I'm sitting at my desk, watching the door with a careful eye. I'm waiting for someone who I know is coming. I stare at the unmoving obstacle. I can practically feel their presence on the other side, but it is perfectly still. I'm running out of patience. I know I should just probably count my blessings on this one, but I can't. It just doesn't sit right.
I feel as though I'm sitting on top of a mountain of gold, waiting for it to crumble beneath me. I know there's only one thing I can do to make myself feel better. I step out of my home office and slide into my brand new car. It smells nice. Well, I have a long drive ahead of me, so I guess I'll fill you in on the details.
I used to have a good friend. I say used to, because I doubt he is anymore. Not after what I have done. Anyway, we used to spend a lot of time together. It was fun, but he did bore me. You see, he would go on and on about these silly little stories. And while he was very emphatic about them, me, I couldn't care less.
I was at my dead end job, wishing I had a bullet to put me out of my misery, when I heard some of my co-workers talking. Funny how some of the more life changing tidbits are mentioned off handed without prompting, don't you think so? No? Well, to each his own. Apparently, there was a local publishing firm that was holding a contest.
Anyone who brought in a short story, that they decided to publish in an anthology, would receive one hundred dollars. That was a lot of money for me back in those days, especially considering my entire paychecks were already spent, before I even got a hold of them. Problem was, I had no mind for scripting narratives, but I knew somebody who did.
Well, as you might have guessed, I started to cozy up to my friend as I listened to him go on and on, while I steered our conversations toward his stories, which was not difficult since he loved to talk about them. Only problem is, he had so many, and he was adding more all the time. To top it off he would always ask for my opinion.
I'd dance about the point offering the basest of explanations and finish by telling him, that he should get published. I still don't know why, I never just told him to, well to, to just shut up. Maybe, it was because we were good friends and had it not been for my expensive tastes, we might still be.
Getting back to the story, I visited my friend, and while I was there, I asked him to make us some snacks, as I had brought a movie we both wanted to see. He went to the kitchen and I scrambled for his room. His computer was on, it usually is and it's never locked, nor are any of his files encrypted. He's always too trusting. Or am I just saying that to help justify my own actions?
No matter, I snuck inside and pulled out the flash drive from my pocket. I found the files where he kept all his stories, and copied it. It didn't take long, but it felt like an eternity. When I was finished, I sat back down on the living room couch, and waited for my friend to be done in the kitchen.
He soon came in with two platters: One, with hot wings, my favorite. The other with honey barbeque, his favorite. I didn't touch a single wing, nor did I enjoy any of the movie. I felt as though I had just stabbed him in the back, and he was only being nice to me, on principle. He was that kind of guy.
I excused myself, before even half the movie was over, said I had a stomach ache. Something I ate. Yeah, like a nice steaming plate of screw your friend over. Anyway, part of my anxiety was wanting to see the deed done, so that I might at least see if all this trouble was really worth it, or if all my scheming ended up for nothing.
I skipped work the next day, and instead, went to see the publisher. I gave them a printed copy of one of the stories that I had picked at random. After which, they dismissed me and I left by way of a waiting room with several persons waiting for the same chance. For the next two days I did nothing. I didn't even answer my phone if it wasn't the expected call.
On the third day they called me. I was there faster than I have ever been anywhere I was supposed to be in my whole life. I sat down with one of the editors. He congratulated me, paid me the hundred and then he got serious. He told me the story was good, but it needed some changes, if they were going to publish it.
He gave me a long list of corrections and I only pretended to go over them. I really didn't care. After all, I was only pretending to the be the author and had no love for the work. I agreed to them, all of them, before he gave me a contract to sign. It seems on top of the hundred, I was also going to be paid royalties.
The book, which was a compilation of numerous amateur writers, sold like hot cakes, as the saying goes. That is, after a fashion. I wasted no time and quit my job in anticipation of all the money I was soon to make. But my fortune was slow in coming and I was running low on my funds by the time the dam finally broke and I was awash in compensation for my faith, I guess.
