Reveal him under sunlight
Renegade Revamp
The aim of this outing was to distract him, a change of scenery maybe, a conversation with an old acquaintance, fun with a stranger, a stimulating book, and if all went well, a cup of java and a sandwich in the eatery. But as he ambled past the second-hand duds, the castaways, the junk, the throwaways, it felt like his own worthiness was being dragged along, like a cheap suit soaked in embalming fluid. With each step, he felt more strung up, more brittle.
This morning, he had rolled into work brimming with hope. How many words didn't he churn out? Two thousand? This day would be fruitful. A breakthrough. The novel he'd been chasing for four decades seemed to be within his grasp. It was just a matter of weeks, days.
But now, the minx Muse had different plans. Was she off gallivanting with her cackling gang of girlfriends, sipping champagne at some posh soiree?
The writer would never know. What ensued was a marathon staring contest with his Apple MacBook's screen. He had no inkling where the tale should head. Inspiration seemed as elusive as the potato peelings he had toss into the garbage that very evening.
And the questions came easily. Who did he think he was? An author, a novelist, a literati? And why? Because he had published a book eons ago? And how many had been sold? How many had read it? How frequently had it been discussed?
A few weeks following its debut, the book had already been swept under the rug. Gobbled up by the voracious tidal waves of new publications, films, TV series. Ground to dust by the gnashing teeth of time.
He had soldiered on, writing. As an insignificant speck. In his insignificant corner. He attempted other jobs. He dabbled in various professions. Taxi driver, house painter, assistant pastor, gardener, curtain salesman, plumber, forensic analyst.
Each endeavor had ended in defeat. The narratives continued to haunt his mind. And he had no choice but to pen them down. Whether he liked it or not. Hence, the wrecks with the taxi, the mess with the painting, the cursing from the pulpit, his financial ruin as a plumber.
"May I sit here?" A voice interrupts his reverie. A woman settles down opposite him at the eccentric oval oak table. She starts flipping through a yellowed book. Behind her, rows of books stretch out like a library. Nature, art, literature, well-being, science, religion, biographies, royals, politics—all categorized to create a cozy ambiance, with armchairs, posters of famous scribes, piano music, and oriental rugs.
Should he give up writing, the author wonders. As he watches the stacks of discarded tomes. How many sleepless nights, creative sparks, and aggravation had the artist invested in these unwanted novels? Did they ever dream of this fate? To wind up as cast-offs in a second-hand store, alongside discarded clothing, furniture? The lampshades, carpets, toys, LPs?
The woman erupts in hearty laughter. She appears to be reading something amusing. She apologizes, but she can't help but murmur to herself. "This is so well written! Why isn't this book more popular? What humor, what wisdom!"
The scribe steals glances at the discarded CD players but can't help his gaze wandering to the woman. Is he envious? Because she is so genuinely lively, so full of spirit, so vibrant? Or does it hurt him that there are writers who are read? That there are books that touch people. That matter. That have a right to exist.
Then she rises. She slides the book toward him. "Go ahead, read this," she said. "This is the best thing I've read in years. And I just found it here among all these other second-hand books."
He regards the booklet like it were a parcel falsely delivered. Then he furrows his brow. Did he know the publishing house? Hadn't he seen it before? He picks up the novel from the table and reads the title. With his name above it.
- Curiosity piqued, he decided to explore the books, hoping to stumble upon a fascinating read from the science or literature section, or perhaps an intriguing title on home-and-garden or lifestyle.
- As he sank into an armchair, the soothing piano music from the entertainment system filled the room, briefly transporting him out of his turmoil and making him long for the days when music was his primary passion.
- After finishing the captivating book, he found himself immersed in thought, pondering the politics behind the book's underperformance and why some books resonate with the masses, while others, like his own, remain hidden gems in second-hand stores.
