The Perfectionists

Chapter 17 The Walk

Zelig wrapped the extra long knit scarf, the one Melissa had made for him, around his neck one more time as he trotted down the front steps. It was a blustery Autumn night, the sky an almost featureless black dome. There was no moon, but the Manhattan streetlights stood in, as they did every night, for both moon and stars, casting stark, artificial shadows. His spirits lifted as his feet hit the pavement. Taking a long breath of the clean, cold air, he reveled in the desolate expectancy of the atmosphere: the blank sky, the hiss and pop of dry leaves skittering over the sidewalks; the darkened windows of storefronts; the scarcity of pedestrians (it was after one A.M. on a Tuesday).

He didn't know why he was walking, or where. He just knew he needed to get out and move. Too many hours cooped up in the house, tapping away at his keyboard, nose to the screen.

This new, darker turn the story was taking gave him an uneasy feeling, and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he'd never written anything dark before. Dark was kind of his element. He was famous for it. But this time, he'd expected to write something light and frothy. Cotton candy and Kool aid. Marshmallow fluff. A guilty pleasure for the critics to choke on.

And then something had changed. His editor had been telling him a story, the other night, at dinner, about a new street drug that was rumored to make people's eyes bleed. They'd laughed about it. Armand had quipped that it was more likely to be a brand new urban legend than a brand new drug. There was no way something like that was real. And if it was, no way was it was catching on. The side effect was that it made your eyes bleed? That was never going to be a thing. Too easy to spot a user, for starters...

But real or no, apparently at least the story of the drug was enough of a thing that people like he and Armand were discussing it over tapas on the upper west side. And apparently, the image had stuck in his head. He'd filed it, without realizing, among the images and concepts that belonged to this new story he was writing. And now his airy little dramedy about washed up Greek Gods trying to come to terms with the monotony of immortality was reading like a glorified comic book.

The truth was, he was all over the map. He wasn't sure what he wanted this book to be, or even to be about. Only that he wanted it to be different. A sugar bomb. A candy coated razor blade.

Which sounds badass, he thought to himself, but what the fuck does it mean?

He knew the answer, of course. This book was meant to turn the tables. To give him his life back. Or at least, to so thoroughly destroy the old life that he'd have no choice but to rebuild. Because like it or not, his comfort zone had become a cage. He could feel it all around him, like the ribs of a giant beast, the way Jonah must have felt in the belly of the whale. The warm familiarity of servitude. The comfort of consumption. Even if he was the one being consumed.

Servitude? Slavery. He felt enslaved by his own expectations, and by those of others. He didn't want to be comfortable anymore. He wanted to be _un_comfortable. And free.

So if that was what he wanted, why not just do it? Wasn't it simply a matter of making the choice to step away from his comfort zone? To trade the cage for a skeleton key?

He didn't know. He didn't understand himself.

He'd tried. He was waging war on the Zelig that wanted to play it safe. The one who wanted to stay with Melissa. He still loved Melissa, and he knew she loved him, but he also knew they weren't right for each other. How many times were they going to keep trying?

He'd had breakfast with her, this morning. At one of those little Polish places in the East Village. The ones with the outrageous Challah bread french toast that tasted as if God himself had made you breakfast but which he couldn't eat anymore now that he knew about his gluten intolerance. So frustrating.

Maybe ignorance really was bliss.

Nah... the truth was that he'd been truly miserable when he was eating wheat. Crippled by physical and emotional symptoms that he'd just taken for granted, because he had no idea why they were there or how to make them leave.

But at least he'd been able to eat Challah bread french toast.

Melissa had been cheerful enough. Her graphic design job was going well; she got along with the new boss. And she'd been flirting with this guy she'd met at one of the other firms in the building, a copyright lawyer. He sounded like the polar opposite of Zelig: stable, easygoing, undemanding. Low maintenance.

Zelig had never been low maintenance. But then again, neither had Melissa. It was part of why they didn't work, he thought. Too much maintenance and not enough tech. But then, he knew that this was only a theory, and that theories were only a way of grasping at straws. You can't think your way through love.

Melissa's cheeks glowed and her eyes twinkled as she spoke about this new guy, James. She was clearly testing the waters, wanting to see if Zelig would be jealous, if he was going to rise to the bait. And if he was honest with himself, Zelig did feel jealous. On some level, he had to admit, he wanted her all to himself, the security of her, the comfort of their friendship. But clearly, being clingy was a terrible idea at this point. And an unfair one. Especially given that he was the one who'd ended it last. She needed to be free to live her own life, and he needed to behave in ways that implicitly supported her in that endeavor. He owed her at least that much.

So they'd talked about it for a little bit, her new crush. And then the conversation had moved on to other things. And he'd walked away, at the end of the meal, wishing he could move on to other things.

Because he needed to. He needed to break the cage. He just didn't know how.

He looked up suddenly, wondering where he was. He'd been walking for blocks, fast. With that determined, man-on-a-mission stride that was ubiquitous among New Yorkers. Tuning the world out and cutting your own path through it. Crushing this walking thing. Making it happen. As if it were just you and the pavement, and all the other pedestrians crowding the streets weren't even there, just ghosts or holograms or figments of the imagination. It was late, the streets were virtually deserted. But that stride was a hard habit to break.

It felt good though. His body felt better, more alive. You couldn't sit around all day without atrophying somewhat, even if you were being productive. You had to get up and get out and move at some point.

Wait a minute.

He stopped. He knew where he was. A block and a half from Ariel's building.

Why had he walked here? Of all places. My legs must know something I don't, he thought.

And he let them carry him forward.

National Novel Writing Month has come and gone, but I'm still working on my story! Me and sixteen other freewriters from Hive account@freewritehouse accepted the challenge of writing an entire novel (50,000 words) in one month. I didn't make it, but I had a lot of fun trying. And I did make it more than halfway! Now I'm continuing the story, sans contest...