Writer's Block, Part III

With a squeal, Nick slid into the break room and tossed the notebook at the whiteboard. Seconds later, Dalyn raced in.

“Give it here!” he yelled. Nick simply pointed to the board, where it rested. Above it, the question shouted out to Dalyn, the one that he had been obsessing over for the past few days: “Who am I?”

Dalyn grabbed his notebook and turned to leave. “You honestly think that you, that you, can answer that?” he exclaimed, pointing to the board. “If I can’t, as far as I’m concerned, some ignorant person isn’t going to.”

Nick strolled over to the board. “Catch,” he said simply, tossing a bright blue marker over to the man. Dalyn caught it with his free hand.

“Write,” said Nick, indicating the board.

“I can’t write! That’s just it! If I could write, everything’d be normal again. But that damn question!”

“Why do you care about the thing anyway?” Nick inquired. “It’s just a question. Everyone’s got one.”

“Yes! But!” Dalyn sighed. “It was sent to me. By a fan. Everyone sends me questions just to try and see if I can’t answer them. And I do. I answer every one of them! But then someone goes and sends me their damn life story and ends it in that. And what am I supposed to say to that?”

“How about ‘I’m a busy man, go bother someone else?’”

“But then if I ask it to myself I still don’t know the answer!” Dalyn leaned against the table, staring down. He picked his head up again and gave the question a glance before turning his head away from it.

“That’s easy,” said Nick. “Any idiot who read your notebook knows exactly who you are.”

“Oh really? And who’s that?”

“You’re a poet, Mr. Blackpool. And by the look of things, a damn good one. Now write something.”

“I can’t write!”

“Yes, you can! You’re a poet! That’s what you are! And poets write! So write something!”

“You’re an ass,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I just want to go home!”

“And you’re going to be better off there, are ya?”

“Well, no…” Dalyn turned to the board again.

“Write something,” Nick whispered. “Write anything. No one cares what. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He left.

Dalyn uncapped the marker, the pop audible in the silence of the room. He wrote something. It was corny. But it was something.

***

Nick had lied. Well, he hadn’t exactly. No one really defined what “a moment” was. It’s never been a unit of measurement. It’s mostly a polite way of saying “when I feel like it.”

And Nick felt like checking in on him about two hours later. He entered the store again with Chinese food and sat next to a bookshelf. Jameson walked past and had a rather intelligent conversation about the fact that his television wasn’t working, which ended in him determining that he did not, in fact, own a television.

His manager commented on the proper places one should be eating, which did not include the floor of the bookstore he worked in. A moment later—that is, when he felt like it—he moved over to a table of books, pushed a few aside, and sat there.

Something caught his eye. It was Dalyn Blackpool, asleep in a chair on the other end of the store. With a comment about déjà vu, he stood up, replaced the books, threw out the Chinese, and went over to see.

Yes, that was him all right. His five o’clock shadow, wrinkled eyelids, and completely disheveled suit all contributed to the look of a very tired poet, or a homeless man that stole a suit. He glanced at his notebook, which was open to two full pages of solid poetry. Curious, Nick quietly ran over to the break room, and discovered the phrase “I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it” in indigo on the whiteboard. In smaller text was the phrase “How stupid am I?” He laughed and erased it.

Tapping the sleeping author on his shoulder, Nick watched Dalyn’s eyelids flutter. He opened them fully, and looked over at Nick.

“Good evening,” said Nick cheerfully. “Have a good nap?”

“Yeah,” grunted Dalyn. “Just a moment. I can’t see.”

“Contacts?” Nick wondered.

“No, it’s like… I just see a mess of colors everywhere. Total mess. I mean, it’s all over the lights, and around people, and sometimes even in words. You know what I mean? When you just wake up?”

“Sure,” Nick said, confused.

“I just want you to know,” said Dalyn, his eyes shut again, “that was the most idiotic answer I’ve ever heard to that question.”

“Thanks,” said Nick. He meant it.

“It worked, though.” Dalyn rubbed his eyes. “I can’t thank you enough. You’re still an ass, I just want you to know that.”

Nick nodded. “Perhaps we’ll never run into each other again.”

“God willing,” said Dalyn. “I’m sure I’ll want to buy some more books, though.”

“Don’t ask me,” said Nick. “You were insane the other day.”

“Yes, well, I was hoping something I read would give me the answer. Something old, or new, or something. Just something deep. Ah, well.” He got up unsteadily. “Thanks for the assistance.”

“Bye.” Nick walked off, pulling out an iPod.

Dalyn steadied himself on the chair’s armrest. He nodded, then gathered his notebook and pencil. After another glance back, he left.

Nicholas Earthenwhare watched the poet leave. “He’ll be back,” he told himself. “He’s just crazy enough.”