the heel press

Jake Freeman had been writing a novel; one that he hoped would define his generation. He dreamed of writing the next “On the Road,” and he wrote very well knowing that she loved him.  He wrote everyday and he worked very hard. He was going to make everyone proud. It was only a matter of time.

He remembered the summers at the lake teaching her how to wake board. He remembered the time she wanted to try kissing under the water, “like that one movie,” she had said. At night they would drink wine and lay on the trampoline for hours and talk while staring at a black sky sprinkled with light from the stars.  She would be wearing his big sweatshirt and her nicely fitting jeans and he would hold her tight as they dreamed about what they didn’t know.  They would get tipsy and fool around and giggle softy and sleep soundly.

She loved how he wrote things to read to her.  She was proud that he had a way with words and she believed that someday many other people would listen to his words. She was sure of it. In her early twenties, it was quite fine and romantic to be in love with a writer, especially one as gifted as Jake.  They never worried about money because it was always fine at the end of the day and any frustration was silenced by their connection. 

He heard a car drive by and then he heard something hit the ground and it snapped him back into reality. He realized that it had been some time before he had moved from his position on the bed. He got up and stretched his way over to the window, cracked the blinds just enough to get a glimpse of the paper-delivery guy pulling away down the street. “Christ,” he said aloud in a half yawn. “What time is it?” He glanced over at the silver-dollar sized alarm clock on his dresser and saw 5:47 A.M. He remembered the time he had crawled into bed earlier in the night, around 3:30, and wondered how the time had passed so quickly. He gave up after a few seconds, walked to a cold, white bathroom, splashed some water on his face, pulled up the shirt he was wearing and patted dry.  Jake remembered how his bathroom wasn't always so empty. He stopped and stared at his face in the mirror.  His eyes were tired looking and red. Underneath, he could make out the faintest hint of dark circles beginning to form. Another night of not sleeping.

He walked a few steps down the hall into the kitchen and opened the fridge to find it nearly empty. Even still, he stared inside for a couple minutes before pulling out a carton of orange juice. He took two large swigs and put the carton back in the fridge, and then he went out to grab the paper. He read at the table until his mind took over. He remembered a conversation he had from the night before with his best friend and co-worker while they took turns tasting a bottle of Jack Daniels.  The “Hungry Moose,” the bar where they worked, was closed for the night.

 “Wait a minute Jake. What’d you expect? They were dating for two years and then they got engaged.”

“I know it. I guess I just figured it wouldn’t always be like that.”

“There just comes a point man, when you got to move on, you know?”

“She used to tell me things though, even when she was with him.”

“Does that matter now?  When is the wedding anyway?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Look Jake.  College was never meant for me, but you, you are too smart for all of this.  You went to that Ivy League and got a degree. But you work at a bar and spend your days trying to come up with the next best thing while you pine over her. I think its real cool that you are trying to be a writer and all, we all know you are good, but you are almost 30. Why not get a real damn job and get paid? Get your damn life together.  Move away from this small town and into a big city. Meet another girl. Start a family. You have all the cards in your deck man. Jesus Christ.  I  mean, I have a kid, and I am hoping to be manager here next year. Is that what you want? I mean, what do you want?”

“To be happy…”

“Christ man, why can’t you make that happen?”

His family would be attending the wedding today.  He wouldn’t go. Not a chance in hell. It was an afternoon wedding in a big church. She never wanted to get married in a church, at least not when she and Jake would talk about it. They talked about getting married on some cliff overlooking some beach where no one would be allowed to wear shoes. He would make a joke or two during the vows and everyone would laugh.  She loved how witty he could be. They would share an eager kiss and they would get chills and they would be married. Everyone would cheer and he would love her and she would love him.

He had always made it a personal goal never to rely on hope.  Sometimes it would get the best of him though, and those nights were always the same. They were nights of listening to “Bright Eyes,” drinking whiskey, and trying to finally write something new. Those nights were always the best to write.  Still, he would try to stop himself at a certain point: the point where his thoughts roamed far past the boundaries of a playful, feel-good longing to the point of a deep and echoing hope rooted in the soul.  But now he knew the truth. After years of telling himself that he didn’t need it, he knew now that his whole life had been based upon hope.  Whenever he fought it back, it came on stronger.

 When she left him, his words were gone and he let the novel be a disheveled collection of manuscripts far from anything worthy of defining a generation.  The whiskey and his newfound perspectives began clouding the novel and ruining it.  Writing for Jake was reduced to scribbling and writing fragments of sentences and words that combined to form something meaningful only to those who have felt the intense pang of miserable loss.  Something had changed.  She was gone. Money. Stability. She had let the world get the best of her. She became frightened.  She decided that there were certain things that Jake wasn’t giving her; none of them being love or happiness.  There wasn’t anytime left to be proud of Jake’s gift.  A gift would meaning nothing to the family she wanted to raise.  She became fragile and when that happens the romantic aura of a writer begins to fade when his years near 30 and he has nothing complete. He wouldn’t abandon his dream, and she didn’t want to leave him.

The wedding had to be happening now. Jake had met him. Her new man was devoid of anything real and passionate but he was nice enough.  You couldn’t hate him and he made a decent enough living. He would probably make a good father and give her a little happiness along the way.

He went to the cabinet to find something that could help him pass the time a bit better. He didn’t care what it was this time.  Jake Freeman just wanted to get through today. Tomorrow maybe he would write something. Tomorrow maybe she would come back to him.