Chapter 2

"'The door was beckoning?' I hate to say this Dave, but it's crap. It's all crap." Gen shook his head and passed the sheets of paper back across the table. The bottom page stained slightly on an oily residue left over from the meal.

Dave sighed and leaned back in his chair. He had hoped for a better response, but Gen simply wasn't cooperating. As usual. Lunch's inability to settle comfortably in his stomach didn't help the discussion any, but it often tried by interjecting an occasional distended rumble.

Gen tapped the wooden table impatiently with his fingers and leaned forward, his baritone rising above the ambient hubbub of the campus center cafeteria.

"Dave. I know you like to write and all, and the concept of your little narrative here certainly is intriguing. As much as I can gather, it captures the essence of what you're trying to portray: this idea of a third-but-really-more-first person perspective. It's even moderately innovative."

Dave smiled inwardly.

"I say innovative because it doesn't really resemble anything I've read before. Perhaps that's because the prospect of reading page after page after page of someone else's thoughts (especially someone as dull as yourself) makes even the prospect of snorting the ashes of my dead cat mildly attractive. There's a reason why people hate Salinger, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Holden Caulfield is an asshole and everything to do with the fact that no one really cares."

Dave frowned outwardly.

"No one. We are all far too occupied with our own lumberjacks and cereal bowls to care about yours. But even if you were able to lead an interesting thought life and captivate the nameless hordes with your writing, there's another reason you can't do this."

Gen leaned closer, the smell of his breath amplifying the uncomfortable effects of the imitation chinese food.

"You intend to tell people the story of your life. You intend to give them a real-time description of what it means to be Dave; to let them see your thoughts the way you see them; to let them understand, if only for a moment, what it means to struggle. You will realize, if you haven't already, that what you intend to do is bare the inner mechanics of your very soul to those hordes, those masses who care nothing about your arrogant breakfast substances, much less the essence your spirit. You intend to reveal intimacies reserved for the mentally insane and deities, to prostitute your very self in a display that will only end in grotesque boredom, disappointment, and shame.

The reason why you can't write this book, much less publish it, is because you won't. Any sanity left in that thick head of yours is doomed: doomed to frustrate your efforts because it realizes what must be done to achieve the effect you desire. It understands that you will have to expose and agitate your deepest insecurities and sins, every livid thing you despise and abhor in life. It understands that you will be eviscerating your soul and crucifying its bleeding remains in public for the world to scorn."

He lapsed into silence. The cafeteria would have been reasonably silent as well if it weren't for the raucous laughter of the atheletes sitting behind Gen. He threw them a disdainful look before returning his stare to the greasy table and wrinkled papers. His face was vacant with thought, as it often was these days. In most other occasions, Dave would have felt pity for his roommate, this saddened cynic holed up in the recesses of his own mind.

Not today. Dave didn't take criticism well.

Gen glanced furtively around the room, growing in discomfort and fitfulness.

"And for what end, Dave? For what purpose? So you can say you published some book? Tell me, how many words are you willing to sell your soul for? A thousand? A million? You seek to tell the truth about yourself, but how many lies will you craft to hide it? You taint your own words merely by writing them. The human mind wasn't made to bear this trial, this invasion of self. You and your retarted book are destined for failure. And I'm glad for it."

He set his elbows firmly on the table, head in hands. The squarish table was small and rocked slightly from the onslaught, plates and silverware clattering. Dave instinctively stiffened his back and pulled away from his roommate. He was caught off guard by this vicious denunciation; though he had anticipated some criticism, this was a bit much.

Gen lifted his head and hestitantly motioned for Dave to draw closer. Dave reluctantly inclined his ear, steeling his nerves against the hot and labored breath.

"You... have you seen a therapist recently? Psychological evaluation? I know several good ones..."

That was it. The last straw.

Dave promptly straightened again and stared at Gen, eyes narrowing and gauging the distance across the table. If he did it swiftly enough... roommate or not, Gen had to go.

He strangled Gen.

The atheletes' silence was overwhelming, but Dave could only hear the sharp choking noises and gasps of his soon-to-be former roommate. Gen's eyes widened, pupils contracting in shock. It was okay; they would relax soon enough.

Dave's hands gripped Gen's throat tightly, squeezing frantically in frustration at being unable to asphixiate their nemesis more quickly. Gen's aural cartilage snapped and popped in multiple directions, hastening the process and amplifying the pain. All the more fitting for such a bastar...

"Dave? A therapist, no?" Gen looked genuinely concerned.

Dave imperceptibly shook his head. His hands were gripping the edge of the table; tense, but not noticeably so. The atheletes were still laughing, the sun still shining, and Gen still alive and oblivious of Dave's little reverie. Not that it would matter if he had known anyway; the two of them weren't roommates for nothing. And Gen wasn't suggesting psychotherapy for nothing either.

Dave abruptly rose. "No, I don't need a shrink; I have you. I've got to go." He stuffed the abused and saddened pages into his pocket, grabbed his tray, and rapidly endeavored to dispose of his trash in a proper and fitting manner. Gen was momentarily startled, but less by Dave's actions than a revelation.

"You're still going to write it, aren't you?"

No reply. Dave placed the silverware in its appropriate receptacle and carefully laid the tray to rest in the indicated location. He hastened past the atheletes and towards the door, trying to escape the words he knew would come next.

"You think you're the misunderstood artist, the wounded healer, the literary savior. But you're only a fool; a damned, wretched fool!" Gen sat back and laughed. And laughed. Dave left.

The atheletes didn't care.