And though my cut was slight, enough copies were sold worldwide that I soon had more money than I knew what to do with. First, I got myself a brand new car. Then, I moved into a very nice apartment complex. The kind that has a door man. The rest I mostly blew on little things I always wanted. But no sooner had I spent the money then I was given more.
Do you see my dilemma? I stole from my friend and if the publisher ever finds out, they may cut me off and ask for it all back. Which I don't have. So, I take off to visit my friend, in the little apartment complex he still lives in. I walk up the stairs and am standing in front of his door. I ring the bell.
"It's unlocked," I hear my friend say, on the other side. He is way too trusting. I mean, I could have been anyone.
I open the door, and walk carefully inside. He soon greets me. He's nothing but smiles. I wonder if he knows about the book. He shows me to the living room and excuses himself to the kitchen for refreshments.
I sit and wait, all the while growing more peaceful as I just relax and let things fall as they may. Then I see it. The book. It's sitting on a table that's next to his favorite chair. I snatch it up and flip through it. He had red marked all of the changes to his story. I'm sweating bullets, because now, there's no way he couldn't know. And it couldn't be explained off.
I couldn't mount a defense like someone had the same idea, because my name is at the top of the title, declaring me the writer. I start sweating and have to wipe my brow. Every little sound I hear in my hyper focused ears is an accusation leveled at me and I cannot shake all of them. All I can do is breathe.
He comes back again carrying two beers on a small tray with a bowl of bbq chips. He sits down and sets the refreshments on the coffee table. He takes one of the drinks before settling in his chair. I'm waiting for him to attack. He doesn't. He just smiles and drinks his beverage all while keeping an eye on me and the book in my hand.
"Look, Tom, I need to…" I launch into an explanation and sit forward as I hold out the incriminating evidence.
He waves it off. "It's alright," he says, as he receives the book back from my hand. "And I find some of the changes you made interesting, though I can't agree with all of them."
"You're not mad?" I ask, quite shocked by his response.
"No," Tom assures me and shakes his head. "In fact you did me a favor."
"A favor?!" I shoot back and start to get angry on his behalf. "I ripped you off!"
Tom just shakes his head, as a smile crosses his lips. "Remember how you told me that I should get my stories published?" he asks of me and sets the book on his lap.
"Yeah," I return, choking on the fact that I had never meant it, and only used it as a dismissal.
"Well, to be honest, I was scared," he admits and locks his eyes on mine to show his seriousness. "I didn't think anyone else would enjoy my work. But look." He hands me a newspaper clipping, that he had folded neatly in the back of the book.
I look at it. "Number one best seller! Two weeks in a row!" the clipping read.
"People really like it," Tom relays with exuberance and scratches his chin. "At least I think they like it. Hard to tell with so many other stories."
"But the changes," I protest and stab my finger at the offending article.
"Artistic license," Tom responds and waves his hand. "You saw some changes and you made them. I mean, who's to say the book would have sold as well, if not for the changes?"
I can take no more. "They aren't my changes," I confess as I feel guilt crushing me. "The publisher made them. I never read the story."
The revelation takes my friend a moment to recover. "You mean you really didn't like it?" is the question Tom puts to me and the color leaves his face.
"No," I further admit and shake my head. "I didn't even read it."
"Why then did you always listen to them?" Tom seeks to understand my mind and sits forward. "Why not just tell me to shut up?"
I have no answer. I wish I did. I just look to my friend. His head drops down. He's hurt. That's when it hits me, hard. He doesn't care about the money. He doesn't care about the fame, or the fact that I had plagiarized him. He only cares, that I cared. But I didn't, and I don't.
I leave. I can't stay there. All the while, he says nothing. Just keeps his head down. I don't say anything either. I can't. All I can do, the only thing my conscience will allow me, is retreat. I leave the apartment complex, get in my car and drive away. All the while, that new car smell sticks in my throat and nearly chokes me.
