1Wheels
Books were ugly, mocking things.
Anna huffed angrily as she slid the last book on her cart into its proper place on the shelf. Every single book that surrounded her in the small, cramped bookstore was a testament to her failure as an author. She hated the things.
And so she found herself glaring heatedly at the complete works of Faulkner- as she usually found herself doing, these days- until she was startled out of her reverie by the curious sound of a collision, followed shortly after by a groan of pain. Anna frowned at the peculiar noise and quickly spun around, rushing to the front door and pulling it open; the bell chiming in acknowledgement of her departure. An elderly man sporting suspenders sat beside a rather wounded-looking bike, gripping his knee and shooting the small, blue, offending mailbox irritated looks.
"Did it insult your mother, or something?" Anna questioned from her place in the doorway, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The elderly man looked up from his injured knee and grimaced.
"If only. She was quite the cow, I must say. Alas, it appears as if the chain has fought the good fight and lost," he let out a laboured sigh, struggling to hoist himself off of the pavement. Anna quickly rushed to his side and aided him towards the nearest bench.
"Let me take a look at it. I'm sure I can salvage it," she set him gently on the bench before hurrying over to the bike in question.
"Is it fixable?"
"Oh, yeah," she easily slipped the chain back into its proper place. "There. Easy-peasy. We have the technology, as they say. It looks like your bike will live to fight another battle, sir."
"Oh, smashing. A general is useless without his horse, as they say," he flexed his leg a couple of times, wincing, "or not, actually, since those pesky little things called cars have been invented. Thank you for your assistance, I might add. Better men have passed by without a second glance."
"Well, it was hard to tear myself away from all of the demanding customers," she indicated towards the empty shop, "but I felt like I had to do my civic duty. How's your leg?"
"Oh, it'll be fine after a moment. You wouldn't happen to have a cup of tea on hand, by any chance?"
"Now we're talking. Stay right here."
"So obviously, the smartest choice was to drop out of college and move to France. I mean, how could one not be inspired by the mere presence of the Eiffel tower and the Louvre? If Mr. Eiffel could finish building a tower, then surely I could finish writing a two-hundred page novel, right?" Anna miserably took a sip from her teacup. "Wrong. I got about as far as the first sentence and came down with a severe case of writer's block. That was two years ago. Additionally, you'd think that high-school French would be enough to get you by, but you'd be sorely mistaken. I can order from McDonalds, but that's really about it."
The old man chuckled in response to her frustration. "You're young. You'll soldier through it."
Anna glanced down into her cup, her energy draining as she watched the steaming liquid swirl with tired eyes. "That's just it though. Sometimes I feel like I won't. Like, I'll just be here for the rest of my life, listening to people mispronounce Dostoevsky on a weekly basis. Maybe some people just aren't meant to be writers. I guess not everyone can be Marie Dubois."
A thoughtful frown crossed the old man's face. After a moment of silence, of which Anna spent sipping her tea despondently, he lurched from his seat- with surprising vigour for an elderly man with an injured knee- and turned towards her, an enthusiastic grin lighting up his face. "What's your name, miss?"
"Anna," she replied, her brow knit in confusion.
"Okay, Anna. Meet me at the Rue d'Ulm at eight in the morning," he called out, upturning and mounting his bike. Anna looked on in bewilderment as he sped off down the sidewalk, her tea forgotten.
"I don't get it," Anna announced suddenly as she toyed with the bicycle helmet in her hands, noticing her elderly friend pull up on his bike. "It's École Normale Supérieure. I mean, cool school and all...but why are we here?"
Anna had been standing on the street outside the prestigious establishment for more than twenty minutes, waiting for a sort of epiphany- or at the very least, a sign from God. Her waiting had been in vain, however- unless the Janitor throwing out the trash was supposed to be a metaphor for something. By the time the man with the bicycle had rolled up, the only thing she had to show for her trip was tired feet. He simply leaned his bike against the nearest tree and stood beside her.
"Michel Foucault, the esteemed philosopher and psychologist," he told her simply. Anna felt her eyes narrow in response.
"If there is a lesson here, you might want to get to it. I'll have you know I haven't eaten breakfast and I'm in a fiery mood."
"Did you know Michel Foucault attended this school?" the old man asked her nonchalantly. Anna sent him a wary glance.
