Jack nodded. “But isn’t a dream worth the risk?”
“Maybe,” the Writer replied. “I sense there’s something in you, Jack—something good—looking for a second chance. Now as it happens, I am giving up this place where I used to do all of my writing. I’m tired of looking after it, and I don’t really need it anymore. But you might like it, Jack. See if it makes a writer out of you.”
“What would I have to do?”
“In the next few weeks and months, as you visit prospective employers in an endeavor to end your condition of unemployment, will you consider a job out of state?”
Jack shrugged uncomfortably, the question an unpleasant reminder of the many things that he was trying hard not to consider. “I suppose.”
“Well this is no different, really. I don’t want this place anymore, but the thing of it is, I don’t want it to go to just anyone. It would be a simple enough matter to just hand it off to the first one who comes along that shows an interest. But that wouldn’t be right. It’s a good place, Jack. It’s made me very happy. I think I owe it something when finding a replacement. A bit of care should be involved. I need to find someone who needs it as much as I needed it, and who can in turn give it what it needs. I’m searching for a caretaker, someone who can look after this place. And in turn, this place will look after the caretaker. It’s a relationship of sorts, and shouldn’t be entered into lightly.”
The Writer turned his gaze out the window again, the downpour already passing, worn out in one grand and furious gesture before moving on. “I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m being overly dramatic. Chalk it up to nostalgia.”
No talk of money or responsibilities, just the vagaries about a caretaker’s position at some place—likely out of state—talked of in abstractions and non-specifics. But he would be a writer.
“Years ago,” the Writer said, “when I was not much older than yourself, the man who made me this same offer said, ‘It is a place where you can get everything you need, and even a few things you want.’ I was skeptical, of course; much as I’m sure you are now. I asked him what the catch was. He told me the catch was that I had to look after the place. And as I found out, it can take a bit of looking after initially, until you get to know it … and until it gets to know you. You see, this is a very special place for dreamers like you and me, Jack. There are other dreamers like us who know of it, and one of the responsibilities that comes with the place is finding a proper new owner to pass the place on to. I want you.”
Jack shook his head. “But you barely know me.”
“I know all I need to know, Jack,” the Writer said. “I have a good sense about these things, and I think you’re the type of person to look after this place. And in turn, the place will look after you. It will provide you with everything you need to help you become a real writer. No more wondering if you’re wasting your time, dreaming that a bestseller is simply a lucky break away while you waste your life with some unfulfilling job that does nothing more than pay the rent. This place will answer your questions once and for all, Jack. A second chance at a fresh start. Not such a bad deal, is it?”
The possibilities, though vague, played in his mind. “A caretaker’s position, you said?” He was thinking out loud.
“More or less. You’ll need to look after the place initially, until you get through the trial period. Prove yourself a writer, and the place will be yours, uncontested.”
“How long do I have?”
“There’s no real set time limit,” the Writer said. “It depends entirely upon the person taking over.”
“I mean, when do I need to give you an answer?”
“Ah. Well, like I said, I am pressed for time. I need a decision today. This morning, actually.”
“I don’t know—”
“Jack, let me make a further observation. I’ll bet that most people see you as quiet, hard-working, and dependable. All fine traits, but traits that could just as easily describe a Ditch Witch, a mechanical device that is gotten rid of once it’s served its purpose. There’s more to you than that, Jack. When you first got this job that you were laid off from, you told yourself that you’d only work there until your writing took off. But soon, the job became an end unto itself, and your dream of writing was postponed: a month, a year, indefinitely. You probably never even felt like you belonged there at all; a temp job gone on too long. Well, you’re right. You don’t belong there. You belong with me, doing what you’ve always wanted to do; what you’re best at. No more punching a clock, working to make ends meet. No, I’m talking about something that really makes a difference, something you care about, something you’re passionate about.”
The old man’s eyes glimmered. “Allow me, if I may, a final observation. That you have bothered to listen to me this long, and not simply walked away, tells me that you are just as desperate for change as I am to find someone to fill the caretaker’s position. And that tells me that today is about more than just losing a job, or getting caught in the rain. You have a kind of emptiness in your gaze, Jack, like a man who can’t feel the bullet because he knows it’s severed his spine. It isn’t just that something has gone wrong. Everything has gone wrong. Am I correct?”
And there it was. What he thought he was hiding so cleverly was apparently written on his face for the whole world to see. At least, for those who bothered to look. “Last week, my girlfriend left me because I wasn’t interesting. The company I worked for was sold to a South Carolina based mortgage corporation. I could have left months ago, but I kept thinking something would change, that it would get better. And today I was kicked out of my office because my employer thinks I’m both useless and harmless. I just left my car in the parking lot because it blew its radiator, and I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to fix it. So maybe what’s really happening is I’m having a mental breakdown, and that’s why I’m listening to you. And maybe I’m not the right man for you.”
