It Was An Inside Job

I'd finished processing a photo. The color original was good, this was better. Not sure why I did it. Probably avoiding writing. Stalling was my new favorite pastime.

I'd been writing for decades, but recently I'd made it a full-time endeavor. My health had failed and writing was the only thing I could do. An adventurer forced by fate to become a writer? We've all read that one!

The photo was taken near the end of a night of tavern revelry. A longtime associate poured the drinks, mead and rum flowed freely. So did the banter! It was near the end of winter. Song filled the air, my wife snuggled close. The candle created such a beautiful glow, I just had to capture the moment it was enhancing.

I took an hour tuning the photo into art. I was delighted by the final product. I loved it! It said everything I wanted to say, without the nuisance of typing. I decided to share the photo on social media.

I was so proud of it, I very nearly just wrote that when I shared it. That wouldn't do! I did the old stand-by: self-deprecating humor. As I started writing, I was interrupted.

"Y'know what, Johnny Boy?" came a gruff voice behind me. I smelled cigarette smoke.

"There's only a few people allowed to call me that," I replied through gritted teeth. I hated that moniker. The man's vibe seemed familiar, but the voice was different.

"Yeah, I know. I'm one of them," he replied. I could hear him take another drag on his cigarette. Smelled like Camels. Nobody I knew smoked Camels. The chair at the other desk creaked as he sat down.

I completed the post. I wasn't sweating him walking in. If I was getting whacked, it would've happened already. Whacked?! What a weird word for me to use... Old Ruby dog was still snoring on the floor. She usually flips-out about the smallest invasions. I turned to see who this was.

He was an older gent, an ageless fellas, a guy who looked old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. He reminded me of Sean Connery, but with the aspect of a different part of Europe. A warmer place with better food. No offense.

He crushed out his cigarette, fired up another. Strangely, this man reminded me of Bobb, my mind's resident archivist. Bobb usually puts off the essence of a retired striker out of Cardiff, who's spent too much time in Birmingham. I am pretty sure he once dated Polly Gray - and lived to not say a word about it!

I'd known Bobb all my life. He'd always been grouchy, but helpful when I needed to find certain information in my mind. I'd always accumulated mental clutter faster than I could process it; he worked under a perpetual backlog. He resented it. Claimed it drove him to partake of risky behaviors. But if you caught him in a mellow mood, he was quite the raconteur. The rest of the time he'd act like he was my babysitter. I'd sometimes threaten to hire a replacement; he'd laugh at me.

"That's a really badass piece of art there, Johnny Boy!" the Bobb who-was-not-quite Bobb said proudly. His voice reminded me of this one sailor off Kodiak Island. That kid later came to work awhile for me. That was before that mess of a heist at the Riviera. Lesson learned: never include someone known as Crackhead Todd on your crew.

What was that sailor's name? Johnny Jersey! That's what we called him! On account of his accent. Well, this wasn't him. He'd ended up a chef out in Frisco.

Odd Bobb snuffed his cigarette, lit another.

"Do you have to do that in here?" I demanded, gesturing at the smoke. A pipeful of tobacco on the deck of a ship or in a camp on the mountain was something I'd always enjoyed - or a nice cigar during poker! - but cigarette smoke was the worst!

"No, but I am," he answered gruffly. "It won't hurt you, it's only imaginary." He took a swig of Bushmills right from the bottle. Was that there before? That was Bobb's favorite whiskey. Odd Bobb pulled out a tattered notebook, scribbling down some notes. I recognized it; Bobb had stacks of them scattered around the place.

Wait. What did he mean by "imaginary?" I got up, opened a window. I sat back down at my desk, swiveling my chair to face him. The more I looked at him, the more he seemed like Bobb.

"Fine. I got a question though, Bobb," I just assumed it was him. As they say: If it drinks like a Bobb, smokes like a Bobb, busts chops like a Bobb... it's supposedly a duck or something. I never remember. Don't look at me that way; I grew up in a world where people drank like a chimney and smoked like a fish. Or so I was told.

"Yeah?" He sounded irritated. Bobb often was, if I asked him a frivolous question. He was pretty good about information requests, albeit slow and cranky. But he had no tolerance for nonsense. I hesitated, trying to figure it out. The accent, clothes, jewelry... Bobb usually wore a cardigan, corduroy trousers, an academy ring from somewhere, and an old Timex. This Bobb was wearing clothing that kept shifting between a sports coat and a track suit; his clothes couldn't decide. Gold chains, fake Rolex, heavy rings...

"Why do you look and sound like Paulie Walnuts today, Bobb?" I asked. That was the closest I could come. He was definitely Bobb, but as perceived through some sort of filter. Those cigarettes were definitely filter-less, but not Camels; Bobb normally smoked some Russian brand.

