The Writer

 

My elbow was perfectly level with my fist and I knew the blow was going to land with full force. I felt my boxing glove drive into my opponent’s face, felt the crunching of cartilage, and watched as blood came spurting out in an almost glorious arch, spraying into the fluorescent-lit air.

“What the fuck?!” shouted a husky male voice, and I was brought back to reality as an overweight, former boxer named Joe came hustling to the side of the woozy looking, stick-thin housewife who I had just pulled a Rocky Balboa on. “This was just a sparring exercise” he reminded me as he helped the woman to the floor, using the sweat towel around his neck to mop up the blood seeping from her nose.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry Justine!” I said, as I realized in horror that I just likely broken this lady’s nose in the middle of what was supposed to be a primarily cardio-based workout for middle-aged women.

“It’s okay” she managed to say, her voice intensely nasally as she got to her feet, holding the now very bloody once-white towel to her nose. Her kindness made me feel even worse and as Joe ushered her away to check the damage I realized I needed to step outside and collect my thoughts.

In the gym parking lot the air was cold and crisp, a perfect Autumn day that was a bit too beautiful for my foul mood. Had I meant to punch her in the face? I asked myself, and I tried to recall my mindset before the assault had occurred, but there seemed to be a void in my memory. All I could remember was being into the rhythm of the exercise; jab, jab, hook, hook, 1, 2, 3, 4. But there was no denying that there was something dark in my soul, lurking beneath the monotony. I’d like to blame it on my impending divorce but really it’s always been there.

I wanted a cigarette but I had quit years ago when I’d become pregnant with my son. Instead, my mind wandered to the idea of a whiskey on the rocks, but it was 10 am and I was trying to be a better person of late. It was a downhill struggle to be frank with you. Sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong era; but to be born a woman any other time in history would have been even shittier I suppose.

Returning indoors I checked on Justine, whose nose did not appear to be broken, but who would be sporting some nasty under-the-eye bruises for a while. She still looked better than I did on any given day as she packed her boxing gear into a nice clean gym bag and took off in her Lululemon apparel with a well manicured wave goodbye.

I trudged into the locker room and showered, using the cheap soap from the dispenser on the wall for both hair and body. I towel dried, pulled my hair back, and got into what I consider to be my “uniform”. Part of becoming a professional means trading in the band tees, torn jeans, and Converse sneakers for floral pattern tops, slacks, and sensible wedges. Or maybe that’s just part of becoming an adult.

I applied some makeup in a mirror that someone had drawn a dick on, and then I headed to my minivan with all my sweaty, stinky gear. I do not have a nice clean gym bag; I use a tote bag that I got for free from the packy. It’s not that I’m totally broke; it’s largely that I am bad at being an adult. But I’m sure you’ve already gathered as much.

Today I had to drive out to some college campus I’d never heard of to interview another centenarian. Perhaps this sounds interesting to you; I too thought it would be interesting when I took this gig. But usually it’s just depressing. I’ve interviewed about a dozen centenarians now, and Cathy the Guiness loving former welder was the only truly intriguing interview subject. Largely because she offered me a drink and swore like a trucker. 

I was writing for a health blog doing a segment on how old people manage to get so old. Okay, I’m being glib; the real purpose was to find out their secrets to a long and healthy life. But the depressing part is that there is no real secret. Margaret’s “secret” was that she never drank, smoked, or seemed to have fun. But John still smokes a pack a day and has a clear penchant for peppermint schnapps. It’s luck of the draw, and in some cases, for those who have spent the last decade staring at beige walls in smelly nursing homes, it doesn’t really seem all that lucky.

The leaves were turning splendid shades of orange, red, and yellow as I pulled off the highway and into a quaint town that I had never heard of before. Mossy stonewalls and colonial style homes passed the car window, as well as a few tiny cemeteries with headstones so old that they had been smoothed with time; the names of the deceased washed away with the rain. My GPS turned me onto a narrow road lined by ancient oak trees and I approached a wrought iron gate that had all the pompousness of an Ivy league institution. I was unfamiliar with Edwinton University, but it was apparently a very small and very exclusive school that seemed to cater to boys and girls who would one day inherit mommy and daddy’s corporate conglomerates. Today’s interviewee, Dr. Jane Merriam, was the school’s 100-year-old Chancellor.

