I wake up.
My name is Josh Door. If you haven’t already been able to tell by the magnificent fashion in which this has been written thus far, I’m a writer. Not that I’m actually writing this. I’m just a character. First-Person Perspective, you know.
I’m your typical atypical male. If you picked one man in his early-twenties, living in a civilized country, at random out of every human being on Earth, he would probably concern himself mainly with his mundane job, smoking weed, sitting in front of a television, and having sex.
That is a typical person. I’m an atypical person, but a very common type of atypical person.
Instead of concerning myself with a mundane job, smoking weed, sitting in front of a television, and having sex, I occupy my time managing to write for a living, arguing that weed should be legalized without actually doing it, sitting hunched over in front of a computer, and trying desperately to get sex.
A typical atypical person. I’m not a part of the majority, but you’ve probably met someone like me, or at least someone who either wishes to be like me when they grow up, or someone who seems like they’re going to end up like me when they grow up.
But as I was saying earlier, I’m waking up. I stretch out my arms, one after another, stopping when I hear a solid crack from each. Feels good. I then push the covers off of myself, revealing my solely boxer-clad, thin physic. My hair is dark brown, short but messy, resting on a large head with a small nose, green, girly eyes, and lips that look as though they are in severe need of lip balm; probably because they are in severe need of lip balm. I scratch my chest, which is entirely devoid of hair and just so happens to be a perfect display of my eerily pale skin.
Not that I can see these features, at the moment. I can’t see a nerd in Comic-Con or some other comedic example without my glasses. I reach out and grab my plain, black glasses case that came with my second pair of eyes - there are far too many comic books to be purchased to waste money ever so frivolously on a nice case for my spectacles - and slowly open it up. Sitting in my case is my key to sight; a pair of unnecessarily large frames connected to form a tool for my face, allowing me to not only see with otherwise borderline-broken eyeballs, but also allowing to take on the appearance of a total hipster.
I then reach over to grab my iPhone, and cross my fingers to see myriad notifications on my lock screen when I press the Home button. I see five Twitter notifications, two FaceBook notifications, an ignored reminder instructing me to write, and a missed call from my mother. You win some, you lose some.
I begin to look over my Twitter notifications. The first is a tweet from a fan of my only legitimate book that referred to me not as Josh, my most common nickname, Josh Michael Door, my full name, Joshy, the pet name that my first girlfriend gave me, or even Joshua, the name that my 10th grade Geometry teacher spat at me with no regard for my birth-certificate that clearly reads Josh, but instead as a horrific jumble of words that I would not kiss my mother with. Even in an alternate reality where Bob Saget is my mother. This fan did this because I have not yet announced progress on a new book. At least she’s hot, assuming that her profile pic isn’t a stock photo of a model from the internet to serve as a facade hiding a fat, forty-year-old man.
The second is a tweet from a certain Christian-Conservative dude from High School that I still communicate with on Twitter every now and then, despite my abandoned attempts to even consider this person a friend. I saw the words Atheist and arrogance and retarded and Liberal when I glanced at the tweet, which was my cue to avert my eyes, lest, well, insert The Incredible Hulk reference here.
The third is spam.
I locked my phone and put it back on the nightstand that I took it from.
That’s enough of that. I’ll hop in the shower now.
***
I walk myself over to the front of the shower, close my eyes, and direct my face towards the shower head, letting the warm water smack my face and flow down all the way to my feet. I then put both of my hands to my face and apply pressure to my closed eyelids. I then spin myself around one hundred eighty degrees and let my hair get soaked from the water, keeping a rag steady on my forehead to stop water from finding its way dripping down my face and possibly into my eyes.
Walking away from the shower head’s direct line of fire, I grab my bottle of shampoo and squeeze some out into my right hand with my left. I put the bottle back on the shelf and rub my hands together to spread it across my palms and digits. Once it is filled enough with soap, I put my hands to my hair and spread the shampoo through my hair, which looks more like a mop at the moment since it’s so wet.
I’ve always thought that shampoo was a funny word. I can’t imagine how this word came about without giggles from the creator. Hell, I can’t imagine how this word came about without the creator being a little crazy; or awesome. One of the two.
Shih Tzu is another funny one.
My thoughts should probably be about putting words together to make sentences to make paragraphs to make pages to make books to make satisfaction and money, rather than just words. I’ll try to move my thoughts in that direction.
I move myself back to the front of the shower, make the same one hundred eighty degree turn, steady the rag in the same position on my forehead, and rinse my hair with the water until the shampoo is out of my hair and on the floor of the shower heading into the drain.
I’m going to start progress on my new book today. Getting enough money to, you know, not die from starvation, is my main driving force to start my new book. I saved up a lot of money as a teen to live this kind of life, took the money from my college fund because I didn’t need to go to college, and made a good deal of cash from Words from Josh Door, but it’s beginning to run a little low as of late. I’m also feeling very compelled to right today.
