and the romantic, the downtrodden and the psychologically depressed. The two young men took turns typing and soon Mitchell’s voice was becoming dry from having to repeat himself for the slow-handed Fred.

About four in the morning in Mitch’s room, Mitch woke Fred, who passed out on Mitch’s bed, by tapping him on the shoulder. Fred you got to listen to this, no it’s too long. Just take a look at it. I’m wondering if we could put this in. Fred yawned and got up from his friend’s bed and nearly tripped over some books on Mitch’s floor. He was dizzy, but managed to safely grasp the important papers from Mitch who was seated at his computer desk. Fred read to himself:

Christie had broken up recently with her very wealthy boyfriend who she felt only liked her because of her good looks. She was very beautiful, yet very intelligent at the same time. She did not have to spend a lot of time worrying about improving her looks as the uglier girls did. Nor was she preoccupied with wasting her time trying to maintain or improve upon her beauty, or to use it to manipulate people as other beautiful women did. She was tired of everyone admiring her for her exterior and wanted to be respected for her mind, for her soul. She wanted to be respected for what she believed lived long after her body died. She remembered their brief time together. She remembered how she took a leave of absence to enjoy every precious second with him. She remembered how they wrote at every chance for eight months straight and how they made romance when they were not too exhausted.

She recalled Richard reading to her the poetry he had written, some of it was written especially for Christie. Even though it was a few months since Richard had left the mortal world, scooped up by Death, she could still hear his distinctive voice and she could still see him in front of her, as he said in a whisper one day when he was still alive: Please don’t hurt me. Keep it a secret, please. You don’t have to look at or feel me anymore, or look at me through the sides of your eyes and sense me there. I’ll be prematurely gone from your life a year and a half or two years when I become a corpse.

Tears then fell from his eyes like crystal, oval, warm bombs as they tinkled on his silent tea cup and saucer. Richard, like his poetry, seemed to be fueled by loneliness. Yet, he always had a dignified look about him. He admitted to her that the brief time he spent with her could be transformed into a lifetime of happiness. She answered, I’ll keep it a secret. But I want to look at you. I want to feel you. You’re my love. Her voice broke into a small creak at the word love as she caressed a patch of hair that fell in front of his forehead. I was alone for so long. I’m so happy that’s finally over and I’m so happy you’re the one that ended my pain, Richard said faintly.

Fred who was mostly quiet the whole night opened his mouth and said, We got to type this in the novel. It’s mind-boggling man! I mean, it’s, uh, real sad, actually…but that’s what all those love stories have—sadness.

Are you sure? You don’t think it’s too sad? The guy’s dying and was so lonely for so long, now he has a chance to die with some happiness. You don’t think it’s too depressing?" Mitch asked.

No! No, not at all. This is not something you read about too often or watch on TV or in the movies. It’s…it’s original. Women go crazy over this kind of romantic stuff. Fred insisted.

Okay, but I’m thinking that we really should have one person say they’ve been getting visions rather than the two of us. It’s just more believable. I could just say you helped me…you helped me type it, like you were my assistant or something, said Mitch and then made eye contact with Fred after having stared intently at Goldberg’s story for a long time, Yeah. I alone get these visions. It’s just more believable, Fred.

But, will we still split the money 50-50, right down the center? Fred interrogated.

Fifty-fifty? I found the novel! I practically had to beg you to see how it would help us! Mitch exclaimed waving his hand, giving a disgusted look, yet he quickly made his eyes and lips smile.

Oh, come on! There’ll be a shitload of money to go around. Anyway, most of the work is typing it which we can split 50-50! Fred said and bobbed his head back and forth like a Hasidic Jew praying. He had seen Hasidic, Orthodox Jews on TV and was, in a way, intrigued by them. Fred’s eyebrows were tense. Mitch’s room smelled like mildew, like dirty laundry.

Yeah, okay, calm down. But, we’ll have to combine our riches and our brains to come up with one of the greatest party times ever…you’ll be Lennon, good with words, sociable, and I’ll be McCartney, good with musical instruments, like the typewriter or typin’ fast, Mitch nearly stuck his index finger in Fred’s face.

All right. We’ll do that when we make it big. Fair enough with me, Fred shrugged his shoulders and then took out a cigarette and with a shivering hand, guided it to his lips. Part of his right cheek and his lips also began to shake a little, eyes bloodshot and shiny.

The rebellious, red, Freddie had smoked a lot of marijuana just before he arrived at his business partner’s house.

After Mitch typed the powerful passage, it stood there, in a formal way, standing indented and iron-like. The passage was only to be one of many other passages which would yield millions of dollars to the two youths and have people everywhere admire it, or derive inspiration from it, while others scorned it, partly out of jealousy, and partly from shock. Yes, that money-making passage stood there like a revitalized identical twin brother of the original author’s script.

Fred spoke softly, and as the story was handed to him again, he said, Hey, man. Let’s take a break. He placed the makeshift book that was really a collection of handwritten notes and a manuscript, equipped with dialogue, on Mitch’s bed, like a sacred ornament. Ready Freddie then pulled out from his inside jacket pocket an oval, four inch long cigarette which looked hand-rolled.

