Tight Spots

Atta slips her head in the door and says, "Did you come up with anything?"
"No." I say and turn back to the window.
It's annoying when she does that but it's for the best because I tend to drift off.
"Is it VChicago time?" I can tell she's stepped into the room. I don't answer her. We must be very close to deadline if she's asking that. It's meant to spur me into a...Whirling Dervish of writing but I don't know if that's going to do the trick today.
"Is Adver over there?"
"His light's on," she confirms and shuts the door. I wonder what Adver's doing. Probably being handed a Pulitzer for investigative journalism.
I had been thinking about writing what I was going to call "Dear White Male" all day, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed it was going to take more research than I wanted to commit. It was going to be me addressing the person who will conduct a mass-shooting at the Star Wars opening. It was going to be a statement on current events. It was going to be tender and thought-provoking and Esquire was going to buy it. But what it was really going to be was just me getting off on predicting a mass-shooting. I'm a regular Nostradamus over here.
Instead of writing any of that I'm looking out the window and imagining fighter jets streaking through the sky, tails of red orange against the blue and then explosions. Wings spinning and crumpling and noses pointing one way and then another. Death Spiral. Not a bad title. I misspell it on a Post-It and get irritated and throw it away.
Now my coffee is ready to drink and I'm wondering if I should write a review on it. Or maybe just do one of those steam of consciousness pieces where I listen to an old song over and over and write as quickly as I can.
A Nintendo Blogger I know texts me "Smash direct in 30 minutes". I don't know what the fuck he's talking about. Sometimes I wonder if people knew what the fuck I was talking about.
Maybe Atta's right. Maybe it is VChicago time. But to do it right I would have to go back and read a lot of old material. Old material that would make me cringe, just like anything I write does ten minutes after I click Publish. I can't even say for sure if the characters from VChicago weren't all just killed off. I hope Forester was, I'll tell you that.
And I keep changing my mind about politics, so I've been avoiding that. Not really sure why I ever cared what those people did. There always seems to be two big brands. And both those brands want your money.
I crack my knuckles and sigh. It was fun being on the road so long with Adver. Mostly fun, I guess. There were some tight spots. But there was something to write about at least. I doubt he'd be too keen on going for another trip anytime soon. If I kidnapped him there would be even more to write about. I imagine stamping a black and white photo of Adver with the word OPTIONS.


Atta slips her head in the door and says, "Did you come up with anything?"