I sat staring at the blank page in front of me. This should be easy, I’ve done it a hundred times, a thousand even. I just needed to start. Just find the words and start writing. I had started a project at the beginning of the year where I was going to write and publish a short story every month. I thought it would be simple. Write the first draft the first week, edit it the second week, and the third week publish. Well, the end of the month was less than a week away and I was still on the first page of the first draft. What was I going to write about? What imagined story was I going to come up with that was going to capture the hearts and minds of my devoted five or six blog readers? The more I thought about it the more it felt like I was choking trying to get the words out. There was a… what? A man? A woman? A stuffed bear? After fifteen years you would think this would be easier.

         I tried to rest, relax my mind. I was putting too much pressure to come up with something clever or heartwarming, something thought-provoking. I did that pen twirl thing while I tried to distract myself, where you twirl it behind your thumb. It feels counter-intuitive, how does the momentum carry it around like that? I don’t know because I was never able to do it. Instead, I just threw my pen on the floor and watched it roll under the couch.

         I squatted down and looked under the couch for it but couldn’t see anything past the dusty gym equipment and tufts of cat hair. I reached in blindly, could feel the fur sticking to my hand as I slapped with wild abandon. There was growing anxiety as I swept my arm back and forth without finding the pen. Why? It was only a pen, it shouldn’t matter. There were three or four sitting in a tin on my coffee table. But where was this one? Lost in the void of the couch. It was imperative that I find it, rescue it. We had been together so long, written so many words together. I wasn’t about to give up on it now.

         There was a knock at the door. Thank god, I didn’t want to keep looking for the pen but needed an excuse to avoid writing. Not to avoid, but to let the ideas marinate and germinate, so I told myself.

         I answered the door. It was my neighbour Alex from two doors down the hall. We’d chatted a bit in the hall when passing each other, but never more than that. He was fidgety, couldn’t keep his hands still. I’d never seen him that way. He had always seemed so calm and cool in the hallway. Even when the fire alarm went off. While the rest of us scrambled around, Alex casually strolled to a panel, popped it open with a knife, flicked a switch, and turned the bell off.

         He wasn’t like that on this day. He was frenetic, disheveled. “He-Hey man, what’s going on?” He asked.

         “Not much, everything all right?”

       “Do you have a USB drive I could borrow? Eight gigs or higher?” He looked up and down the hall nervously like he was waiting for someone to jump out at him.

         “Yeah, I should have something, come on in.” I held the door open and he followed me in. I looked around my cluttered coffee table, sure I’d seen one there a couple of days ago. While I hunted, I asked him what he needed it for. Just casual conversation, I assumed he wanted to transfer some stuff over. Though he seemed oddly specific about the size.

         “I need to back up my whole computer,”

         “Whoa,” I started to say, but he interrupted me.

               It just started yesterday – Christ was that only yesterday? I haven’t slept since, but it feels like it’s been three or four days, maybe a week. Anyway, yesterday I got an email from Facebook saying that my password has been successfully changed. I was confused because I hadn’t changed anything, but I wasn’t panicked yet, just curious. Maybe the email was a scam trying to get me to click a link or something. I opened Facebook on my laptop, which was already signed in, and went to the settings area to see where else I was logged in. I didn’t have a chance to open it as I was kicked off and faced with the login screen. Now I’m starting to sweat as I put in my info. Login name, password, sign in – incorrect password. No, no, no, no. I try again, being really careful to make sure I got my password right. You know, really holding down the shift key for the capital letters as if that were the problem. Doesn’t work. I have no idea what to do next, I’m trying to think of a way to get in touch with Facebook and let them know what happened. I’m trying to remain positive, hoping this is some weird glitch after an update and not… something else. Then my phone starts blowing up with emails. Your Instagram password has been successfully changed. Your PayPal password has been successfully changed. Now I’m in full-blown panic mode. I’ve been hacked, and they’re going in and getting access to all my info. I immediately go out and buy some anti-virus software – premium package, I’m not taking any chances. I’ve heard stories of people getting locked out of their computers and getting a ransom email for thousands of dollars or else. As that’s running on my laptop I remember I still had my phone. Everything is already logged in there. It’s a slim chance but I open up Facebook. I’m not immediately booted out which is a good sign. I go in and I’m able to change my password. Okay, I’m thinking to myself, we’re off to a good start. I check where else I’m logged in and it says Russia. Goddamit. With my phone, I’m able to get in and start changing my passwords back, but literally, as I’m doing that, I’m getting emails saying that my Facebook password has been successfully changed again. It’s like they’re right behind me changing everything again. I’m taking screenshots of everything, the huge list of e-mails, and I sent them to Facebook and other places asking them to close down my accounts until I can figure this out. Thankfully nothing was tied directly to my bank. They drained a few bucks from my PayPal but weren’t able to get access anywhere else – yet. So I was up all night dealing with that, sending emails, researching what to do, and also how to prevent it from happening again. Apparently they have bots that will just cycle through possible and common passwords, so you need to make your passwords as complicated as possible. Even having like, a long sentence isn’t always enough, because most people use full words, so they’re trained – or I guess programmed – to recognize those patterns. So it has to be completely random, with letters and numbers and symbols. And each password should be different. But that’s crazy, right? Who’s going to remember all of those? And you can’t keep them on your phone because what if that gets hacked? Then they’ve got everything! A friend of mine suggested I completely clean out my computer and reinstall Windows, so I’m going to try that. Hopefully it does something. Otherwise, I don’t know. Do I just keep fighting them until they get tired and think it isn’t worth it?  It’s not like I have a lot of money that they can steal. I’ve got my client information, but that’s mostly contact info and some email chains, nothing they could use to hack them as well, I don’t think. And why me? Who am I? I’m just a freelance marketer living in a one-bedroom apartment. It’s not like I have access to any sort of sensitive information. Goddamit. So yeah, I need to borrow a USB drive to back up my computer and clean it out.