I pick up a bar of soap and begin to run it over my chest and arms, then to my back, then to my legs and feet. I then walk forward, back into the shower head’s line of fire, and rinse all of the soap off of myself. I grab the shower curtain and drag it enough to let my head peak out to look at the clock. It reads 10:12.
Once I finish cleaning myself, I turn off the water. I know exactly where to go today.
***
With frappe and panini in hand, and a backpack slung over my back, I pull a chair back and take a seat, putting my bag next to my chair. This chair is set next to a table meant for four people, which makes it easy for me to carry out my writing and eating. I positioned this chair in the middle of where two people would normally sit, moving the other chair to one of the other sides of the table.
In Starbucks. Because, well, I think you know why this is humorous.
I put my drink and food to the left of me, and take my laptop out of my bag and put it in front of me. I open the lid and the screen lights up prompting me to log in. I put in my grotesquely large password, composed of lowercase letters, uppercase letters and numbers, and completely bereft of any words or any discernable patterns in the large onslaught of numbers. I hit enter and the computer begins to load up.
I take a bite of my panini and burn my tongue on my coffee as I normally do with my first sip. At least I didn’t spill it this time.
I open Microsoft Word, hit the center button, and type “Title Here”. I’m going to do another compilation of short stories, most likely titled Words from Josh Door Deux or some such thing. This here is the first to be written for this book. It’s not actually going to be titled “Title Here.” My hipster-ness doesn’t actually extend far beyond my glasses, so you don’t have to worry about a title like that.
I take another bite of my pinini and another, less painful sip of my coffee. Now, What is this damn story going to be about?
I look around, searching for inspiration. I shoot my eyesight towards my torso and legs, and decide that I am certainly no inspiration for a story. My stylistically-faded Batman shirt and dark skinny jeans are nothing but a reminder of the weird-ass person I am.
I highlight “Title Here” and replace it with “The Tale of the Frappe and Panini.”
No, that’s dumb.
I highlight “Title Here” and replace it with “The Table Monster.”
No, that’s dumb.
I highlight “Title Here” and replace it with “The Loving Mother Who is Actually an Axe-Wielding Murderer.”
My God do I have no idea what to write about.
“Excuse me, sir,” I hear beside me. I look up and see an elderly man, who had to have been at least 65, but in pretty good shape for his age.
I looked back down at my Batman shirt.
Wait a second.
...
That’s it.
******
OLD-MAN!
By Josh Door
Clothed only in his underwear, Mr. Jameson pulled a pear of grey, spandex pants on, and then a pair of jet black underwear on top. He then sat on his creaky bed to put on his socks. He pulled the long, white socks up to get them on, putting them under his pants for aesthetics’ sake. Over top of his socks, he puts on a heavy pair of boots the same color as the underwear over his pants. He then puts on a shirt of the same material and color as his pants, and then tops off his upper body with a pair of gloves the same color as his boots. Then, his favorite part of his get-up; his utility belt: He puts it over his waist. At last, he applies a small mask, again the same color as his underwear, gloves and boots. He specifically fitted this mask with lenses with his prescription for his eyes on both sides.
After kissing the framed picture of his now deceased wife of thirty-five years, and looking through his old issue of Batman from his youth that he used as a reference for his costume, he put his arms to his waist and smiled.
He is…
OLD-MAN!
***
Once Old-Man had made his way slowly down the stairs from the back of his house (careful not to give his back a spasm), he begins to walk to the local plaza near his house. He’s going there to look for crime to be halted by the towering might of Old-Man. He fast-walked (again, being careful with his back) into the night.
Once he made it to the plaza, he smiled. He noticed a man with a black ski mask walk into a drug store with a small handgun behind his back.
Prey.
He hid in the bushes by the store and waited for the inevitable “HAND ME ALL THE MONEY!”. Once he heard that, he scoped the area. The car that the mugger had pulled up in contained another man with a gun, obviously waiting to pick up the other man once he had finished obtaining the money. Old-Man slowly snuck his way to the back of the store and tried the back door. Locked.
Blast! Mr. Jameson thought. I’m going to have to sneak back to my previous spot in the bushes, and charge.
Once Old-Man was in his previous spot in the bushes, he grabbed his baton from his utility belt, and prepared himself for a run into the store to attack the mugger.
Screaming as he ran, he eventually makes it to the door and throws it open. The mugger and the man behind the counter look at Old-Man, flabbergasted.
Old-Man grabs the baton with both hands and throws his arms over his head.
But then.
“YEEE-AAAGH! MY BACK! AAAH!” Mr. Jameson’s arms had gotten stuck behind his head.
The mugger shot him in the temple, killing him instantly.
Using this distraction to his advantage, the man behind the counter punched the mugger in the face hard enough to send the mugger on the floor. He then proceeded to kick the man in the face until he was too hurt to attempt to escape. The drug store owner put his foot over the mugger’s face and pulled out his cell phone to call 911.
“I’m done with this God-forsaken city!”
The other man waiting in the car decided to drive off and distance himself away from this mess. He didn’t need all of this, he just wanted a couple hundred dollars.
While not in the way that he had originally planned, Old-Man, you could say, did a good job that day.
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