poems have possibilities [1/6]
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Jensen
Jensen looked up at the summer sun, the bright white light in the centre of a too blue sky making him squint. It was hot. Too hot. He felt claustrophobic in his t-shirt, wrapped up and all his senses muffled. He tugged at the neck of his t-shirt. Swallowing, his throat clicking dryly, he swiped a hand across his forehead.
Jensen opened the door to his bookstore, the darkly stained wood the colour of the richest chocolate, warm and familiar. He smoothed his thumb over the brass doorknob, a small smile cracking across his cheeks. Most mornings, he opened the shore with this bittersweet feeling, a seven-month grief weighing him down.
The jingle of the bell greeted him, far too cheery this early in the morning. The store was warm, thick heavy air filled with that distinct scent of books, the crisp freshness of the new ones, the mustiness of the old. The door closed behind him with a loud snick, the ‘open’ sign clacking against the glass panelling. A head popped out from the door behind the counter, black hair tousled and sticking up every which way. His white shirt was bright against his dark skin but crumpled and buttoned up wrong. He held a cup of steaming coffee in one hand.
Jensen braced himself. Stopped in the middle of the floor, wooden floorboards creaking lightly, surrounded by other people’s words, so much better than his own.
“So, you write anything?” Jakob asked, a twist to his lips. It was almost a smirk but too gentle, his almond eyes kind, knowing. Jensen heard the same words every single day for the past eight months. His answer was always the same. He shrugged, eyes slanting to the ground, shoulders curving in, this defeated slump Jensen hated to feel. Hated that it was even there, this physical tick so new to him.
Jakob took a look at him, took in the bags beneath Jensen’s eyes. Jensen squirmed.
“You sleep at all?” Jakob asked.
This is why you should never work with your friends, Jensen thought. They know you far too well, know how to read you. They never let you off the hook, relentless. Jensen sighed, not an answer, didn’t really give one. He gave nothing but a smile for Jakob, a hint to drop it. Jakob offered the coffee in his hand, an apology.
Maybe working with a friend isn’t so bad. Jensen inhaled the smell, deep and rich, and gulped the coffee down. Jakob smirked at him this time, a true smirk, jovial and mocking. He turned, went back through the door to continue sorting through the new stock they received the day before.
Jensen leaned heavily against the counter, deflating suddenly without Jakob’s presence to buoy him up. He looked down at the wood of the counter, the irregular knot and whorls. Stained just as dark as the door, it offered a contrast to the clean white of the walls, the honey-toned wood of the floor. He’d had this place seven months, just under, maybe, he didn’t watch the passing of time, stuck as he was. Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe it was his, this small little bookstore, tucked beside a busy coffee shop just outside Richardson. It looked onto a park, green as they come, kids shrieking in the playground and dogs barking, family days out on Saturdays when the sun was out, picnics and Frisbees, football tackles. It wasn’t hard to understand why his Dad had loved this place but it only made it difficult for Jensen.
He lived a ten-minute walk away, up the street and round the corner. He owned a car but left it parked on the street outside his apartment, only used it when he wanted to visit his parents’ home, even though taking the bus was probably quicker. But when he went to visit, only his mother opened the door to greet him. Jensen stared down at the dregs of coffee in his mug, thought just her, now, and it echoed horribly in his head, rolled like that jagged, cold stone in his stomach. Sometime Jensen couldn’t stand it, couldn’t bear to think about it, but how could he avoid it here? In this little place, the home of a father’s dream, the dream a son took up and floundered in, a little boy lost without his father.
Jensen shuddered, pushed the coffee along the counter, took off his jacket when he felt sweat slide down his back, and walked to the backroom, hung it up and went to help Jakob. Forced a laugh at Jakob’s wrongly buttoned shirt. He poked at the other man’s stomach.
“You get dressed in the dark or lose your glasses, old man?”
Jakob mock-growled and said, “I’m not the one who actually wears glasses, old man.
He poked back, a vicious jabbing finger, making Jensen yelp and wince. His laughter echoed around the room, big and braying but infectious. Jensen laughed for real this time, a quiet thing barely getting past his lips, but real. Jakob had that effect on people, a joker, easy with laughter, easier still with flapping hands and poking fingers, but he was kind and gentle. He was Jensen’s oldest friend, knew enough when to press and when to step back; Jensen couldn’t ask for better.
“Yeah, yeah, sticks and stones, but you’re the one who still needs mommy dearest to help him dress in the morning.”
“You motherfucker,” Jakob laughed and leapt on Jensen, those hands flying, a tickle-attack.
Jensen didn’t think for the rest of the day. He couldn’t do it in this place, not yet, seven months later still seven months too soon. So he tamped the words down, worthless now, and read those of other people, better words, helped his customers, superficial words not worth remembering, nothing but here go, ma’am, sir, only $14.99, come again soon. Jokes with Jakob, words that were full of laughter and life, but a liveliness that didn’t belong to Jensen.
And when he went home, arrived at seven on the dot, he ate dinner alone, watched tv, read. All those words surrounded him, taunted him, and he couldn’t do it, even though he sat at his mahogany desk, maybe the most expensive thing he owned, barring his flatscreen sitting in the bookcase. Every night Jensen sat there, every night since the last book was published, since the last poem was written and Jensen was drained, surrounded by words but not full of them. He had nothing to say anymore. Sometimes his agent called, not a yelling kind of man, but his voice was hard, unyielding. Didn’t allow any excuses.
“Jensen, son, I know that you’re still grieving and I understand that, I do,” Robert O’Callaghan often stated, “but you must start writing again. D.S. Winchester will only last as long as you keep the public interested. Not writing equals an uninterested public.”
Jensen rolled his eyes.
“You are popular and people love your stuff but that can only last so long. Public affection is a fickle thing.” A favourite saying that made no sense to Jensen. Who cares about the fucking public, he wanted to yell every time, who fucking cares? My father is fucking dead.
After those phone calls, well-meaning in their intention but devoid of any actual help, Jensen would curl up in bed, aware of how pathetic he was, wishing so many things, maybe for a fairytale or two, some good luck. Useless things now, he knew. But most of the time, he sat at his desk. He stared unseeing out his bay window that looks upon the green lawn in front of the apartment building. He always had an open notebook in front of him, a pen held in his hand, fingers twirling it like a baton and his laptop open, on but with the screensaver flashing. Jensen sat there until the early hours of the morning, watching the sky wash in colours of pink and red and blue and he knew it was beautiful, wonderful, colourful. But it was as if he couldn’t see the colours anymore, couldn’t feel them.
And then he would uncurl himself, pull himself out of wherever he had drifted too and shower, get dressed, walk to the bookstore, same as every day.
Wash, rinse and repeat. Same routine, stagnant, stale. Jensen static and stalling.
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