“The Natural” by Maxwell James
--page 3

         And this little bastard was going to ruin everything. I would arrive every morning, praying that he wouldn't come that day, that he’d finally give it up, but no-no-there he was every day, sitting in that same chair, with nothing better to do than sit there writing for hours on end, with that dour look on his face, the deep furrows in his brow cut into high relief by the light from above, covered by the same ragged, ugly hat that didn’t quite hide all of his hair. He never spoke to anyone, and no one dared to approach him. I hid behind my laptop, forcing my eyes to stay on my writing, telling myself that I was onto something, and was ready to shut the whole world out if that was necessary, and that when I got on a roll, nothing would distract me—nothing at all—not even some punk in bargain-store clothing with a messiah complex. No, no, you see, us real artists don’t perform our art, we simply create it, and if therefore everyone in the coffee shop paid attention to him instead of me, well that was just fine—just fine—in my book, because that meant more time for me to do what was actually important to me, which was create awareness in any way possible, even if that meant writing all alone, by myself, with no one to watch me. See if I cared.
         But it was sort of interesting, I had to admit. A little. I wanted to find out if he was aware of what was going on around him, even a little bit—aware at all of the situation that he was putting me into. I kept hoping he would come over and take part in one of our Nourishment sessions, and I tried to direct the discussions to a topic that might include him, and to make it clear based on my comments that I wished there was someone nearby who could shed some light on our dilemma, but of course he brushed us off. No, he just sat there writing in his notebook, or reading big, important-looking books like Les Miserables or Don Quixote or Gravity’s Rainbow, and reading them very fast, faster than I could. He would take breaks, closing his notebook, and taking it outside with him, stopping just outside the door, and smoking a cigarette, walking as far away from the Old Man or anyone else that happened to be outside as well, and looking at the ground, muttering things no one could hear, and answering all questions in monosyllables.
         He was not following the rules, and, unlike me, he was getting away with it. He was doing everything I’d done at first, yet there was something about how he did it that made it alright. He didn’t seem to be shutting people out on purpose because he wanted to come off as better than them—on the contrary, there came off an honest desire to connect with other people, but a desire that was being blocked by this deep-set preoccupation—a disease, almost—a disease he was determined to cure—that he prayed he would cure, so that—someday—he could live an ordinary life, just like everybody else, because that was all he’d really ever wanted. It was exquisite.
         I needed to deal with this. There were times in life where you could not back down. I didn’t know what the comment cards had been like in the last few days, but I had seen the people walk in and look straight at him, and past me, and I knew they could not have been good, and knew that the fact nothing had been mentioned to me was a bad sign.
         I decided to have it out with him. I turned to him, on the third or fourth day, and paused. He was not that intimidating—he was rail-thin, and of only medium height. I was much taller and more imposing. He was always fidgeting, his legs crossed, with the top foot jiggling up and down, his free hand drumming its fingers on the varnished surface of the circular table, his face stuck in that same scowl. I could take him. I refilled my coffee, avoiding eye contact with the barista, as usual, and walked back to my table. I took a single sip out of the cup, and then set in on the table, but then picked it up, along with the saucer. I turned to him again, angry at myself for being too nervous, because I had nothing to fear from him, dammit. Not a thing. I had nothing to prove to anyone.
         I walked over. He looked up at me as I walked over.
         “Hi there,” I said, as upbeat as I could manage.
         “Hey,” he said, looking up at me for a moment. But just for a moment. By the time I started talking again, he was already looking back down at the page.
         “What’re you writing today?”
         “Same thing I’m always writing.”
         “Oh yeah?”
         “Yeah.”
         “What's that?”
         “Just a—book,” he said quickly. But he knew what he meant.
         “Nice, nice. What kind of a book?”
         He started writing as I asked it.
         “Umm, well, sort of um well taking the concept that so many people take for granted today that um the world is somehow separate from themselves, somehow a different entity of some sort, and asking questions about that concept, um, sort of.”

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