"So the guy was a rich bastard. Good for him. What of it?"
"While he attended this school, he was plagued by that pesky beast known as depression. After awhile, his concerned friends took him to see his very first psychologist."
Anna rolled her eyes. "Is this a pep talk or a history lesson?"
"Don't you get it, you daft girl? If Foucault had never suffered from depression, he would have never gone into psychology. If he had not hit his lowest point, he would have never reached his highest. Maybe your writer's block is just a stepping stone to you writing the greatest novel of all time- or even just a harlequin romance, for that matter. The point is that every artist must first suffer in order to create their masterpiece. If it's not hard, then it's not worth it."
Anna stood in silence for a moment, mulling over his words. "You think so?"
The old man clapped her on the shoulder. "You still doubt me after that inspiring speech I just delivered?" he shook her lightly. "Go on, it was inspiring, wasn't it? Could you tell that it was improvised?"
Anna giggled, placing her bicycle helmet on her hairless head. "It was brilliant- quite convincing. I suspect you'll be receiving a call from the academy any day now," she jogged over to the fancy flower garden that she had abandoned her bike in. "So are you up for some cycling? You'll have to promise me not to pick any more fights with mailboxes, though."
"Oh, you think you're funny. I'll have you know I received a hefty bruise from that fight. Also, the mailbox started it."
Anna let out an obnoxious laugh and rung the chimes that adorned her handlebar. "Race you, Wheels!"
She didn't know where the nickname had come from, but when the old man grinned she decided it was better than nothing.
"Anna," an excited voice called from outside the shop, "Anna, come outside!"
Anna lifted her head drowsily from the pile of books she had been resting it on. Squinting through tried eyes, she noticed Wheels standing outside the deserted bookshop with a woven basket in one hand and the other waving at her enthusiastically. Anna let out an annoyed groan that quickly devolved into a yawn and shuffled over towards the door, occasionally tripping over abandoned volumes varying from Victorian-age cookbooks to Candide. She made a vague mental note to clean up in the event that an actual person other than herself was ever to walk through the door.
"Those better be sandwiches," she grumbled, pointing towards the old man's hand basket. Her irritated tone did nothing to affect his upbeat disposition. If anything, his grin grew wider.
"Even better!" he exclaimed, flipping the lid open. "It's a cat!"
Anna stared at the fat, furry creature that was poking its fat, furry head out of the basket. "It is way too early for this."
"I found him in my tomato garden this morning and thought he could use some company," Wheels explained, removing the cat from the basket and placing it on the ground. The cat trotted over towards Anna with an air of dignity and flopped over onto her shoes. Anna picked up the heavy beastie, cradling it awkwardly in her arms.
"Are you sure it's a stray? It looks like it's fed very often."
"It is a he, I'll have you know," he set his bike against the shops' brick wall and moved to enter the store. "And he's got no collar, so I'm calling on the ancient rule of finders' keepers'."
Anna sighed in exasperation and followed Wheels into the store, lugging the chubby feline with her. After closing the door, she turned around to find Wheels picking up the discarded books from the floor and placing them on their designated shelf. "I was going to get around to that," Anna protested, "eventually."
"I can't remember the last time I sat down with a good book," Wheels remarked, his voice laced with a wistfulness that made Anna tilt her head in question. "It's so very hard to find good novels these days. What would you recommend?"
Anna's eyes lit up. "Oh, you haven't really experienced reading until you've read something by Marie Dubois. She was a witty thing- died last year. It was in the papers, I think. Anyway, she wrote these amazing fantasy novels; novels that rivalled Robert Louis Stevenson in their brilliance. Marie wrote of dastardly knights plotting to assassinate the king, a shipwrecked crew discovering a fountain of youth, a grizzled war general and his two grandchildren traveling to other worlds in a hot-air balloon- but my favourite…" Anna dragged one of her fingers along a line of books and stopped when she reached a thick, worn volume. She pulled it out of its place with ease and gazed at the cover with a nostalgic expression. "Oh, my very favourite was this one. 'The Triumphs and Hardships of Amelia Sea: Lady Pirate.' She was the captain of this ship, see, but her own crew hated her because she was- wait for it-" Anna let out a dramatic gasp, "a female. Yes, lady pirates were quite unheard of at the time, but Amelia was the most bloodthirsty and merciless of them all. She struck fear into the hearts of coastal towns. No other captain could match her in a duel. But still, her crew was quite unsupportive, and oftentimes they'd try to overthrow her themselves. Alas, her only ally was her trusted parrot- creatively named Parrot. Parrot was this strange thing that flew down and perched on Amelia's shoulder one day and just never left. Never spoke, either. He did, however, peck the eyes out of Amelia's assailants. Fiercely loyal, that bird. Even if her men hated her, she still had that damn bird."
