box of Jack

“Yeah, it makes me want to start writing again.” “You should. I enjoyed reading.” That’s all the permission I need. Today’s task: five stories about writer’s block.

I’ll break it up with some semi-related photos (all licensed under Creative Commons).

One

“How old are you?”

The mirror doesn’t reply. Sometimes, when I ask myself questions in the mirror, I get a reply. I see my eyes looking back at me waiting for an answer and I start to feel guilty that I don’t have one so I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind. And you know what? The answers are not always stupid.

I think I am sick of being single. It’s been almost 4 years since I’ve been on a date. I’m not even 30 yet. Most people wait until they’re 30 to go so long without a relationship. In your twenties, people are meant to just hook up instinctually. You sort of pair up like it was some sort of dance lesson, mechanically repeat the steps and awkwardly thank them when your time is up.

“Thanks, haha. That was umm… nice. You’re good at this.”

But everything changes when you’re 30, right? I’ll have to ask my 30-year-old friends and ask them if anything changes. Maybe the instant you become 30, a switch is flicked and all you want to do is own land and talk about how much you like to eat quiche. That’s what my 32-year-old friend likes to do.

In the mirror, I see my 30-year-old self. It looks like I started going to the gym because I’ve lost some weight. I started parting my hair differently too. He says, “Damn. It’s good to own land.” He plays with the wedding band on his finger and grins.

Two

Today’s the day I help my best friend write his wedding vows. It feels kind of special because he loves this girl to pieces and he’s trusting me with this and I wonder if I should dress appropriately for the occasion. If I pick out something especially for this, I can look back at it and say, “Here’s what I wore when I helped my best friend put his love into words.”

I like the supporting role. If I played volleyball, I would be the guy at the back it knocks to ball to the tall guy so he can spike it. If I was in the army, I’d be the guy with the binoculars so I could tell people where to aim. If I was a little brother, I’d be the one that would pack two bottles of water and maybe a bag of chips when you decided you were running away forever. I’d also leave a note for mum under my pillow so she’d know when to expect us home for dinner.

I don’t think Alex will mind that I helped her husband-to-be write his vows. She already knows exactly how her husband feels so these vows are really more for everyone else: the photographer, the uncle with $8000 worth of video equipment, the people that are still learning what Love is and anyone who is gracious enough to make her the centre of attention for a day.

Ok, so I didn’t pick out a special outfit. I grabbed the first clean shirt I could find. I don’t want to remember which one it is because that’s kind of getting overly sentimental. Especially since it’s not even my wedding. I will save this sentiment for my wedding.

Three

“It’s a wheelbarrow, right? And this wheelbarrow is going to be filled with nails and we’re going to find a big green, grassy hill and push this wheelbarrow down the hill and film it. When it reaches the bottom of the hill, it’s going to tip over and we’ll push in on the nails and we’ll see a flickering light bulb is buried in the midst of everything.”

“Why not screws?”

“It has to be nails. Screws are too ambiguous.”

Johnny nods in agreement. This project feels good.

So the backstory: I’m sick of writing advertising copy and dealing sleeping pills to burnt-out mothers and manic depressives so I woke up last year and decided to make silent short films. This wheelbarrow movie is actually inspired by a porn movie that I saw in an out-of-the-way theater. It was my lunch break and during the forty-five minutes I spent in there, I devoted my time equally between being grossed out by a mass of human flesh being portrayed on a 50-foot screen and the grunting of the two men sitting two rows in front of me. I found it fascinating that these two preferred to watch and masturbate right next to each other rather than sit a few seats apart.

So the wheelbarrow is the movie theatre and the nails are me, the two guys, and every lonely person in the world. The light bulb is the movie. Or maybe it represents the moment of orgasm. Maybe it is a symbol of when you flick on a light bulb and everything is suddenly in this clear light but really, it’s kind of ugly and you wished you stayed in the dark. That is kind of what it’s like to masturbate yourself to orgasm in a porno theatre.

“Johnny.”

“Yeah?”

“We need to get a light bulb and some sort of battery pack so the bulb can flicker.”

Four

“There’s a reason why they call them bored games.” She whips off her blouse and lets it drop slowly to the floor. I add it to my growing pile of clothes.

Our impromptu version of Strip Monopoly has some problems with it. It would have been a better idea to just Google someone else’s rules. The large-scale housing developments that I have instigated on Park Place and Boardwalk had essentially turned the effort into a game where I was the abusive landlord and she was the down-on-her-luck college student with no way to pay the rent.

Her actual landlord was a disgusting man. This role-play did not float my boat, so to speak.

I let my hand rest on the warmth of her blouse and stare at her bare shoulders. “Ok then, let me paint you.”

“You want to paint a portrait of me? I didn’t know you could paint that well.”

“I can’t paint at all. My roommate has all this body paint that he’s using for a show, I think I can do something creative with it.”

“I’m ticklish.”

“Even better.”

Five

My bank teller is hot. I shoot off the text message to my girlfriend and wait for her reply.

In the meantime, the teller, “Rachel”, smiles pleasantly at me as she waits for the computer to load up my details. “Database is slow today,” she explains. I don’t even know what a Database is, it sounds like a spaceship or a brand of cassette tape.

I look down at my phone. Get her number then, wiseass. I return Rachel’s smile and make small talk, “Busy day today?”

“No busier than usual for this time of year. I could use a vacation though.”

Here’s an opening for more conversation. Vacations are a very open topic, we could continue this and then I could get her number and rub it in my girlfriend’s face. But… how? I’ll make her talk about herself, “When was your last vacation?”

“Oh I went to Malaysia nine months ago. They have a fight club down there and it’s just so exciting.” The computer is responding again because she’s clicking around now. “All done! Will there be anything else I can help you with?”

I’m caught by surprise. “Umm… you could give me your number.”

She hands me a brochure, “This is our number that you can use for all inquiries including general banking, account management and information about our products.”

I pause; then I take the pamphlet and leave the bank. I am totally going out with her this Friday, I text.

The girlfriend replies quickly, What’s she like? Is she hotter than me?

She’s a brunette. Great figure, big blue eyes. She goes to fight clubs. She’s probably hotter than you in bed.

Ok you can break up with me now.