The Writer nodded with all seriousness. “No, Jack. You are exactly the right man. Stop asking yourself why you should accept my offer, and instead ask yourself why you shouldn’t? You don’t have much to lose, and what I’m offering is a chance to embark upon a life doing exactly what you have always dreamed of doing; what you always imagined yourself doing. Think of me as opportunity, Jack. An offer like this won’t come along again, I guarantee it. I need to fill this position today; if you don’t want it, I’ll have to find someone else who does. And by the time that person gives this place up, you’ll be as old as I am, your life spent pretending to be what you’re not—what you despise—and your talents dead before they’re ever tested. The question you have to ask yourself, Jack, is what’s keeping you here?”
Jack sighed. “You have to have an answer now?”
The Writer smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, I do. There are others who want this place, and they’re already maneuvering for it. I need someone to take over immediately, someone I can pass it along to before things get complicated. If you’re not interested, I need to know now so that I can start looking elsewhere.”
“How do you know I’d be any good, anyway? Twenty minutes ago, you didn’t even know me.”
“Would it help if you thought of this as an interview?” The Writer asked. “You arrive, we indulge in some banter. I ask why you left your former employer. I ask you what you want to do with your life. You tell me you want to be a writer. You carry your writing with you, demonstrating that you’re serious about that goal. You tell me you carry a pen and paper, showing me that you’re willing to continue working at this goal. I mention that you’ll need to relocate for this job, and you’re okay with that. You even mention that you don’t have a lot of ties to the area. Honestly, I don’t know how I could have stumbled on a more perfect candidate.”
Jack hesitated, unsure what to say. The last time he was on an interview, it wasn’t anything like this; that was for sure. “Can you tell me where this place is?”
The Writer smiled indulgently. “Let’s start with
how you get there.”
He took an envelope from his coat, opened it, and removed one large ticket. “This is for a train leaving tomorrow morning at 11:05. It doesn’t stay in the station very long, I’m afraid, so be on time. Early, if possible. Board this train, and it begins.”
Jack looked at the envelope, shaking his head in disbelief. “This all sounds so bizarre?”
“I know. I was sitting right where you are once with a lunatic sitting across from me making the very same offer. The real question you need to be asking yourself is, if you don’t board this train, where will you go tomorrow? What will you do? Where else do you think you ought to be that you shouldn’t be on a train with a complete stranger in search of your dreams?”
There should have been a dozen answers to the question; a dozen if there was one. But none came to mind. None at all.
And it was in that moment that Jack Lantirn was lost.
“If you have to think about a question so outlandish for even a moment, Jack, then you already have your answer,” the Writer noted quietly. “You’re just having trouble convincing yourself of it.”
“Madness is a difficult self-diagnosis,” he remarked wryly. “The implications are disturbing.”
“Not madness, Jack. Right up to the very edge of it, perhaps, but not madness.” The Writer smiled and placed the ticket back in the envelope. Then he wrote Jack’s name on the outside in precise, flowing letters, and passed it across the table. “The station is a couple blocks away on Main Street between Locust and Seventh.”
“I didn’t even realize there was a train station in the city,” Jack said.
“When you see it, you’ll understand why. There’s a newspaper stand just outside. I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning. High adventure, Jack. You’ll forget all about your lost job, and your car, and Jools. You’ll be the writer you always dreamed of being, and this day, like your life every day before it, will seem like little more than an unpleasant daydream. I’m not asking you for money or to believe in some religious cult, just to have a bit of faith in yourself.”
Still, Jack thought, you just don’t climb aboard a train with a total stranger—whose real name you still don’t know, by the way! —without asking where you’re going, or what you’ll be doing when you get there. It’s simply insane.
But what was he going to do tomorrow, otherwise? He had no place to be, no one to be with, and nothing to do. He was staring down a well of hard times, and someone just handed him a way out. Why not take it?
“Hang on to the ticket, Jack, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” the Writer said, looking genuinely pleased. “This won’t be a mistake. You’ll see.” Then he took a drink of his latté and grimaced. “There, I’ve talked so long, it’s gone cold.” He set it back down on the table with a rueful expression. “When I was a young man, I spent time in Europe. This was back before all her problems. Such a fine place then, high adventure for a young man eager to drink from life’s fountain. Bucks like me thought we had it all, tipping sweet coffees and bantering poetry with olive-skinned ladies enamored by our cowboy spirit and foolhardy bravado. When I left, you could only find these in cafés in France and Italy. By the time I came back, the beatniks were decrying the establishment while drinking them in obscure coffee shops in New York and San Francisco. And this time, they’re a staple in every donut shop and coffee house across America.” Something about that seemed to make the old man very sad. “I’ve been gone too long. The changes are getting harder and harder to keep up with.”
Then the Writer became silent, staring out the window for an uncomfortably long time. Jack sipped his latté, cold but still good, unsure if he should say something, or simply leave.
“It seems to have let up out there,” the Writer observed. “Jack, I have to be going.” He gathered up a wicker valise from beside his chair and stood to leave. “I have another appointment this morning, and I shouldn’t be late. Consider my offer. The ticket’s genuine and so am I. For that matter, Jack, so are you. You just don’t realize it.”