               I thought he’d never stop talking, just transition from this problem into something else. Computers, viruses’, clients, software; what a nerd. Seriously, couldn’t he see I was in the middle of something? I needed to get him gone. “Right, well, that’s some shit eh?” I found the USB stick and handed it to him. “I hope this works out for you.” There was a burst of music out in the hallway, though music might have been a generous term. It was more a cacophony of noise masquerading as music. We both looked down the hall and saw other Alex pull something inside his apartment and shut the door. The music cut out as his door latched closed and an almost deafening silence filled the hallway.

         “That guy…” Alex’s voice trailed off.

         “Yeah,” I said, hoping he’d leave it at that. The page was calling to me.

         “I was walking by and his door was cracked open, that loud metal music blaring out. I only saw a sliver of the apartment, but it looked like it was completely black in there. And I’m pretty sure there was one of those,” he mined with his hands. “Satan stars, or whatever you call them.”

         “Wow, crazy,” I had work to do, it was time that I shut this conversation down. I’d spent enough time distracted; it was time to get back to work. “Anyway, let me know how that works out for you.” I started to slowly close the door on him. He was mumbling something, but I cut him off with the door.

         All right, good, I could finally get some work done. No more fucking around. I sat down on the couch, pad of paper in front of me, pen in han-… where’d my pen go? Right, I had lost it under the couch. I reached under again but still couldn’t find it. All I could feel was the grit of not having vacuumed in a long time.

         That was fine, I didn’t need it. A writer could adapt. I could write in pencil crayon, or marker, if I couldn’t find another pen. Though that did seem a bit ridiculous. I mean, I’m a writer, not a child. I could pull out my laptop, but I didn’t like using that for a first draft. That was typing, not writing. A first draft should be written as an extension of the self. The pen a part of you and writing it down. The act, the glide. The computer came later, with editing. But the first draft should be a part of me.

         I was about to start looking for another pen when my cat sat down next to my legs. He has this habit of sitting there and staring at me, and if I don’t give him attention he’ll reach up and sink his claws into my knee. It’s quite adorable. As he was looking up at me, I could see in his eyes that he was about to do it, so I relented and reached down and began petting him. It was all going according to his plan.

         Fuck it, I thought, I had lost my concentration, lost that flow state I was trying to sink into, I might as well go and get some more pens and other writing supplies. The dollar store was literally a block away, I’d be back in ten minutes. It was enough time to clear my head, reboot, and come back to attack with fresh ideas.

         I love the dollar store. I shouldn’t, it reeks of disposable consumer culture, the antithesis of what I stand for. Still, it’s hard to pass up a good deal sometimes. The place has literally everything; you can buy some dishes and glasses, bathroom supplies, bungee cords, a skipping rope, books, candy, cards, boxes of macaroni and cheese. It’s an entire mall compacted into a single store.

          I could feel my heart start racing at the possibilities as I walked through the door. That’s what I saw in the dollar store, potential. I had to stay focused, I was here with a purpose. I made straight for the school aisle which, along with pens, and notebooks, and binders, also housed paint, canvases, beads, ribbons, all the arts and crafts supplies. More potential but I bypassed it all and grabbed two boxes of pens, and a new notebook just in case.

