How it Crumbles

"How it Crumbles"


When I write, it feels like I'm in a blank room.  It's not a very big room, nor is it especially small; it's the size of an average high-school classroom.  The room has white walls, a white ceiling, a white floor, and one four-inch-by-eight-inch window that sits in the upper right-hand corner of the easternmost wall.  Situated in the northernmost wall, there is a thick metal door that I believe is made out of iron.  Slightly off-center towards the westernmost wall rests a dark, hardwood desk with a matching chair.  Both pieces of furniture are constructed of simple right angles and don't have any particular sense of luxury about them; the chair's seat is a basic, cushionless, grooveless, square slab of wood and the desk is actually a bit high for me and probably better fit for a man.  

The desk has two drawers.  One drawer is locked without its mating key and the other contains a fountain pen, a scrap of paper with meaningless dates written on it in black ink, a thin and faded farmers' almanac, a bit of string, and a piece of white chalk.  I have no idea what the dates mean, no want for a farmers' almanac, no need for the piece of string, and no use for white chalk in a white room.  The pen, though, I have not totally discounted, as pens seem to always serve some purpose and rationale.  

The most practical items in the room are the shiny, black, non-electric Remington typewriter and the accompanying stack of blank paper that lie heavily on the wooden desk.  Let me say this: considering the value of the other objects, it does not take much to be the most practical thing in the room.  I have nothing to write about with the typewriter and no audience to write for, but I know that I must be intended to write, because, for the lack of other things, it is the only item of function in the room.  So, I sit down in the hard wooden chair with the typewriter placed before me, and I wait.

As I sit there in silence, cold hands folded carelessly on my lap, I stare at the iron door.  If the typewriter and the paper are the most practical things in the room, the door is definitely the most out of place.  The rest of the room, save the desk, its contents, and the chair, is blank, white, and featureless, but the door is something else.  It is a heaviness in the weightlessness, a personality in the facelessness, and a statement in the silence.  Though the rest of the room may be lifeless, the door contains a certain degree of death, and I am wary of it.

The door is greyish-black in color.  The hinges are thick and well-forged, and they rest deeply in the frame.  There are numerous bolts and screws lining the edges of the door, and they seem to be made of the same material as the door itself.  Where there should be a handle, there is none, only a slight rectangular rise.  Located three-fourths down from the top of the door, there is a two-inch-by-twelve-inch slot covered by a shiftable metal flap.  I have no idea what the flap is for, but it is the only part of the door that will ever move.  Of that, I am sure.

I will not be getting through the door.

I get quite uneasy sitting in the room, with no instructions, no notion of definite purpose, and nothing but the inference that I am supposed to write.  I hesitantly touch the side of the typewriter and run my finger up the edge of the stack of paper, which I estimate to be at approximately sixty pages.  I don't know where to start.  I have absolutely nothing to write about, but I must do something, for I simply can't do 'nothing.'  Picking up the first piece if paper, I examine the machine.  I am quite unsure how to proceed, and I struggle for a few minutes with loading the paper, rolling it, and adjusting it.  By the time I get it in some semblance of what I think is the correct order of things, I am flustered, frustrated, and confused.  Why am I in this room?  Am I meant to write something, or am I here for storage, holding the place for whoever is actually intended to be here?

Clang!

I flinch, startled out of my thoughts by the sudden burst of metallic noise.  I look towards the source and see the swinging flap of the door slowly coming to a halt and a piece of paper resting lightly on the floor beneath it.  For a moment, I stare at it, half expecting the flap to move again or the door to open, but neither of those things occur.  I walk cautiously towards the door, hands held out from my sides as if that can afford me some degree of protection, and pause, looking down at the scrap of paper.  There are words written on it.  I study them from a distance, but the tiny scrawl combined with the messiness of the calligraphy and the odd angle of the paper make it difficult to ascertain exactly what it says.

But, I can clearly and sharply see that that there are words on the paper.

Horror spreads across my body.  My hands fly to my face, searching for my glasses, which I have just realized are absent.  I only find flesh.  I glance about the room once more, taking in the clarity of my sight.  From my position next to the door, I can see the individual keys of the typewriter, the grain of the desk, and the window, which, with my nearsightedness, should be blurry.  I don't know why my rapid boost of vision disturbs me so.  Perhaps I feel vaguely naked without my glasses, but I suspect that it more of the fact that my body had been altered without my consent or knowledge.  I shiver, and the hairs on my neck and forearm rise.  If my eyes have been changed without my compliance, what else has?

