Blain never had to go anywhere. Although he often went places, he never did so out of necessity. Long walks and late night bus rides had become increasingly necessary for Him to deal with his life. Blain wasn’t sure why he couldn’t sleep at night anymore without riding the Number 26 bus around for at least an hour, and sometimes much longer. He had become a nighttime commuter, and all the other commuters on his arbitrarily chosen bus route thought he was just another passenger with someplace to be. But Blain never had anywhere to be, it was a nightly pilgrimage without any destination, and without which Blain couldn’t sleep.
Blain adds another shot of whiskey to his increasingly stronger Irish coffee sitting on his desk. This was another daily ritual he had taken up. Every day he sits at his desk for an hour, he drinks black coffee with a shot of whiskey, some days, such as today, two shots, and he smokes exactly five cigarettes.
Some days he just drinks black coffee, adding additional whiskey shots in between sips, until slowly the coffee stops being coffee and becomes whiskey. While at the same time Blain slowly goes from highly caffeinated, to belligerently drunk.
While doing this he stares at the top line of a sheet of paper sticking out of a vintage typewriter, but he never actually writes anything. Or at least he hasn’t in years.
This cycle of daily rituals has continued for the past five years. No one, including Blain himself, could explain what started his writer’s block.
In the past two years, Blain has only written six words, although as he often points out, “It’s a damn good six words.”
Those six words? “I am saddened I have forgotten.” The irony is, Blain forgot what he was supposed to have been sad about forgetting. Now, no one, including Blain, remembers what this piece of writing was supposed to be about.
It wasn’t always this way. Two years ago Blain had some success as a writer. He even managed to publish a reasonably successfully unsuccessful book. Although absolutely any credible critic would, and just about all of them did, agree the writing was horrendous. However, it was by a backward stroke of luck that the negative critiques of the book happened to be so horrible that it actually increased the book’s sales significantly. Due to curiosity alone.
It wasn’t that the writing was terrible, but the book was what most normal people would call, “disgusting.” Although Blain preferred the term, “genuine.”
The book consisted of rather disturbingly detailed sex scenes and highly graphic violence. So much so that any normal person wouldn’t make it past the first two chapters, and after would be left with a subliminal need to take a very vigorous shower. Thankfully for Blain, however, there is no shortage of “abnormal” people in this world. In fact, there is at least eight-hundred thousand, which is about how many copies of Blain’s book got sold. Blain has been living on the royalties ever since, spending most of the money on coffee, cigarettes, whiskey, and a rather significant portion on bus fare.
Blain has a cult following now anxiously awaiting his next book. However, that book still hasn’t made it past the first six words and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. Although, as he drunkenly says every night, “it’s a damn good six words.” It’s just a shame he forgot what they were about forgetting about.
“I am saddened I have forgotten.”
Read Blain part 1 here, https://thenumber26.net/2019/02/10/blain/