         I looped around the back end and came down the snack aisle. If I planned on working all day then I needed some brain food, and for me, that was a bag of salt and vinegar chips and some sour candy. I considered rounding out the haul with a chocolate bar but remembered that I was on a diet.

         I went and piled my stuff on the counter in front of the cashier.

         “You must have a big day planned,” she said.

         “Oh yeah, big day. Going to get a lot done I feel like.”

         “I don’t doubt it, with all this sugar booting through your system. You going to eat all this by yourself?” She slowly scanned each item and placed it in a bag.

         “That’s the plan.”

         “Sure you wouldn’t much rather enjoy this with someone?”

         “Well of course I would, but there’s no one around right now.”

         “You know, I get off in half an hour and don’t have any plans today.” A sly smile across her face.

         “Well, you should get yourself a basket of snacks like this and have yourself a night.” I smiled as I tapped my card for the items, gathered them up in my arms, and headed for the door.

         On my way back into the building, I ran into Nikki, the new tenant that had moved in at the end of the hall. I had talked to her a couple of times in passing and she was a lot to handle. I was hoping she would be distracted or have somewhere pressing that she was going; that we could just do The Nod and go about our day. I wasn’t so lucky.

         “Oh, thank god someone’s here. I left my keys in the apartment and can’t get in, do you have your keys?” She was holding a six-pack with only three beers in it, and one open in her hand. I had passed this way not ten minutes ago, how fast was she drinking those beers? As if hearing my thought, she crushed the beer in her hand and stashed the empty can in one of the mailboxes. Not her own. I unlocked the door and she took the lead in. “Seriously, thank you.”

         “No problem,” I was itching to get in my apartment and break open these sour keys.

         “Seriously, I always have my keys on me. The one time I don’t and the door locks on me. This door is like never closed.” She cracked open another beer and took a swig.

         I nodded in agreement and mumbled a half-hearted ‘yeah,’ and thought that would be it. That we’d walk quietly up the stairs and part ways. I was wrong as she grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around.

         Okay but hey, can I ask you something? Like, do you have a problem with me? Have you complained about me at all to the landlord? Because she’s trying to evict me right now saying that there have been “numerous” complaints from people in the building and causing a disturbance or some shit. But she can’t do that, I pay my rent on time. Like if you had a problem with me you’d tell me, right? You know who it probably was, that fucker in number five. He’s such a little weasel, you know what I mean? Seriously, he’s going to tattle on me like a little bitch? Who does that? She also said something about me leaving the doors open or something – but okay, sometimes I leave it unlatched when my ex is going to drop off my kids, so I don’t have to go down and open it and look at his ugly face. But whatever, right? That door is left open half the time anyway. I’m not the only one. Like seriously. And really, if you had a problem you’d say something to me, right? You wouldn’t lie to me? I think he complained to the landlord that I had too many people over too. Like that’s some sort of crime. I pay my rent, I can have people over if I want, it’s my place. I mean come on, it’s a party. We were drinking, smoking a bit of weed, doing some blow; maybe we were a little loud but it’s the end of the week and really, really, I deserved it. If he doesn’t want to have fun that’s fine, but he doesn’t need to be a little bitch about it and ruin everyone else’s fun. Right? Oh, and the water damage. That’s the other thing she’s trying to pin on me to get me out. Apparently there’s some water damage in the apartment that I have to pay for. She’s actually suing me like I might have to go to court to fight her. Okay look, the hole in the wall in the hallway across from my door, that’s my fault. Well, not really but I’ll own up to it. I was having a seizure and the cops had to use the big ram thing to knock down the door to get to me. When they pulled back, they hit the wall and made that hole. But I told her I’d pay for it, so what’s the big deal? But that water was not my fault. You’ve seen my apartment, it’s spotless. I am not a messy person.  And it’s this big stain on the other side of the bathroom from where the shower is. That’s something that’s been there for a while. That’s not on me. When I moved in they were still fixing the place from some leak. I didn’t have a shower for two weeks because whatever numb skull she hired didn’t finish on time. And I’m like, whatever, that’s cool. I’m easygoing, as long as it’s getting done. Like you know that right? I’m easygoing? If you have a problem with me just say it. We’ll work it out. But you don’t have a problem with me, right?