In the stillness of the room, though, and illogical as it sounds, there is very little for my horror to feed off of.  The tenseness in my limbs lessens, though it has not totally diminished, and I consider the paper again.  There it lies, seemingly innocent.  How can one make a case against a piece of paper or prove its wrongness?  One cannot.  It is a piece of paper.  I bend down, retrieve it, and find scribbled on one side:

The ribbon and ink are already set.

There is no name or other mention or allusion.

It can only have one reference.  I look back to the typewriter, and then back to the paper, flipping it over to see if there are any other marks or letters, which there aren't.  I kneel next to the door to investigate the flap.  I poke it with my finger and am able to open it at an obtuse angle, but gazing through it, cannot see the leaver of the note or any other form of life.  There is only a dark hallway, at the end of which there is a sliver of light, clearly emitted by a door that was not shut firmly.  Listening closely, however, I can hear a faint, barely discernable peal of laughter, and I presume it comes from the inhabitant or inhabitants of the room to which the door at the end of the hallway leads.  I bang by fist against the door and call out, but get no response.  I try again, wait a few moments, and give up, rubbing my smarting knuckles.  I know that no one is coming.  I can feel it.

I return to my seat at the desk, scrap of paper in my hand.  I place the note next to the typewriter and stare at them both.  Someone left the note for me.  Clearly, they want me to write something, but what?

I close my eyes and think.  Opening them, I decide to go for something simple.  A children's story.  I reach out and tap at the "A" key, then the spacebar, and then the "L" and the "O" keys.

A long, long time ago...

I pause.  What am I supposed to write about that children want to hear?  With my misgivings, I carry on.  Tap, tap, tap.  Halfway down the page, I confirm what I don't want to:  I hate what I am writing.  I can't do this.  In a fit of temper, I rip the paper from the typewriter, crumple it up, and throw it in the southwest corner, away from the window and furthest from the door.  I place my elbows on the desk and cover my eyes with my hands.

This is pointless.

What am I doing?

I am so utterly confused.

I peek at the typewriter through my fingers.  It seems to intently watch me, accusing me, shoving my crimes of faulty writing and paper crumpling in my face.  I hold a staring contest with it.  I look away.  The typewriter wins.

I snort in frustration, get up, and start pacing circles around the desk.  During one of my circuits, I stop at the window.  I cannot see much through it: only a sky and some clouds.  Thinking about it, I realize that because of its small size, it should not be capable of providing as much of the light as it seems to do.  I don't pursue the discrepancy, though.  In my situation, it is trivial, and I let it be.  I reach up towards it.  Standing on my tiptoes, my fingertips graze the sill, but I cannot find the purchase or the strength to lift myself up and properly look through it.  I give up on the window and move back to the desk.

Descending down into the chair once more, I grasp the handle of the unlocked drawer and slide it open.  Riffling through the contents, finding no other items besides the pen, the scrap of paper with the dates, the almanac, the string, and the white chalk.  Out of curiosity and looking for inspiration, I skim through the almanac, wondering if any of the information corresponds with the dates on the paper.  Planting charts, weather forecasts, astronomy.  Nothing seems to.  I replace them and shut drawer.  I sit.  The note and the typewriter are still on the desk.

The ribbon and ink are already set.

I sigh, shake my head, reach once more toward the stack of paper, put a page in the typewriter, struggle with the fittings and adjustments and rollings, and place my forefingers of the "F" and "J" keys, where they wait impatiently.  In my mind, I search for words to type.

This time, I decide to go with fantasy.  Surely with fantasy, I'll have the freedom and maneuverability to write a story that will make some sort of sense.  Somewhat renewed at the thought, I tap away, filling the page with dark letters.  Three-fourths down, I freeze.  The ink looks so final against the whiteness of the paper.  I reread what I wrote, horrified by the clichés and predictability of it all, snatch it out of the typewriter, crumple it up, and pitch it to join the other piece of discarded authorism.

I get up and take a deep breath.

I go to the iron door again, kneel down, and peek through the slot.  The hallway is still dark, but the door seems to have opened a bit wider, and the laughter sounds more present.  I wonder who is in the other room, what they are doing, and if they are writing like I am.  If they are, they seem to be much more successful than I.  Despite my knowledge of how irrational it is, I wave of envy and spite grows in my chest.  Whatever it is that they are doing, they have obviously reached triumph, because no one sounds that happy with failure.  I let the flap fall harshly against the door and return to the desk.

