The Writer's Dilemma

Beth absentmindedly clicked her pen against the blank page of her little black notebook. Twice. Three times. She was so sure inspiration would’ve found her by now.

She’d managed to sell her latest short story to a magazine--an actual print magazine!-- for enough cash to keep the lights on in her sparse one-bedroom apartment for a few more months. But that was the maddening thing about being a writer. Once you wrote something, you were then expected to write another thing, and another one after that. It was exhausting, really.

She gave up on getting any work done and went back to her breakfast. Maybe the muses would visit later, after The Price Is Right. For now, there was store-brand marshmallow cereal. It was supposed to be like Lucky Charms, but it only managed to get about two-thirds of the way there. Beth guessed that the true leprechaun magic must’ve been in that last third somewhere.

Although she’d moved in a few months ago, she hadn’t gotten around to decorating, arranging furniture, or even much unpacking. Not that there was a lot to unpack, or any furniture other than the few pieces she’d managed to harvest from West Philly’s greasy but generous curbsides. She’d left her last place in the middle of the night and hadn’t had the luxury of taking much in the way of personal effects. Thanks, Jerry.

Whenever Beth thought she’d felt the last of the shame she was going to feel for staying in a bad relationship long past its expiration date, she always surprised herself. There was always more waiting to leak in through any cracks that presented themselves. But it was okay. She’d taken the things that mattered, and it was over now.

They--the things that mattered--were in a shabby olive green backpack that sat at the foot of her twin mattress. In that first desperate week post-Jerry, she’d had to use the bag as a pillow, with her windbreaker as a blanket as she slept in the backseat of her car. It wasn’t so bad. She’d lived through much worse. She measured time that way now. There was before Jerry, and there was after Jerry.

Things were much better on this side of Jerry.

Every time Beth closed her eyes, she went right back to the night she left. He had never hurt her, not physically, anyway, but that night, the air in their apartment had been thick with the wrong kind of potential--a coiled spring. He’d come home out of his mind on whatever drug he had in stock that week that he was supposed to be selling. He’d bragged about never getting high on his own supply back in the early days. Such an honorable businessman, Jerry, and such a credible enterprise. Beth had liked his ‘90s boy band hair and his dimples. Because you’re an idiot, she reminded herself.

The first thing she’d noticed when he crashed into the room was that he was bleeding from a sizeable gash on his left forearm. That-probably-needs-stitches bleeding. He didn’t seem to notice. He’d started screaming at her right away, his face twisted into a mask of rage that was becoming all too familiar. Somehow it was her fault he’d gotten hurt. Something about cops waiting for him at a drop point. She never did piece together that whole story, interesting though it must’ve been. Instead, she’d locked the bedroom door, grabbed her backpack, and climbed out the ground-level window onto the sidewalk below. It had been the most terrifying seven-and-a-half minutes of her life.

She had the clothes on her back and the contents of that olive green backpack. They were, in no particular order, her wallet, phone, the keys to her ancient junkheap of an Acura, a ratty Drexel sweatshirt she’d stuffed in there at some point and never gotten around to taking out and washing, and her little black writing notebook. As far as items you’d need for the end of the world, Beth figured she could’ve done a lot worse.

And sure enough, here she was, in the ring for another round. A new place. Modest bank account, never enough, but not overdrawn. She’d rewarded herself with her first self-indulgent purchase, a small TV that sat on a little plastic stand in the middle of her single room. Drew Carey smiled out at her as he led the Showcase Showdown, and she spooned up the last bite of cereal that had marshmallows in it. She wished she had a friend to call, but all her friends lived across the country, and she’d dropped out of touch anyway. Note to self, must make new friends. She’d get around to it. Maybe.

She put down her spoon and picked up her pen again. Click. Click. Click. She didn’t have any idea what her next story was going to be about. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the rip in one of the lower seams of her backpack. Just enough to see the tight rolls of $100 bills peeking out, and the coy smile on Ben Franklin’s lips.