               I managed to get the door closed on her and listened as she stumbled down the hall to her apartment. Freedom at last. I threw my stuff on the table and sat down on the couch. The box of pens was looking at me, the blank page was looking at me, but after that encounter, I was completely drained. I didn’t want to do anything. I told myself that was fine. I had snacks to eat so I decided I’d put the TV on, eat some brain food, and relax until I had more energy. Then I would be ready to tackle my next story.

       I turned on the TV and found a true crime show that detailed how important forensic evidence was to an investigation. Each episode a new case, the evidence they collected, and how it led them to crack the case. I alternated between the chips and the sour candy, that balance of salty and sweet as episode after episode played. That’s the problem with so many streaming services; before one episode has finished, you’re already launching into the next. And it’s just one more episode, right? Not a big deal.

         Before I knew what was happening, I had blown through the afternoon binging episode after episode until I realized it was dinner and I was starving. I had survived the afternoon on nothing but chips and candy. Fifteen-year-old me would have admired what I’d done. My thirty-year-old body was not so pleased. I could make something, I should make something, but I was probably going to order food off an app as I told myself that I didn’t have time to make food because I had to write. There was so much writing to do. I opened a take-out app on my phone and ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and was I feeling fancy today? A little indulgent? Did I feel like treating myself? Of course. So I ordered a milkshake too.

         The app said to expect delivery in twenty minutes. That was a good block of time to get some writing done. I just needed to hammer out the words without thinking. Let the story flow through me. A twenty-minute writing sprint where I wouldn’t stop until my phone went off saying my food was here beginning Now!

         Fresh pen in hand, I stared at the page in front of me. What was I planning on writing about? I needed a story, and for that, I needed an idea. My pen started scrawling across the page: there’s a guy inside a bank vault, locked inside. What’s he doing there? Robbing it? No, too typical. Expected. He’s trying to protect the money? From robbers? No, that’s lame.

         I crumpled up the sheet and threw it on the floor. Fresh start, new idea.

         There is a guy locked inside a room, is it in his house? No, it’s unfamiliar, he just ended up there, woke up there. Great, cool, but where is it? He might not know, but I have to know.

         I don’t know.

         I crumpled it up and tossed it on the ground. Another piece of kindling.

         Maybe a drink would help me, loosen me up, get the creative juices flowing. Some real writerly inspiration. I poured myself a glass of Scotch from the bar and took a swig. Ack, it burned. My eyes teared up as it hit the back of my throat. How do people…?

         Ice, some ice should cut it down. I tossed a couple of cubes in and stirred them around, helping them melt. I took a more subtle sip and my face involuntarily cringed. Better, but still harsh. It needed something more. I found an open half-can of coke in the fridge, it was flat and gross tasting. That wasn’t going to help any. The only other thing I had in my fridge was some cashew milk. It was worth a try.

         I poured in a couple of glugs and watched as the thick off-white milk mixed with the transparent amber scotch. I was quickly regretting my decision but had to commit now. I stirred it with my finger and licked it clean. No, this was not going to be good. But bottoms up.

         I took a swig and nearly spit it back out again. Why was I putting myself through this? This wasn’t enjoyable, wasn’t fun. There was work to be done.

         I sat down in front of the blank page again. All right, time to start writing. Start by freewriting, brainstorm, generate ideas until one leads down a path. I was about to put pen to paper when my phone went off. Dinner was here.

         I walked down the hall with my food when I almost ran into Alex standing outside my door. Other Alex. Alex two.

         “Oh, you’re about to have dinner. I was going to see if you could help me with something.” He spoke slowly, weighing each word as he said it.

         I looked down at my food, grease starting to leak through the brown paper take-out bag. “This can wait.”

         “Really? Are you sure? That’s awesome. This shouldn’t take long.”

         I dropped my food off and followed him to his apartment. My heart was beating faster with every step. I hadn’t asked him what he needed help with, just blindly followed him down the hall. As we got closer I could feel the vibration of his music pounding through the door and rippling down the hallway. He opened the door and the music hit me in the chest. He hit a button and turned it off.

         “Sorry,” he said. “I like my music loud.”

         “That’s fine, I can barely hear it at my place.” I looked around the room in awe, it was everything I had imagined. The place was lit entirely by candles, dim and flickering in the darkness. There were band posters on the walls with names like Animal Fucker and Human Excrement. The walls were all painted black except for a red pentagram that dripped down the walls like blood. I hoped it wasn’t blood. In the dim light, I could barely make out something on the floor, something stacked up like an altar. I had grown increasingly nervous, and seeing the space before me…

         He flicked on the main light and the altar I had once seen spelling out my fate turned into a neatly stacked and organized collection of pre-cut boards.

