by Zack Scholl

Right now, a songwriter in some dog-shit town in the sticks is composing their derivative, folk-punk-y “opus.” It’ll probably get some attention among a niche group of kids in the next town over; they actually have okay shows there. An author somewhere in the county area is creating a character that will serve as a cookie-cutter model for protagonists in her stories for decades to come. I’m waiting in a parking lot, in silence, by myself, staring. I’m staring at the cars whizzing by on the street. Oh, god, the misplaced urgency. Why everyone is always in such a hurry to die has always escaped me, but to each their own, I guess. Did some author say that, like, a long time ago? Maybe. At least I know I’m just as insightful as whoever the schmuck was who may or may not have said it first. Fuck, I’ve just checked my phone for the fifth time in three minutes. Tisk, tisk. I’m not sure how the hell it’s come to this, but how does anything become anything?

A cocktail of misplaced optimism (which isn’t always so bad, I guess) and informed negligence. ’Least that’s my two cents, anyway.

It’s always the down moments like this where real life happens. This time, I’m trying to reconcile my name with people’s perceptions of other dudes with my name. MY name, though it’s not exclusive to me— “A” name is more like it. Gary. Gary. Gary. The douche-bag antagonist from the Pokemon series: “SMELL YA LATER!” Gary Oldman’s okay, I guess; he’s talented, speaks like he finished grad school…or maybe that’s just the British accent; I’m a sucker for that shit. A British person could sell me a pair of glasses, and I see damn near perfect. Gary……Gaaaaaar-eeeee. Semantic satiation is weird; now my name doesn’t mean anything.

Finally, a green Dodge Caravan pulls up. The rush I felt when I saw those headlights that I’d seen a million times before rivaled my first ever roller coaster ride. More like my first blow job, actually. I was 14 then, and it ruled.

Anyway, the second I saw Jamie’s unkempt, dirty-hippie style dread locks cascade out of the car window, I waved her into my car so ardently that I actually felt my bicep strain to keep pace with my enthusiasm. She obliged, sauntering over to my busted-up lemon like it was a…well…like it was a car that was way nicer than mine. I never gave a shit about cars— it’s always been a weird dissonance between me and my buddies. She put the bags in my glove box, kissed me on the cheek so daintily that she was positive nobody took notice. Neither of us would want them to, but she definitely cares way more than I do about it.

As I drove home, it was just me and a supreme sense of accomplishment. I wrote MY opus. I created MY masterpiece. And all I had to do was sit in a parking lot in silence. I can’t wait to hit pause for the night.