Wheels was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, and Anna began to absentmindedly pet the purring mass of fur that was accumulated in her arms. "She sounds like a wonderful writer."
"Understatement," Anna chuckled, playing with the ears of cat, who soon grew irritated with the action and swiped at her. Wheels watched the display with quiet amusement.
"I think you should keep the cat," he remarked suddenly. Anna's eyes shot up, alarmed.
"What? No way. This thing is a monster. He'll probably pee on all the books or something. I think he belongs in your tomato garden."
"Anna, where's your crew?"
Anna's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Your crew. Your family, your friends, your colleagues."
"Oh," she murmured softly. "Back home, I suppose. We don't talk often."
"So you've got yourself an unsupportive crew."
Anna lowered her eyes to the cat, tracing patterns in his fur. "I suppose so."
"Then you need a parrot. I do believe this cat just showed up and perched here. I think he's up to the task."
"More like brought here and forced upon me by an old lunatic," she scoffed, placing the cat onto the counter. The feline then proceeded to flop over onto his back. "Okay," she agreed reluctantly, shaking one of the cat's outstretched paws. "Nice to meet you, Parrot. Please don't pee on my things." She turned towards Wheels, who had picked up the copy of Amelia Sea and was staring at the cover in contemplation. "Thank you."
The old man waved her off, "you have the gratitude of my tomatoes."
"My legs," Anna ground out between clenched teeth, "are killing me."
"Oh, suck it up. We've only been cycling for a couple of hours," Wheels chided her, cheery as ever. Anna steered her bike away from the harsh gravel of the road and grunted as she swerved into the grassy ditch.
"You are a sadist," she growled. "Why won't you tell me why we're all the way out here, anyway?" She waved her arm to indicate the quiet countryside. "Is this the part where you reveal yourself to be a cunning serial killer, and a nice farming family finds my body in their barn two days later?" She let out a shocked gasp. "The cat was just a decoy, wasn't it?"
"Two hours of cycling and you're waxing poetic. Honestly, Anna, it's nothing as sinister as that. I merely wish to show you something, that's all. And besides, doesn't the country air and exercise feel wonderful?"
"I could be at home right now, eating a bagel and working on perfecting the cat lady stereotype. So no, in contrast, this doesn't feel wonderful," Anna replied cheekily, "television feels wonderful."
"Kids these days," the old man scoffed, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "Well, there's no need to get your knickers in a twist. We're here."
Anna looked about herself, noticing only a large, lively tree. "I don't get it. Why-" she then spotted the small gravestone underneath it. "Oh."
"I'd like you to meet someone very special to me," Wheels explained, setting his bike down gently in the grass. Anna mimicked his actions reluctantly and timidly followed after him when he began walking towards the grave. He settled himself in the grass and placed the delicate flower that he had been carrying in his basket in front of the stone. Anna sat down beside him, drawing her knees up to her chin. "Read the gravestone, Anna."
Anna glanced at him, her features slightly creased with confusion, before turning her attention to the marble slab in front of her. "Marie D-" her hand flew to her mouth in shock, and she turned to Wheels with widened eyes. "Marie Dubois."
The elderly man nodded, a small smile gracing his thin, wrinkled lips. Anna continued eyeing him in disbelief before glancing back at the gravestone. "Doting daughter, loving wife," she lowered her hand from her mouth, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. "Loving wife. She was your wife."
"Yes," Wheels answered simply. Anna shook her head, eyes still glued to the stone.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked."
"This is something you tell people," Anna hissed. Her expression then morphed into one of humility. "Oh my god, and I was explaining all of her books to you. I told you she died. You must think I'm daft."