         Yeah, I’m building this bookcase. I’ve got all the pieces ready; I just need some help putting them together. Oh man, thanks again for helping me with this stuff. Every time I buy one of their pieces I   think it’s going to be really easy; I mean, it’s like adult Lego, right? You just snap it together pretty much. But then I pull it out of the box, and I’m immediately overwhelmed. There are so many small parts to keep track of; screws, little wooden dowels, bits of plastic to lock things in. It’s madness. Yeah, just grab that there and lift it up, I think this board attaches to it. I get the appeal of these stores. On their end I’m sure it’s great, everything is boxed so it probably saves them a bunch on shipping, everything can be stacked easier. And on our end, I don’t know about you, but I get this little sense of accomplishment whenever I manage to actually put one of these together. It’s genius really, making us the consumer – many of who probably aren’t that savvy when it comes to construction – feel involved in the creation of our furniture, even if it is only snapping things together. I’m not sure what comes next, thankfully these instructions are pretty self-explanatory. I love the little wordless guy helping out. Except…no, I think we’re okay. We have to do the same thing with the other pieces, and then bring them together. It’s exciting to create something, but I always get a little worried you know? Like, I’m not licensed or anything, I don’t have formal training, what if I do it wrong? What if I set this up, put my stuff on it, and then it collapses? It’s just books probably, but still, that could be dangerous. And there are always bits left over, a couple screws, and one of those locking things, and I’m thinking, Shit, that’s not good, and that’s when the worry creeps in that I’ve done it wrong, that this thing is definitely coming down. Even though they make the instructions super simple, this thing is almost idiot-proof, but I’m just sure that somehow I’m going to fuck it up. But still, I keep buying them and building them. You just can’t beat those prices, am I right? Now we just have to nail this backboard in and we’re good to go. I know they tell you to anchor to the wall as well, added security, but I never do just in case I want to move it later. This from the guy who is worried about it collapsing! Thanks again for your help man, I really appreciate it. Hey, by the way, I know there’s another Alex in this building so if you want, you can call me Lucy. It’s a band thing, all the guys in my band picked new names – kinda like Marilyn Manson – to create a band persona. This idea that, when we’re on stage, or even just jamming in our practice room, we’re not ourselves anymore. Puts me in this focused mindset. I’m Lucy, and there’s this one thing that I do, so I can just dive headfirst into it. Get this sort of tunnel vision where nothing else matters. You’re probably also wondering why Lucy. To me, Metal is all about going against the grain, against the status quo; kinda like punk only better music. I wanted to go against that idea of gendered names. People see Lucy, Susan, Gabriela, and they’re going to think we’re a bunch of chicks. Then they see us walk out and blow them away. Also, Lucy is short for Lucifer. Have you heard our band before? We’re playing a show next week, on the fourth, you should come and bring some friends. Just stay out of the pit if you’re not ready for that, ha! But seriously, it can get a bit dangerous. We played a show once and one guy got knocked out, lost a couple of teeth. So, just stay clear if you’re not ready. If you want, I could put some on right now. Grab a beer from the fridge, and here…here are some earplugs for you. It can punch pretty hard if you’re not used to it.

               I stopped him there, told him I had to get going. “I’ve got my dinner waiting for me back home, and some writing I really gotta finish.”

               “Oh, yeah totally. Well let me know about that show next week, I’ll get you and a couple friends on the guest list.”

               Before the door was closed behind me there was a small shockwave that propelled me forward as the music kicked back in.

               I got home and my cat had ripped open my bag and destroyed my burger. I don’t think he ate much of it, just left tiny scraps of greasy brown paper everywhere, pulled the burger out of its wrapper and onto the floor, and dissected it, leaving smears of ketchup, mayo, and tomatoes on the floor for me to clean up. At least he hadn’t knocked over my milkshake.

         It was late now, I was tired, but there was still work to be done as I looked down at that damned empty page. I was struck with that old writing adage, Write What You Know. Divine knowledge tossed around in every writing seminar, classroom, and conference. The Muse had finally decided to show up.

         I began writing:

         I sat staring at the blank page in front of me. This should be easy, I’ve done it a hundred times, a thousand even. I just needed to start. Just find the words and start writing.

         I stopped and crumpled up the sheet. Maybe I wouldn’t get a story in this month. That was fine, was anybody even reading them? I turned on the tv and started flicking through Netflix looking for a movie.

         I should go to bed soon. Or I could order another burger.