Moving Backwards Through Space

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There was a great disturbance outside of my door.

Many people were milling about in the hallway. Mainly the crows of the hall, cawing and beating their wings. I covered my ears with my hands and turned up the volume to my PC television show. As I stretched out even farther on my bed the doorbell rang loudly. Once, twice. I slid my legs off the side and rose unsteadily to my feet. Who the fuck would be ringing my doorbell? I soon got my answer.

"Hobobob, it's me, Paula. Open the door!" She wasn't asking, she was demanding it. I stood stunned for a moment. What the Hell was going on outside now? What the Hell did I do wrong? What did they want with me? I went to my clothes stacked neatly on the radiator and dressed cautiously and slowly. When done, I stood in the center of my room, waiting. I waited for her to ring the bell again, but it never came. The noises in the hall still built and grew more raucous but she never returned to ring my bell.

Shit. That was enough for me. I peeled myself out of my clothes again and stretched out on my bed, turning and watching reruns of Stargate SG1. I love the series. All of them, and with my third ear, I listened to the noises outside. Apparently the floor was in an uproar over the elevator still being out. For some reason they believed that if they got the consensus of the floor, management would have the elevator operational sooner. I smile and then giggle. Who gives a fuck about a building full of the incompetently insane? We are ALL crazy here. There isn't a sane one in the bunch. Who gives a fuck about us, even if you stack us all up one atop of the other? I could just see Roberto and Slick-O jumping to their feet when a petition was presented to them concerning the tenants of this floor. Ha ha ha. I bet they wouldn't even strain an ass muscle rising from their seats.

I am so unmotiv- ated that I couldn't care less to do the same. I just lay here, thinking, planning, scheming. I jump up, feeling a little on edge, feeling a little bored. For the fun of it I jump on IRC and search around for some friends. I find FONTS and MYZ online. Two lovely ladies who like to just hang out in the airless void of cyberspace and chat. We crank and bullshit all night until we get to the spot where the question went around as to what we did for a living. I told them that I was a writer, but unpublished, and that I had a screenplay for a television series. They were instantly fascinated.

I felt strange. Suddenly I was barraged with questions. Then, the one that every writer dreads. "Can I read it?" Writers don't really dread the question. They would like people to read their work. In fact, a writer would love the world at large to read their works. It's just that writers find CRITICISM difficult. Some go all defensive. Some retreat, vowing never to show their work to anyone again. Writers are never satisfied with their work, or maybe it's just me. But still, our efforts are a labor of love. They are our babies and we are loathe to subject them to adverse scrutiny. Scrutiny that every work has to undergo if it is ever to be seen by the public.

I caved in. I don't know why, but I did. I sent them copies of my pilot script for them to read overnight. They were excited. FONTS had already breezed through twenty pages of the work while I was still online. I thanked them and changed the subject, although they promised to give me their honest appraisals tomorrow. That was comforting to know....NOT.

I'm thinking about it now. A proud father, worried now that he put his children in the hands of others while he went off to work. Just one more thing to worry about while I waited for the inevitable, or whatever that was.

What the Hell was Paula ringing my doorbell for?

Hobobob