In the chair, I cross my arms and think.  How can I possibly write something of value?  Someone wants me to, and I am failing.  Mulling this over, I suddenly come to another realization:  I am not thirsty, nor do I want food or sleep.  Of this, I am in awe.  That must be it:  the lack of sensation.  Without sensation, such as taste, there is no inspiration.  I must imagine the sensation.

I confront the typewriter once again, but something is dreadfully wrong.

The stack of papers has seemed to diminish in size.  There are so few papers, and the ink is so concrete and finite.  I cannot possibly begin to type and waste what paper I do have.  I cannot force my failures onto the undeserving paper.

For a moment, I panic.  Then, I remember something absolutely brilliant:  the fountain pen.  I don't know if my next venture will work, but I rapidly retrieve the object of my target and hold it, like a holy grail, above my head.  After a moment of reverence, I test it on my hand.  The pen is so wonderfully full of ink, and the walls are so wonderfully white.  I fly to them.

The pen has given me new life.  Revitalized, I scrawl word after word, sentence after sentence, and chapter after chapter on the walls, starting with the easternmost, then moving to the southern, and eventually to the western.  I write as high as I can reach to the lowest, when I have to lie with my head on the ground to make sure fully utilize the space I have.  From the window, the light turns an orangish hue.  I have written for hours.

When I come out of my fervor, I am lying in the northwest corner and my arms are blemished with ink.  I slow my breathing, take stock of the situation, and rise to my elbows.  There.  I have done it.  I have written.  I have been successful.

I shakily regain my feet and stumble over to the corner where the writing originates.  As I read it, I become more and more disgusted.  The story is horrible.  Worthless.  Revolting.  I feel sick and angry.  So much time, gone.

Suddenly, there is a large tolling of laughter.  I stagger to the door, kneel down, and look through the slot.  The hallway is much lighter, and the door is opened fully.  Through it, I see group of people, both women and men, each holding champagne glasses and seemingly celebrating something.  In the center of the room, there is an ornate desk, a polished typewriter, and a thick, bounded book.

Shock rushes through my system.  The metal flap drops.  I fall to my back.

It starts small, and then grows into a fully churning title wave of fury.  They obviously have it!  The one thing that makes writing great!  The one thing I don't have!  They have that something, and they were able to write, but I can't, because I am worthless.

I charge to the center of the room kick the desk.  It doesn't dent, my foot hurts, and it only serves to enhance my frustration.  I grab the chair, rush to the iron door, and strike wood against metal.  The wood splinters, and I repeat the action until it is broken beyond repair.  The door still has not opened, and I absolutely need, I crave, the thing that those other people have.  The something.  I sprint back to the desk, heft the Remington typewriter into my arms, run at the door, and release the typewriter, allowing my momentum to send it flying.  It collides with a sickening crash, and the floor is covered in bits of metal, springs, and other mechanical parts.

A sob escapes my throat.

My fury vented, there is now nothing left I can do.  I collapse to my knees and fumble through a few of the pieces of the typewriter, knowing that it is pointless, but doing so anyways.  What else is there to do?

Slowly, I let the pieces be, and stand.  The room is silent.

I go back to the desk where the stack of paper mournfully sits.  I still have the pen, but I cannot write on the paper, knowing that it will end in disaster.  I cannot bear to examine the walls, though I have not written on the northernmost, because they are a reminder of my failure.  I place the pen on the desk.  I do not deserve to touch it.

Moving around to the other side of the desk, I open the drawer.  In it are the dated paper, the farmers' almanac, the string, and the chalk, all of which are completely useless, because who had ever heard of a use fo-

My eyes dash to the chalk.  The chalk may be white, but the desk is made of dark brown wood.  I have a surface, and I have means.  I refuse to fail this time.

My fingers are like a whirlwind, skimming the desk with such motion and determination.  I force back all my reservations and simply write.  The window grows dark, and the last of the chalk crumbles beneath my touch.

In the dim light, it is more difficult to read what I wrote, but I know that it is good.  It is original.  It almost has that something.  Encouraged, I reach into the drawer to pull out another piece of chalk so that I may continue in my ventures.  My hand contacts a scrap of paper, a thin almanac, and a string.  My eyes widen.  There is no more chalk.  

I clench my fist and remove if from the drawer.  Finally, I have something, and now all opportunity to continue is gone.  Harshly removed.  I am beyond devastated.  Beyond feeling.  I unclench my fist and look into my palm, where the string sits.  I turn my back on the desk, walk away from the success I cannot have, and lower my body in the corner beneath the window.

I stare at the string.  I tie it in a knot.  

I untie it.

I tie it again.

I move my knees to my chest and place my chin on them.  

I untie the knot.

There, I sit.  There, I am.