The two fortunate lads smoked the cannabis and they were thinking freely, brainstorming ways to turn words into cash. Sometimes, Mitch who was also like John Lennon of The Beatles, in that he was good with words and had an active imagination would add something of his own to the story.

As Fred was looking through the diary and manuscript, he began to give short, loud giggles and his Irish eyes began to smile at the fountain of creativity in his lap and then at the poor Jewish kid in front of him who was seated Native American Indian style on the bed massaging his wrists.

I got a game we could play, Fred’s voice was louder. His voice was uneven, becoming loud and then extremely loud as he read a passage and then put out the short marijuana cigarette. The cigarette looked like an insect, a roach, as the cannabis subculture would call it. It was brownish, the color of rust, and its belly was white, with charcoal-grey veins and spots. It had died in the black, plastic ashtray. Mitch inhaled the alluring smell of burnt herbs. The smell was all over his room, even after the roach had died. In a way, the once solid marijuana was not dead, it had merely transformed from a solid to a gas. To Mitch, it was a delicious smell which invigorated him. Mitch wasn’t worried about his parents smelling it and objecting to it, for they were currently gambling in an Atlantic City, New Jersey casino.

Fred began to take a deep breath of fresh air from where he sat and slurred some words of a song from the popular rock band, Cream. He gave his best impersonation of Jack Bruce from that legendary band, which in the space of 2 years had created so many hits like Strange Brew. Fred sang In the Sunshine of Your Love, I’ll be living in the sunshine of some girl’s looove!!! His eyes were small, they felt heavy, pink and dry, and the eyelids would vibrate in a barely noticeable fashion.

After a few more heavy deep breaths, Fred calmed down and opened his mouth again, only this time to speak, his eyes squinting at the glowing Mitchell. Look, this is the game, dude. I’m some type of…some type of interviewer on TV, he again inhaled and exhaled, his heart felt like it was beating too fast. Fred thought to himself that it was the weed that caused this.

Fred said like a movie director, I’ll ask you about your novel and how you get them visions because visions are hard to believe. Ya know, like you gotta be someone special to get visions, not everybody gets them and those who say they do, well—people don’t believe them.

Mitchell opened his mouth to speak loudly and confidently so he could interrupt and persuade the attention-hungry and generally louder Frederick. Well, it’s a good thing you mentioned that, Fred. Before you came over, when I took a break from typing this guy’s story and read a lot of his diary, I noticed that our friend, Simon, was a lonely guy—he always complained about being unattractive to women and how he wore his big fish bowl eyeglasses even though they made him look funny. He complained that he couldn’t wear contact lenses because his eyes were too dry for them and he was afraid of laser eye surgery, Mitch stopped and huffed and puffed, weed smoking weakened and warmed his eyes and somewhat tired his lungs; it made his eyes into slits.

He continued saying in a deliberate fashion, like a knowledgeable, articulate, professional interviewee, Well, anyway, Simon sort of had a hunger for a relationship with a woman but I guess he was really shy and, um, quiet and he didn’t have enough confidence in his looks to ask one out after bein’ rejected so many times. He said he talked a lot to about ten to fifteen girls, but after they reject him one way or another, he decided to take a break from flirting with women and…

Oh, come on, man, will you get to the fucking point already? Fred commanded. He was aware of his lessening attention span. The group he belonged to, Bring Back Rock, was trying to strengthen attention spans.

Listen…you got to be patient. I’m high just as you are. I’m zooted, man, but I’m patient. What I got to say can’t be said real quickly, Mitchell snapped, in a firm, unyielding voice, but it was an even tone of voice—one that was low enough just to be heard, a calm voice.

Okay, okay. Go ahead, Fred glanced at his watch.

So, the bottom line is that he didn’t date for a long, long time and because of this he started getting a real…how can I say this?…umm—a real active imagination. He made-believe in his mind a love story he would have with a girl. So he called this girl, Christie Patterson and he called himself Richard Harrington.

Yeah? Fred asked intrigued by Mitch’s keen insight into Simon’s life.

Yeah…then I realized that it’s kind of like my life, you know, like going to school and working and all. I’ve been going to school and work for two years and I simply haven’t had time to date anyone…I haven’t had the money to date anyone, what with having to save money and pay my own school tuition. I couldn’t get any financial aid ‘cause my hard nose, stingy dad makes too much money in construction. Mitch felt compelled to complain, at least a little, about his tough, son of a bitch, unfair dad.

Fred had refrained from interrupting him because he was physically tired. Yeah, yeah. I understand, Fred knit his brows to show his concern and empathy.

So, Mitchell said, I could tell a TV news reporter or a talk show host that I’ve been getting visions of a love story due to my particular lifestyle of being temporarily alone. Go ahead. Ask me that you’re a little concerned about these visions I’m claiming I get that helped me write this novel. Ask me to be more specific about them.

Specific about what? Fred asked without fright.

