Delhi Hostel
‘He knew,’ I said a loud. ‘What?’ asked Eric. ‘Jeff knew Friday what he was going to do. He finished everything.’ ‘I didn’t notice,’ he replied. ‘I actually wasn’t here for a change.’ ‘Nor was I and to be honest, even if I had been, would I have thought it odd or out of the ordinary?’ I looked out his window and winced at the sight of all that smog and pollution. ‘Look at that. No wonder he did it.’ ‘I got some pictures covering mine,’ explained Eric. ‘The only way I can stand it. I wonder what the view would have been like back when there were still environmental regulations? I heard there was hardly any smog here.’ He, unlike I, was too young to remember those days. ‘Blue skies and on a good day, you could see for miles. On the other side of the building, you could even see Lake Michigan. In the summer, people would even swim there.’ ‘Not now,’ he laughed. ‘Go for a swim now and you’ll never come out alive.’ ‘Well, I’d better go see human resources,’ I shrugged and began the trek. Karma repaid those first six pricks, because my book became an overnight, fucking, sensation. I can’t tell you how many copies we sold, all I know is that my book was everywhere and I made enough money to buy a nice big house. It was great. Of course, once all that happened, then I got the pressure to write my next one. It was coming from the publisher, from the media, and from the readers. I ended up going into hiding in my house to try to isolate myself and write the next fucking one. I spent a month writing notes and making outlines. Then in the next six weeks when I sat down to write it, I managed to type the word ‘The’. Not a simple ‘The dog’ or ‘The man’ or the provocative ‘The fucking’. No, just ‘The’. I was happier in my old, tiny apartment, writing my novel on the weekends and weeknights using my ten year old laptop. Now, I was just losing my mind in a large lonely house, unable to type a sentence. And if I left the house, I had people everywhere asking me how it was fucking.
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