“The Natural” by Maxwell James
--page 4

         He hadn’t stopped writing the whole time he spoke, and wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
         “Do you think there’s some chance of people believing otherwise?”
         “Well, I don’t know. I do.”
         “You do?”
         “Yeah.”
         He sat there writing for a while longer, and I watched him.
         “So, man,” I said, doing my best to sound friendly, “what makes you come to a place like this to do your writing?”
         “Well, uh,” he said quickly, “I, uh, well, I don’t know, I suppose, I don’t know.”
         His awkwardness was beautiful, earnest, and unstoppable.
         “You don’t know?”
         “No.”
         “Well, do you—”
         “Uh, you know, man,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes for the first time, his voice taking on its most sympathetic tone yet—as if he were sorry to have to say this, but he just had to. “I'm um—doing this writing, I can’t really talk right now. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
         He gazed at me, straight on. His eyes were impenetrable, in a sensitive way. It hurt him to say what he did. There was a pause. I forced myself not to move.
         “Well, that’s alright, man,” I said, quietly. “Just thought I’d say hello.”
         “Well—yes—thank you for doing so.”
         So that night I just sat at home, and stared at my wall. I tried to read this book, this sort of long book, that I’d been trying to read for quite some time, but I couldn’t focus on it. I got my notebook out, and wrote in it for a little while, but couldn't make any sense. My mind was revolving too fast to pry anything out of it. I was obviously in danger. My window was curtained, and I stared at the curtain for a moment. I imagined what was outside of it, what would be behind it if I were to open it. I sat on the other side of the room from it, but then forced myself to go open it. There was nothing there but the balcony to my apartment complex, and the fence, with another house behind it. I walked out the door, and went over to my neighbor’s door, and knocked. She answered, and invited me to come in. We sat on her couch, and stared at her wall, and talked about mildly interesting things. I seemed mildly smart. She seemed mildly impressed. After a while, I went home.
         But I was demoralized the next day. I couldn’t stop watching him. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t talk to anyone, I could focus on nothing but him and his slowly growing authority, which was more pronounced every day, seeming to suck away my own power as it grew, and I realized there was nothing I could do. I watched customers watching him. They all had their cards, and most of them would write on them, and they would all talk about him, and none of them would talk about me.

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