A Good Author

Midnight. Full moon. I've got a full pack of Winstons and a brand new Bic. Two boxes of brown-sugar cinnamon Poptarts for nourishment in case the going gets rough and a diet Pepsi to counteract the calories of the Poptarts. Ho! Ho! I'm ready to go! Ah, yes...Steve Winwood's "Arc of a Diver" comes on the radio. The volume's set low, bass and treble just right. I'll do it by God! Yes! The atmosphere is perfect! I...will...write...the ultimate...in prose fiction! The Short Story of Short Stories! I can feel it! I am inspired!
I begin:

It was a dark and stormy night...

PSSHHTTT...I have opened the diet Pepsi. It sprays and foams onto my desk and the words I've just written.
"What a pisser!" I say aloud as I go for the paper towels I've set nearby in case of such an accident. I am prepared. A good author is always prepared. I am a good author.
I sop up the mess in one swipe but the words I've written are smudged and blurred. Illedgible. I must begin again:

It was a dark and stormy night. Max Magill was standing under the street lamp, the collar of his trenchcoat turned up to fend off the chill winter wind. He lights a cigarette...

Hiisss...I light a Winston, inhaling deeply as I reread what I've written. "Hmmm...." I mutter, "That really sucks."
A good author knows when his work sucks. I am a good author.
I begin once more:

It was a dark and stormy...

GET OFF IT FOR CHRIST"S SAKE!
I reach for a Poptart. The going seems to be getting rough. The toaster is within reach of my desk as my apartment is small. I lean back in my chair , dragging on my Winston. Think...think...
CHINK! My Poptart is ready. I reach for it absently and take a bite. I burn my mouth. A bit of the hot frosting hardens on my front tooth. The left one. I swig from the diet Pepsi to relieve my agony. I immediately spit it out, realizing that I have inadvertently been flipping the ashes from my cigarette into the can. I have ruined another sheet of paper.
I reach again for the paper towels . It takes more than one this time for I must wipe the soda from my walls as well as the desk. I reach for the Anacin which I have strategically placed near the paper towels. I feel I am losing my inspiration. I wash down three of the small white tablets with my Pepsi, tasting the bitter ashes and saccharine, which has been determined to cause cancer in laboratory animals.
I am not afraid. A good author is never afraid. I am a good author.
I begin again. This time on a different note:

Georgia had been thinking of leaving Martin for months, but now that he'd been killed in that horrible mining accident, there didn't seem to be much point...

I feel my inspiration return:

...he had been insured for well over 25,000 dollars and now her options seemed innumerable. She could have Ralph, the grocery boy, for her lover and move into those cute little efficiency apartments on 14th Street, or...

"Holy shit!" I say aloud, "I'm on a roll!"

...she could go with Fred, the milkman and stay in that cute little house on Forty-Second. She knew men still found her attractive, even at age forty-two. She had a good figure, long legs, firm buttocks...

BUUZZZ....

...nice breasts...

BUUZZZ...A fly. I ignore it.

...or so she'd been told...

BUUZZZ..."Get out of my ear, you little sonofabitch!"
The little sonofabitch gets out of my ear. He lands on my sheet of paper. I lose my temper and swat the little sonofabitch with the now cold Poptart. Flecks of frosting, filling and fly guts smear across my words, ruining them. I groan as I feel my inspiration ebbing. I reach for a cigarette.
CLICK...CLICK...the lighter will not light.
CLICK...CLICK...the fucking lighter will not light.
CLICK...CLICK...in a fit of rage (good authors are often given to fits of rage. I am a good author) I hurl the lighter at the wall. I stalk to the stove to light my cigarette from the gas burner. The flames jump to life. I have lost my eyebrows. The stench of singed hair fills my apartment. I feel my forehead melting. I scream.
"AUUUGGGHH!"
I feel very stupid. Good authors often feel very stupid. I am a good author.
I splash cool water onto my brow from the kitchen sink and return to my paper. The sight of the brown-sugared fly guts makes me slightly queasy. I rip the paper from the pad and throw it at the wall. I lands near the defective lighter. I begin once more:

Georgia and Max had been trapped in the abandoned mine shaft for what seemed like days but in actuality had been only minutes...

RAP! RAP! RAP! Someone is knocking at my door. I glance at the clock. 2:30 am, a strange time for company to call. I ignore it and continue writing.

...Georgia was clinging to Max. She was frightened and had run her best pair of pantyhose...

RAP! RAP! RAP! The knock becomes more insistent.
"Who the fuck is it?" Good authors often use profanity. I am a good author.
"Hey man, you okay?" It is my neighbor. I rise and walk to the door, opening it only inches.
"Hey man, I heard you scream." The walls in my apartment complex are thin. I did not scream that loudly.
"Hey man, where's your eyebrows?"
"They're being dry-cleaned. I pick them up tomorrow. If you don't mind, I have ..."
"Heh, dry-cleaned! That's pretty funny. No, really man, what happened?"
My neighbor is an asshole.
"I singed them off, if you must know."
"Singed'em off? Why'd you wanna do that for? If you ask me, that's pretty stupid."
"I didn't ask you.," I say as politely as my patience will allow. "now, if you'll please excuse me, I have work..."
"Hey man, you smell somethin' burnin'?"
"Just the eyebrows. Now, if you don't mind..."
"No man! Somethin' rubbery. Hey! Your kitchen floor's smokin'!"
I turn to see a lighted cigarette burning a hole the size of a frisbee in my kitchen linoleum.
"Shit, there goes your deposit, man."
Before I can react, my neighbor pushes past me and runs into my kitchen. He begins stomping the smoldering tiles like a demented Smokey the Bear. I watch, facinated. My neighbor is bearded and his hair is long. I suspect he experiments with drugs. He turns to me, grinning.
"All out man! Hell of a burn mark, though. Heyyy....what's this?" He picks up the pages of my story. "Looks like a story, you writin' again, man?"
He reads silently. His lips move. I hate that.
Suddenly he is laughing, "Max and Georgia? Are you kidding, man? Max and Georgia? What kind of names are those? You gotta grab attention, man! You know, somethin' like 'call me Ishmael', somethin' like that. Max and Georgia, geez, man! And what's this shit? 'he takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately'? That's just trite, man! T-R-I-G-H-T, trite!"
He continues laughing. Suddenly, something comes over me. A wild something I can no longer control. I grab the heavy. glass ashtray that reads "HOWARD JOHNSON'S" in bold letters from my end table and I knock the living shit out of my neighbor. He falls to the floor, covering the burnt patch of linoleum. His head is bleeding, spurting in time to The Go-Go's "We Got the Beat" which is playing softly on my radio. I increase the volume and feel my inspiration returning. I roll my neighbor over a few inches toward the discarded lighter and soiled paper.
Good authors have trouble taking criticism. I am a good author.
I begin again:

Midnight. Full moon. I've got a full pack of Winstons and a brand new Bic...