I go back to my home, back to my office. I sit myself down at my desk and pull out the copy I had been given by the publisher. I only kept it, because it was work attributed to me. I thumb through it and make my way to the story Tom wrote. This is it. Time to redeem myself. At least, after the fact, anyway.
Okay. Title: The Time Of My Life, it's a time travel story where everything is written with complicated words and the plot is a loop. Everything that happens, happened already and there doesn't seem to be an original to all these copies. This can't be the story that everyone going crazy over, can it?
I think to read the rest, but it's a big book and it took all of my brain cells to get through twenty pages of it. I give up and go back to the one in question. Nothing makes sense to me. The ending just leaves me with more questions. I am simply out of my depth, or the whole world has just gone crazy. I'm not holding my breath on either outcome.
I look down at my desk. I need some form of distraction. My mail is sitting there in a pile. I have yet to go through it. There's an envelope from the publisher, inside is a letter of congratulation on all my hard work and a summons for more work, as well as a paycheck. I start to sweat again and have to wipe my forehead.
I don't know what I'm going to do, but I decide the first thing I would do is cash the check. I may not like what I did, but I hate worse to go back to work. If this is the only way to maintain, then so be it. After all, I require a fairly fat wallet to maintain this lifestyle and I have no intention of going back down the social ladder.
Perhaps, if I couldn't like my friend's stories, I could at least get Tom to work for me. But there's a flaw in that plan. I can't face him again. Then I come upon it. I'm off in my car and visiting the same apartment building. But this time, I head to a different apartment and ring the bell.
"Hello love," the woman at the door greets me as she stands in the doorway.
I always wonder whether she is actually British, or if she only uses the accent. "Hello," I say, forcing myself not to mock her, by imitating her inflection and clearing my throat.
She invites me in, and together, we both sit down in her spacious living area.
"I need a favor," I start in, as I hunch forward in my seat.
"I'm all ears," she assures me, as she crosses her legs and gets comfortable.
I'm angling for slime ball of the year. I know this girl, if it isn't obvious, but I also know that she has a crush on my friend. Further, I know Tom has a crush on her as well, though he won't show it. But a friend, the name causes me to swallow bile, always knows. I quickly fill her in on the history. She takes it in stride.
"You shouldn't have done it," she shallowly chastises me, once I'd finished and narrows her eyes against me.
I nod. I know she's going to let me have it.
"You should have let him go on in ignorance," she carries on, in an angle I did not anticipate and leans forward as well. "I mean, did you really have to say that to him? Couldn't you have found a more congenial way of showing your disinterest?"
I have nothing to say.
"So, let me get this straight," she seeks clarification and sets a finger to her temple. "You want me to solicit him, to carry on and give you the work, so you can be famous?"
Each word is a stinging accusation, but they aren't wrong.
"I want half," she suddenly breaks in, taking me by surprise, making me jump.
I can't believe what I just heard. The revelation hits me and I become scared. Will she try and blackmail me if I give in?
"Look here," she says, as she reads my face. "I'm going through with this, but for his sake. I know that he will never publish his work, and this blow may destroy him. And I want to prevent that, by getting you to help him. I'm sure this will do it. But know this, you can no longer take credit. You will give yourself a pen name and you will no longer publish under your name. Do you understand me?"
I nod my head, as I do not disagree. Even if I did, I couldn't say anything. I haven't the right.
I leave her place. She's fine with the idea and not embittered. I explained to her everything and she understood. She called me a gob shite, I'm not sure what that is, but I'm fairly certain it isn't good. Still, we decided to keep in touch. I go home, feeling better.
I'm not sure what will happen, that is, what the future of my fortune will bring. After all I am only the fifth wheel and can easily be discarded without upsetting the applecart, as it were. There's no reason to keep me around. I decide to look into investing. Cause when it's all said and done, I really hate to work.