OBSESSION
"I have a story to tell you." said the old man, dressed in mismatched, tattered, and torn clothes that hung on him like an old sheet caught on a tree limb. His faint whisper of a voice could barely be heard above the din of the crowd in the posh coffeehouse. POETRY & FREE VERSE READINGS - ALL WELCOME! The sign out front proclaimed, and the fancy dressed late night theatergoers mingled with the blue jeans and tee shirt college crowd. Shoulder-to -shoulder they sat, at wooden tables cluttered with frothy cups of café latte, cappuccino, and thick dark-as-midnight shots of espresso. Loud laughter didn't phase the old man, he continued, "The writer's name isn't important, nor where or when this took place. What you must understand is his passion. He wanted more than anything in the whole world to write, and not just any old thing. He wanted to write the definitive story of our times. He wanted to be loved and adored and known as a master of his art and craft. He wanted his name to be spoken in hushed, reverent tones, like one might say Faulkner, Dickens, or Poe.
"His story begins the night after his first real writing class. He couldn't believe his good fortune at being accepted into the creative writing program. He wasn't rich like many of the other participants, nor from a well known family. But a scholarship was available and he had somehow won the honor of being chosen.
"The student writer sat mesmerized through that first class, listening to the professor go over the syllabus. Theme , Point of View, Characterization, Setting, and Dialogue, all were to be covered extensively in the next fifteen weeks. The professor didn't promise to make any of the students rich but he did promise them that if they studied what he told them to study and if they fully participated by completing all the assignments, they would be better writers than most after completing the class.
"That night, sitting at his tiny desk with pads of paper, his textbook, a dictionary, and a dozen sharpened pencils spread before him, the student thought of how he would complete his first assignment-- write a story explaining the theme behind it.
"Theme-- he thought for awhile then wrote on his pad, 'The theme of this story is'
"Theme-he looked up the definition in his dictionary. He ripped off the top sheet and wrote 'Theme - a topic of discourse' on his pad.
"Theme-- he looked through his notes scribbled during class. 'Elements of theme include: subject, variations, results, and conclusion.' He tore off the top sheet on his pad and on the next wrote 'Theme -- Subject:, Variations:, Results:, Conclusion'. He wrote carefully, purposefully, making sure to leave a blank line to fill-in between each word.
"Theme-- he tore off another sheet of paper and wrote at the top of the next page, 'Theme'
-------------------------------------------------------------------
"A week passed and it was time for the next class. The student didn't show up for it. The next week came and again the student wasn't present. After the third class, the writing professor asked his secretary to try calling the student, to see if he wanted to officially withdraw from the course. She called but there was no answer.
"A few days later a letter was typed up and sent out informing the student that since he hadn't been participating, hadn't turned in any assignments, or attended any classes except the first, and since every attempt to reach him by phone was futile, he was officially being dropped from the registration list.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
"The landlady huffed, following the police officer up the steps to the student's third floor room, 'He ain't never come out I tell you. He never gets his mail. And besides, he owes me money.' Beads of sweat dripped off her ruddy face onto the faded plaid house dress. Beneath, her legs stuck out, thick as tree trunks, covered in beige support knee high hose.
"'He's a loser. I should've known. Said he wanted to be a writer. ' She shook her head with disgust, placing the pass key into the lock.
"The room was dark. Dirty curtains hung over a clouded window not allowing much light to come in. A smell of musty decay filled the air.
"Straight ahead they could seen the faint silhouette of an empty chair and a desk; a bed and a small bureau sat over in one corner. As the landlady reached for chain hanging from the light switch in the center of the room, papers carpeting the floor crinkled under her brown orthopedic shoes.
"The police officer stared at the dusty, cluttered desk, papers, books, and tiny pencils, worn down to the nib, lay every which way. He searched the two-room apartment. Tore the bedclothes off the small wooden bed, looked under the mattress, checked out the empty bathroom, noting the medicine cabinet and drawers in the bureau were full with the student's meager belongings. Opening the small dormitory size refrigerator proved to be a mistake as the room filled with the stench of spoiled milk, molded fruit, and rotted meat.
"A wallet and key, and three tarnished pennies sat in a dusty pile on top of the bureau beside the hot plate.
"'I don't know what to say. He must have just ran off is all I can assume. Probably didn't have enough money to pay the rent would be my guess.' The policeman looked through the wallet, pulling out a twenty dollar bill and receipt from a local dime-store for stationary goods.
"The landlady, a look of utter contempt on her face wiped her brow. 'And who's going to clean up this mess, that's what I'd like to know. Damn it to hell and back.' Neither the policeman nor the landlady took note of the fine powdery dust spewing out from beneath her heavy rear as she sat down hard on the chair. She rested a minute then sighed, rose and began picking up the papers on the floor. She shook her head. The police officer handed her a garbage bag and together they gathered pages, balling them up, and shoving them deep into the plastic bag.
"Sixteen garbage bags were carried down the stairs that day. The landlady thanked the policeman. As he got into his car and drove off, she rubbed her arms for despite the sun, the autumn air was turning chilly. She walked back into her house but not before kicking the overflowing garbage pile."
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The coffeehouse was silent; all eyes centered on the old man as he finished his story.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
"A page stuck out of the uppermost bag, flapping and dancing in the wind, as the brown and orange leaves rippled and a sun ray shot between the shadow of the branches, illuminating the scene. If anyone had been walking by that day and had been looking at the garbage, they might have read but one word on that page. The word was 'Theme. '"