Inkwell 2018-2019

The Manic By Will “the Pineapple” Marin

When the waitress left, the women got back to their conversations. Becky, however, was not conversing, but staring, staring at the man writing at the bar. She looked at the passionate man in wonder. She wondered what the man could be writing, but even more, she wondered why the man was so invested in it. Possibilities flew through her mind. Maybe he is a poet writing a beautiful dance of words, maybe he is a scientist writing a breakthrough dissertation, or maybe he is a revolutionary writing a manifesto. She loved the possibilities, the mysteries, and the inevitable outcome of greatness. All she wanted to do was talk to the man who was about to change the world, and there he was, writing at the bar. The angry waitress came with the drinks. A light blue concoction in a martini glass. The waitress placed one before each woman. Becky looked down into the candy colored drink and sighed. She saw two paths ahead of her: she could sip that drink, and her life would continue unchanged, or she could walk up to the man at the bar. While the waitress took food orders, Becky pushed herself away from the table and stood. She walked away from the table of women and towards the mysterious man, passing the same tables she passed on the way in. As she sat down next to the man, she asked, “What are you writing?” He didn’t notice. She tapped his shoulder and once again asked, “What are you writing?” He looked up. “Well, I am asking my parents for money, and since this is the second time this month, I figured I would do it in formal fashion by writing a letter.” “That’s it?” “Sorry to disappoint.” Becky turned from the man and looked straight ahead. He went back to his hunched writing. She looked at the wall of alcohol. Realizing that this man was not her savior and that there was nothing for her back with her friends, she turned, walked past empty tables, and exited the restaurant. The street was busy, and the sun had set. She walked amongst the crowd. Then she turned into a dark desolate park. Trees stood on either side of a path with perfect symmetry.

On a heavy day, in a busy corner bar, a man wrote. He sat at the bar with a melting drink, slouched over pen and notebook, surrounded by broken lead and pencil shavings. Sweat pooled on his back. Passing people looked upon the manic man with concern. He didn’t notice. A group of women stood at the door waiting for a table. They were celebrating a birthday. One of the women tapped her foot impatiently. Another sat in melancholy silence staring at the wall in front of her, and a group stood between them talking. It was the sad one’s birthday. Her friends talked with unregulated voices, chattering about this and that. The sad one wasn’t listening to the ordinary talk of her friends. She was sitting, thinking about the extraordinary. Thinking of far off possibilities and far off futures. “Becky, Becky, wake up!” The sad one looked up from her broken daydream. “What?” she asked, looking at her impatient friend “The table is ready.” Becky stood and walked behind her friend, past heavy wooden tables filled with people and food. The group was seated in a corner by the kitchen. The chatter continued, and Becky once again was lost in thought. The women as a whole were loud and intimidating, but the key member, the one they were there for, sat in pensive silence scanning the room. Eventually, they were greeted by a short waitress with a scowl on her face. As the waitress approached, the impatient one sighed and said, “Finally.” The waitress heard this; her scowl worsened. “What can I get you ladies to drink?” asked the waitress. “Alcohol,” said one of the chattering women. “Any specifics?” “A large amount,” said a different but similar woman. The waitress, still scowling, faked a laugh and said, “I know just the drink.”

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