Slice of Life
It was windy outside and I couldn’t write. Every time the smallest flame of an idea would spring into my head, the night would empty its lungs through my window and violently snuff it out. Normally I would be able to close it, but two days ago I had shouted at a group of kids on the street to go play somewhere else because I could not write, and in response they had tossed a baseball at my closed window and shattered the glass. So now it was windy, the garbage bag covering the pane was terrible at its job, and I could not write. As another stroke of air slapped the bag, there was a knock at the door.
It was a blonde I had never seen before. As soon as I opened the door, she walked in and sat herself down on my recliner. It was a minute before I was able to make the obvious inquiry.
“Who the hell are you?"
“What do you mean, baby?” she replied.
“Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing walking into my place like this? And, oh look, you sat on all the papers. I was writing, goddamn it!”
She spoke again without making any move to get up off of them.
“Well I walked into your place because you opened the door, sweetheart, and I’m here because you paid for it. Do you mind if we skip these little games?”
“What?!”
“Honey, the clock is ticking. Are we going to get it going or not?”
It was now ten at night, the wind was louder, I could not write, and there was a prostitute in my room, although she says an escort is the right way to address her. I did not know what to do, and I sure was not going to have sex with this lady when there was still writing to get done, which she did not seem to mind. She told me she could go, but that would be money down the drain, to which I said I did not pay her, to which she said someone did, to which I asked "Why would I care?", to which she said money is money, to which I suppose I had to agree a little. Ultimately, I decided she could spend the hour doing whatever she wanted, given it was windy outside and I suspected she was not wearing much under that jacket of hers. She got a soda from the fridge, picked up a book from my shelf, and started reading in the corner of the living room. I, meanwhile, tried to write.
“So what you writing about, baby?”
“I don’t know yet. But I'm trying to make it something good, you know. I’m trying to write this slice of life story; just a regular guy having a regular day. But it still has to say something, you know. About life and monotony. Something deep like that.”
“Well, you just look like you’re stressing yourself out.”
“It isn’t easy, that's why. Putting words on paper isn’t easy. You gotta make them sound right, and then they have to do something, and then the person reading them has to feel something. It’s all a lot of layers.”
“Still,” she said, “All this time with just a blank paper just looks to me like you should be doing something else.”
“It isn’t easy, okay? Words don’t come easy.”
The prostitute then told me about Noam Chomsky’s theory on Universal Grammar, and how language is hardwired into us from the beginning. She said it means I was wrong and putting words together really should not be as hard as I was making it.
“You know Chomsky, I assume?” she asked.
“YOU know Chomsky?” I replied.
“Sure. Just told you about his theory didn’t I?”
I tried to make sense of it as the prostitute told she had majored in fine arts from Northwestern, and that this job was just a temporary exercise for her as she worked on her debut novel that centered on a prostitute dealing with 21st century attitudes against her profession.
“It’s called method writing, digging into character” she told me, “Makes for a better story when I know what I’m talking about.”
“You’re a writer.”
“Well, a writer-to-be honey. Book’s not written yet. But I write, yes. Nothing you might have read though.”
“So, you’re a writer-to-be, and a fake prostitute?”
“Escort. But oh no, baby. This is method writing! I do all that the job requires. Makes for a better story.”
“So this…this is…I’m going to be in your book?”
“Honey, you had an escort walk into your room with an offer of sex, that you had sit on your couch for a half hour with a drink and a novel. You are definitely going to be in my book.”
When the wind died down, and the garbage bag on my window stopped its spasming, she kissed me on the cheek and left. It was midnight, and I was alone, and I could not write. It had to be a slice of life thing, I knew that much. Something about a regular man doing regular things, but also big. I had no idea where to start.
It was a blonde I had never seen before. As soon as I opened the door, she walked in and sat herself down on my recliner. It was a minute before I was able to make the obvious inquiry.
“Who the hell are you?"
“What do you mean, baby?” she replied.
“Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing walking into my place like this? And, oh look, you sat on all the papers. I was writing, goddamn it!”
She spoke again without making any move to get up off of them.
“Well I walked into your place because you opened the door, sweetheart, and I’m here because you paid for it. Do you mind if we skip these little games?”
“What?!”
“Honey, the clock is ticking. Are we going to get it going or not?”
It was now ten at night, the wind was louder, I could not write, and there was a prostitute in my room, although she says an escort is the right way to address her. I did not know what to do, and I sure was not going to have sex with this lady when there was still writing to get done, which she did not seem to mind. She told me she could go, but that would be money down the drain, to which I said I did not pay her, to which she said someone did, to which I asked "Why would I care?", to which she said money is money, to which I suppose I had to agree a little. Ultimately, I decided she could spend the hour doing whatever she wanted, given it was windy outside and I suspected she was not wearing much under that jacket of hers. She got a soda from the fridge, picked up a book from my shelf, and started reading in the corner of the living room. I, meanwhile, tried to write.
“So what you writing about, baby?”
“I don’t know yet. But I'm trying to make it something good, you know. I’m trying to write this slice of life story; just a regular guy having a regular day. But it still has to say something, you know. About life and monotony. Something deep like that.”
“Well, you just look like you’re stressing yourself out.”
“It isn’t easy, that's why. Putting words on paper isn’t easy. You gotta make them sound right, and then they have to do something, and then the person reading them has to feel something. It’s all a lot of layers.”
“Still,” she said, “All this time with just a blank paper just looks to me like you should be doing something else.”
“It isn’t easy, okay? Words don’t come easy.”
The prostitute then told me about Noam Chomsky’s theory on Universal Grammar, and how language is hardwired into us from the beginning. She said it means I was wrong and putting words together really should not be as hard as I was making it.
“You know Chomsky, I assume?” she asked.
“YOU know Chomsky?” I replied.
“Sure. Just told you about his theory didn’t I?”
I tried to make sense of it as the prostitute told she had majored in fine arts from Northwestern, and that this job was just a temporary exercise for her as she worked on her debut novel that centered on a prostitute dealing with 21st century attitudes against her profession.
“It’s called method writing, digging into character” she told me, “Makes for a better story when I know what I’m talking about.”
“You’re a writer.”
“Well, a writer-to-be honey. Book’s not written yet. But I write, yes. Nothing you might have read though.”
“So, you’re a writer-to-be, and a fake prostitute?”
“Escort. But oh no, baby. This is method writing! I do all that the job requires. Makes for a better story.”
“So this…this is…I’m going to be in your book?”
“Honey, you had an escort walk into your room with an offer of sex, that you had sit on your couch for a half hour with a drink and a novel. You are definitely going to be in my book.”
When the wind died down, and the garbage bag on my window stopped its spasming, she kissed me on the cheek and left. It was midnight, and I was alone, and I could not write. It had to be a slice of life thing, I knew that much. Something about a regular man doing regular things, but also big. I had no idea where to start.
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