I should have been more excited to interview Dr. Merriam; it was intriguing that someone would still hold such an ambitious position at such an advanced age. But you have to understand, I was exhausted with this world of “professional writing”. When I was young and had the ego for such things, I felt a burning optimism that I would one day write the next great American novel. Instead I wrote fluff pieces for the web that were more about search engine optimization than actual content. All creativity had long been drained from me; I was the artistic equivalent of painters who create bland prints for sterile corporate offices.

A security guard with absolutely no affect or remarkable features to speak of gave me directions to a parking space that was adjacent to the ivy covered brick building where the Chancellor’s office was located. The campus was beautiful in that old New England way, but as with most things “old New England” it was also a bit creepy. The trees were magnificent in their full foliage, but the trunks looked warped and twisted. The hedges were well maintained but almost too sharp in their angles. And when I entered the Chancellor’s office building I was instantly greeted by that musty smell of an old building that does not seem to go away with any number of cleanings. The heavy doors banged closed behind me and echoed through a too spacious hallway.

A mousy secretary (I suppose we say Administrative Assistant now) led me into Dr. Merriam’s office and I found the tiny, ancient looking woman seated behind a voluminous desk that looked like it must have taken a whole copse of trees to construct. What remained of her wispy white hair was styled as most elderly women seem to prefer; curly and close cropped. I was reminded of my father calling the old ladies in our apartment building “cue tips” and nearly laughed. But of course I held my laugh in, and not just because it would have been rude and unprofessional, but because there was something deeply unsettling about Dr. Merriam despite her diminutive size and fluffy coif.

She was smiling at me, but her eyes had a hard look, and there was something almost predatory about her. For a flash it almost appeared to me that her dentures were pointed like fangs, but the odd impression was gone almost as soon as it had arrived. I ignored the goosebumps that ran up my arms as I shook her fragile hand and introduced myself.

“Nice to meet you” she said, and her voice was surprisingly strong and smooth.

“I won’t take much of your time,” I assured her. “I have no doubt that you are quite busy in your role as Chancellor.”

She seemed to find something humorous about this and her smile stretched a bit wider and there was a touch of the unnatural in it. “Oh, when you’ve been at it as long as I have things start to run themselves more or less.”

I asked her about her work, how she had come into the role, when she had received her PhD in Business Administration, and all those general interview questions one asks. She was polite but curt, and I’ll admit the line of questioning was becoming boring until she said, “Let’s get to the most important question; how do I manage to keep working in such a position when I’m so damned old?”

I blinked and said, “well, I suppose that is the burning question, though I’m not sure I would have put it that way.”

She tilted her head to the side, and her neck was so thin that it seemed the gesture might just snap it. “How would you ask it?”

“What is your secret to living such a long and healthy life?”

She laughed, and the sound was positively terrifying. She said, “I eat souls.”

Clearly this was meant to be in jest, but I could not bring myself to laugh because something in her tone made me feel she was not joking at all. I think I managed a weak smile and said, “that is the first time I’ve heard that one”.

“Not a lot of us soul eaters left” she said in a tone that suggested there was something to pity in that. “Most starved long ago on account of there being few viable souls left in the world.”

I felt she was speaking in metaphors; she was after all, an academic. So I tried to play along with the metaphor, “why do you think there aren’t as many... viable souls in today’s time as there was in the past?”

“You know the answer to that” she responded, and her tone was so snappish that I jumped a bit in my seat. “Many cultures have had stories of supernatural beings that feed off the souls of others, but they never mention that souls are like any other food; they can become spoiled, go rotten. Smart phones, reality TV, social media; all these things have led to millions of moldering souls. Yours is one of them unfortunately.”

I stiffened at this, offended for obvious reasons. But I said nothing and she went on, “I was hopeful when you contacted me that maybe you would be a true writer and would have some delicious talent for me to feed upon. But I fear even a taste would be the end of my very long and illustrious life. And I may be old, but I am not prepared to die just yet.”

At this point I had grown certain that she was not talking in a metaphor, and in a shaky voice I asked, “do you always go around telling people what you are?”

“Oh heavens no” she replied, that same disturbing laugh emitting once more. “Working here at the college I am lucky to occasionally come across a vibrant young soul to feed upon; I would not put that in jeopardy by making everyone think I’d finally succumbed to dementia.”

“Then why are you telling me all this?” I asked, fearful of the answer.

Her smile spread once more and now I could see a clear set of fangs behind her pale lips. “Because my dear, it’s been so long since I’ve met a fellow soul eater.”