"Now hold on," he started, "nobody here thinks that anyone is daft. I wanted to help you, Anna. Simple as that."
"But why?"
"Because you needed help. And because you fixed my bike," he shrugged, as if it was obvious. "You're so like her, it's uncanny. She was as clever as a snake, not unlike yourself. She made impulsive decisions and fantastic tea. She made biting remarks whenever she was scared, and her sarcasm was rivaled by no man," he paused for a moment, letting out a small sigh. "But most of all, she was convinced that everything she wrote was the equivalent of cow droppings."
"What?" Anna cried, incredulous. "Marie Dubois thought her writing was shit? No way. No bloody way," Anna waved her hand in dismissal. "You've got the wrong writer."
"Marie Dubois, the very same woman who crafted Amelia Sea, thought her work was trash. I had to repeatedly pick her stories out of the trash bin and send them in to her editor myself. I have a feeling that you have the very same problem. You don't remind me of her in looks, Anna," Wheels patted her hand sympathetically. "You remind me of her in insecurities."
Anna averted her eyes, pulling clumps of grass out of the ground by the handful. "I've thrown away everything I've ever written," she confessed.
"Why?"
"Because it sucks," she told him, frustration fueling her words. "Because you write something that you think is awesome and original- the whole nine yards- and then you read something by Beckett, or- or Wharton, and suddenly it becomes some naïve, poorly-written mess. How can I possibly amount to half of what they were? They're artists, and I'm just some kid trying to echo their brilliance."
"That's your problem, Anna. You need to stop trying to write a classic. Stop trying to write like someone you aren't. Language changes, the world changes. The reason those books are classics is because they struck a chord with their generation. The generation connected with the book, and raised it to either popularity or notoriety. Marie would always try to write like Stevenson, and when you try writing like someone else, that is when it stops being your novel. It stops being something you wrote from your heart and starts being something you wrote from your head. It becomes a task; a job. Write a book that connects with your generation. Write without using your head, because when you do, that is when you create your Amelia Sea," the corner of his lips twitched upwards in amusement, "just stop trying to write like Dickens. Nobody likes that anymore."
Anna was quiet for a moment, pondering his speech, allowing the leaves, shaken by the light breeze, to fill the silence. She sniffed. "I like Dickens."
"You would," the old man scoffed, rolling his eyes. His features then softened. "You're going to be a great under-appreciated author, Anna. In fact, I estimate that your book sales will be quite passable on ."
"You flatter me, sir," she replied dryly, kicking him lightly. She then glanced meaningfully back at the grave.
"Do you miss her?" She questioned timidly, watching his eyes sparkle at the question.
"Like a fish misses the water after a child has knocked its tank over. But I know that if I spent my time dwelling and mourning she would rise from the grave and smack me square in the face," he chuckled. "So yes, I do miss her dreadfully. But we move on, Anna. We survive. Such is the way of humans."
They sat in companionable silence, and Anna collapsed onto her back, watching the clouds dance and steal away the sun. Anna decided that she did, in fact, find the country air wonderful. She smiled to herself, her heart heavy with the newfound weight of content and inspiration. "Wheels?"
"Yes, Anna?"
"I'm going to write the most kick-ass story ever."
"I know you will."
"-and the octopus moved, Anna, right as I stabbed my fork into it!"
Anna hummed in interest, trying hard to keep the phone balanced between her shoulder and ear. "Half-cooked octopus tends to do that, Wheels."
"It's wonderful here, I'm telling you. When can you come down?"
"My current budget doesn't allow spontaneous trips to Japan, I'm afraid. Bring me back some octopus, though," she mumbled distractedly as she hit the space bar on her laptop with enthusiasm.
"Oh, are you writing right now?"
"Yeah, sorry," she apologized, flexing her fingers. "My editor wants the final draft by next week. She seems to think she can get a pretty good distribution deal."
"Fantastic! I'll leave the wordsmith to her words, I suppose. Remember to eat."
"I will. Don't forget to wear sunscreen. It keeps unwanted burns and Godzilla at bay."
"Duly noted. See you next week, Anna."
"See you," she chirped, hitting the end button and throwing the phone haphazardly on the table. She stretched her arms out in front of her, cracking her knuckles, before returning to her novel.
It really was kick-ass, she had to admit.