The Writer stopped at the doorway. “The train leaves at exactly 11:05 tomorrow morning, Jack. Don’t be late. Settle your affairs—what you have left of them—and meet me at Cross-Over Station. It’s a real second chance, Jack. Your only regret will be if you pass this up.”
There were so many things he didn’t know, so many questions he should ask. Why are you even considering this?
Because you have nothing else to do, and nowhere else to go. What’s keeping you here?
“Okay.”
“Good for you, Jack,” the Writer said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then the old man left.
Jack watched him through the window then looked down at the envelope, wondering for the umpteenth time if he wasn’t going just a little bit mad. Outside, the sidewalks were already steaming under the sun, and with no other reason to stay, he took the ticket and left the Café Tangier for home.
He was in sight of his apartment building before he realized he had never mentioned Jools’s name to the Writer.
EVERYTHING MUST GO
Jack sat on the floor in jeans and a T-shirt, his suit crumpled in a ball on the floor, wrinkled and smelling like sweaty mittens. In front of him was the ticket.
It seemed ordinary enough. The train departed Cross-Over Station at 11:05, just as the Writer claimed, and was identified simply as HEAVY METAL; an unusual name for a train, but what about today wasn’t unusual. Boldly noted at the bottom of the ticket was the stipulation ONE-WAY ONLY. There was little else. No phone numbers or legal provisions. It was the kind of ticket a child would print up on a computer …
… or a delusional schizophrenic with dementia.
Jack took out the phonebook and tried looking up the train station, but found nothing. Half an hour on the internet still gave no indication of a train station anywhere on Main Street, or even within the city limits.
So the Writer was yanking his chain. Jack would walk up and down the block for about fifteen minutes before the Writer leaped from a nondescript van with a camera crew and boom mikes. Three weeks later, Jack would find himself the unwitting highlight on some new reality TV version of Candid Camera.
Or worse, the Writer was completely nuts. At this point, the possibility had to be entertained.
The question is not whether you should believe him? he reasoned back with all seriousness. The question is whether you should not? Caution only gets you so far. Look around and ask yourself if this is really where you want to be. Ask yourself if you’re happy. And if you’re not, doesn’t this place bear looking into? If it turns out to be a hoax or even nothing at all, at least you tried instead of just dreaming of your big break somehow happening on its own. This is a second chance. All you have to do is take the first step.
And if the Writer turns out to be a lunatic, so what; walk away. What’s the difference between this and any other job interview he would go on in the coming weeks? He would just go downtown and see for himself. There was no harm in that. And besides, how would it be any worse than where he was right now, out of work and alone.
Maybe it really is time to step out, to say I quit. I quit everything. I quit my job. I quit my car. I quit this life I’m living in. I quit everything. Cash out my chips, dealer. I’m moving on to another game.
What was the point of staying when there was nothing to stay for? Better to gather up his things—what still mattered, anyway—and head out; take a look at the world. End of chapter. Turn the page.
Jack surveyed the small apartment, studying his meager possessions. He would have no use for any of it where he was going. Frankly, if it couldn’t go by train—and get itself down to the station by tomorrow morning—it was more a burden than anything.
So let’s get rid of it.
Before he could change his mind, Jack went to the bedroom closet and pulled out a big duffel bag, and started packing: clothes for a week—nothing dressy, not anymore; he was turning over a new leaf—a couple fold
ers of his writing, a notebook of paper, and a handful of pens. The Writer promised him a place that would make him a real writer, but it never hurt to make sure you had a little bit to start off with. Besides, what writer worth his salt was ever without a pen? He left room for a toiletries kit then packed The Gunslinger to read on the train and his iPod. Last, he packed his laptop and an extra thumb drive, placing it with the duffel by the front door, the ticket in an outside pocket.
All that remained was to deal with his apartment and the rest of his things. The rent was paid through July. It was forfeit along with the deposit if he left without sixty days notice.
It’s not like you don’t have money coming in. Oh right, you don’t!
But an idea was already forming, a solution that might once have seemed inconceivable, even insane. Now? Well, he was discovering that the edge of reason was just wide enough to balance upon so long as you ran fast, and didn’t lose your balance.
And, whatever else you do, never, never look down.
* * *
Jack took some old moving boxes out of the closet while he lunched on bologna and cheese and a glass of milk; he needed to empty the refrigerator before he left. He used a razor knife to section the boxes into large cardboard squares and wrote on each with a black marker: APARTMENT SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO!!! He carried the collection of newly made signs along with a hammer and a small sack of mismatched nails downstairs, posting them outside of his second floor apartment first, then on the nearby telephone poles. He walked to either end of the block, nailing up signs and adding his apartment’s address almost as an afterthought. Then he started carrying all of his possessions out onto the front lawn of the apartment building. He took the television and stereo first, certain they would draw attention. Besides, he had already rendered their boxes into apartment sale signs.
The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) Page 3