"Because you've been watching The Sopranos lately, stugatzo" he angrily exclaimed. "I gotta use the pishadoo. Check the notebook." He ground out his cigarette, lighting another as he left the room. I wondered why - not to mention where!?! - Bobb was planning on relieving himself. He never had before, or at least I don't think he had.

"Oh," I murmured, unsettled. I looked again at the candle photo on the screen, "That is pretty badass."

Bobb called loudly from the head, "Told ya. Check the damn notebook!" I went over to the other desk to pick up the notebook. As I did, I tried to recall when we'd installed a maritime bathroom. It seemed to me now that there was a pitch and roll to this place. Why did I have a sailing ship on a farm? Waves of amber grain or what?

I opened the notebook - a little black leather one. Bobb often wrote in those. I flipped to the newest page.

"You were looking to use humor as way to avoid your feelings about how proud you are of that photo," the notebook said. "Now look at what you have done! You found inspiration for that writing challenge. Get to it!" I closed the notebook, disoriented. This all seemed too familiar.

"Does that notebook talk, or was I reading that?" I asked loudly. I looked up as he came back into the workspace.

Lighting another cigarette, Bobb snapped, "What the hell are you yelling about? I'm right frigging here in your mind! Right here! I can hear you all the time. You never shut up!" He took a drink from the whiskey bottle and flopped onto my bunk. Bunk? What happened to the bed?

I shook my head, which didn't help. I tried again, "I asked, does the notebook talk?" I was confused, which had lately become standard territory.

"How the frick should I know?!? It's your brain!" Bobb sounded on the verge of smacking me around, for my own good. "Now, get back to work on that one about the kids lost in the woods."

"Yeah, okay," I reluctantly replied. As weird as this was, it was better than writing. That story about the kids needed told, and I knew that with my health, time was a luxury I could't afford to waste.

I turned around and took out the notes for that story. I wasn't looking forward to writing. I wondered again why there wasn't some way of mentally projecting the story into existence.

Bobb sat down on the desk's edge. He took a long draw on his cigarette, "But seriously Johnny Boy, that's a sweet photo!"

"Thanks, Bobb," I responded with a faint smile, which grew bigger.

"No problem! You're just talking to yourself anyway," he replied, lighting another cigarette. His eyebrows furrowing, he asked, "What are you smiling about?"

"If I can figure out something to write about a little black book, I could win a pretty nice chunk of change," I explained. "I figured an angle."

"Oh yeah?" Bobb smiles back, real big. He liked money. I could see why, as much as he smoked and drank.

"Okay," I began. "There's this semi-recluse - almost hermitlike - who read a lot of books, collected antiques, and went on a lot of adventures." I was getting excited. I loved it when a new story started forming; I just hated writing them down. "But his health's failing. If he could somehow manage to translate the experiences and knowledge he has into some sort of art or something, he'd set his family up for life - but he can't do it! His mind is too chaotic to even start." The words came easily. I raced through my ideas. Bobb listened, his mouth open slightly, his burning cigarette dangling.

I continued, unaware Bobb's expression was changing, "One day, while digging through his grandfather's books he finds a small black notebook labeled with eccentric script: 'Brain Organizing Black Book.' As he touches it, he smells cigarette smoke and is overcome with a strange desire to write. He opens it - some old photos fall out, black and whites. To his surprise, when he holds the book and looks at the photos - one of a candle catches his eye! - his thoughts become ordered, his memories accessible, and his inner vision clears, almost as if his whole existence is being sorted out by a spirit specialized in such things." I was excited! I'd been prepared to skip the contest without even trying. I looked expectantly at Bobb. He just stared at me, shaking his head.

I went on, "He uses this new state of mind to write a story about the notebook, enters a contest, and wins!" I felt an urge to get the story written, immediately. I looked at him; Bobb said nothing.

He got up and walked to the ship's rail. I left my desk and followed him. He stood there a long moment, then flicked his cigarette over the side, into the ocean. It seemed odd to me that there were waves of water here at the homestead, but it had once been a sea bottom. It kind of made sense. Bobb took out another cigarette, fumbled around looking for his lighter. Flustered, he tossed the cigarette onto the gravel road that runs by the cabin.

"That's the dumbest idea I've ever heard," a clearly agitated Bobb said dismissively. He turned to face me and exploded, "Are you frigging kidding me?!?!"

"What's wrong with it?!?" I yelled back. I was angry! Not only did I think I had a good idea, it would get me out of working on the bigger writing project. The level of procrastination I was looking at by writing for that contest didn't come easy!

"I dunno, Johnny Boy," he said in a calmer voice, after he took a deep breath. He found his lighter, lit another cigarette. He took a long drag from it, looking me square in the eyes and spoke...

"The whole thing just sounds like it was an inside job."