Specific about the visions, dumb ass! Mitch snapped. There was still a lot of work to do. It seemed free, but there was-and would be-a lot of work involved to make the raw manuscript into a popular paperback fiction.

Fred stopped slouching and pulled his shoulders back and inquired, Mr. Stein. Could you be more specific as to these, uh, visions you’re claiming you’re getting? Fred seemed more interested and spoke those words like a TV news reporter, somewhat mechanically.

Oh sure. You see, sir. I haven’t dated in about two years since I’ve been busy going to school and working. So, I guess I’ve been getting these long, vivid dreams or visions of a love story between two people because of this lack of dating with women right now in my life. Maybe a vision isn’t the right word to describe my dreams because people think a vision is like foretelling the future. Maybe my love story is taking place in the future…I don’t know. Maybe these dreams are about a real love story between real people, a love story taking place right now; perhaps in another country, or maybe this love story happened many years ago, or maybe it’ll happen in the future.

Dude, that’s awesome! Like science fiction, huh? Fred came out of character for a moment, from journalist, to a rock musician.

Yeah, a little like Sci-Fi. But try to sound like a reporter, Mitch advised.

Oh, okay, sorry…continue, please, Mr. Stein, said Fred.

Mitch turned his head at an angle, not looking at anything in particular. You see, it’s like a mirage a person gets in a desert. That person probably hasn’t drank any liquid in weeks and, out of his extreme thirst, is seeing an oasis, full of cold water. I compare it like that. The thirst, or the great desire for water, is causing an active imagination, desiring to be quenched by water near an oasis, when in fact the water doesn’t really exist, but it’s all in his mind.

Fred smiled. Damn. That’s really good…You’ve been thinking about this for a long time, haven’t you? Fred felt his heart warm with genuine, entranced interest. He wiggled his leg and feet by snapping them.

Hell yeah! Fred…This is our ticket out, man. This is our prison break from this shitty life. The economy has been in the shits for the last two years. We got to be prepared. We’ve got to be prepared to make it believable. The fact that I don’t have a whole lot of education adds to the idea of me getting visions that allow me to use these big words and to paint these beautiful and accurate images of a love story, Mitchell eyed his friend in front of him, leaned back to enjoy the moment and pictured in his mind his other friend, his spiritual friend, Simon Goldberg who smiled in agreement over what Mitchell had just told Fred.

With his right elbow, Mitchell pushed himself off the corner of his computer desk and quickly spun around to face the mirror on his wall.

You know what I did, Fred? His eyes squinted at Fred through the mirror.

Wha…? Fred grunted, feeling a little drowsy and in a fog.

After we got off work, I came home and I took a cold shower for about 45 minutes, Mitchell’s eyes began to glisten, shown in the mirror’s reflection. That was to get me a little sober, to best understand this stuff. You know, so that the plan would go just right. Then I flipped through Mr. Goldberg’s diary and novel. All the while thinking and visualizing—with my eyes closed—of how to make this prison break work out right!

Mitch then picked up the stack of papers lying on his bed, next to Fred whose back was leaning against Mitch’s bedpost. Look at this…here…wait…

Mitch handed the relevant page to Fred and sat back on one of his chairs and watched his friend eagerly as Fred read to himself slowly. It was an excerpt from the diary portion of the package they found outside the theater.

I cannot believe how alone I am. It is as if I have been forsaken in such a merciless way. If not by God, then by evolution. Is it the principle of survival of the fittest that renders me unfit to have a female companion? The only glimmer of hope through these many years of loneliness is that my thirst and hunger for companionship has been transformed into my writing, and consequently my romantic writing has improved. I feel that the energy and yearning from all my loneliness is enough to light up a large city during a power outage or black-out, let alone turn ordinary words into a collection of words, loved by the whole world and eternalized into a timeless classic.

I think my novel would be widely applauded, an internationally-acclaimed masterpiece. It probably wouldn’t be so if I were writing while dating a woman, or in love with someone specific who loved me back. I’d be too content to write well.

In my novel, I write of this Rich Harrington fellow, a young man who is dying. A young man who has been alone for a very long time like myself. But Harrington chose to be alone at first so that his poetry and his short stories would become better. I liken it to a blues guitar player who, in order for him to create a real good blues song, has to be down and out, broke, drunk and high on drugs. Harrington made a huge self-sacrifice by choosing to be alone for so very long. He willingly stayed alone, and used his loneliness to help him create beautiful poems, a book of short stories, and ultimately a best-selling novel.

Rich had written about 500 poems, in all shapes and sizes. Then just as he was going to publish his book of about 300 poems, he started dating again, to find that he was feeling weak and ill. When he saw his doctor, he was informed that he was dying. It may have been that the loneliness and accompanying stress he intentionally suffered for his artwork’s sake, may have done something with causing the disease that was killing him.

Yeah, I think I’ll mention how Harrington had the idea that his loneliness had weakened his immune system to the point that he developed some type of liver disease or liver cancer. Now it was so sad that he would probably never get another girlfriend, because he was dying and his appearance was sickly, pale, and weak. He looked like he did not have much time left to live on this planet,