Pen and Paper
In my early 20’s, I set off to Chicago to write for a newspaper called the Daily Tribune. Both excited and fearful, I left the familiar warmth that had radiated from the soft glow of small town lights. But, in exchange, I was open to the world and all the possibilities that followed with this new job. In a city that didn’t yet know my name, I was free to be whatever, and whomever I wanted to be. Every morning the 7 AM train pulled into Northbrook station, and every morning at 7:05 AM, a young lady ran through the masses, pushing and shoving, and yelling, all to say farewell to her lover. I found the amount of passion she had sickening. It was an hour train ride to Chicago from Northbrook, most people read newspapers and chatted with their coach-mates about debutantes and socialite parties. Sitting amongst the common steerage, men and women with tattered clothes and rough faces prepared themselves for the day ahead. Construction workers and seamstresses alike sat in silence looking at the ground, and in the middle was I, the writer for a news paper that no one read. When the train stopped, the crowds dispersed from the 8 coach cars, moving like water in a stream. It was fascinating really, how the rhythm of steps, the loud cussing and the blow of the conductors whistle contributed to the never ending life of one small place. Upon reaching the daily tribune’s headquarters, a sturdy man in a grey suit approached me.
“Ah, you must be James Fitz, the new writer. I’m Martin Klein, your new supervisor.”
“It’s John Fitzgerald actually, pleased to meet you.” I extended my hand but he walked off, motioning to follow. Walking through the lobby of this twenty story building was like walking through the gates of heaven. White marble and golden inlays glistened in the sun, which peered from the sky light above. We stopped on the fourteenth floor. The combination of Klein’s speed and stride made it almost impossible to keep up.
“This is your desk Jimmy, we’ll have you writing up a storm in no time.”
“It’s John.” I said as he walked away. My desk plate said Janet.
......
It took one month for me to find out I was s*** at writing. It took one week for everyone else. Carrying nothing but the shame on my back, Chicago had called me a stranger and so I exiled myself from its embrace. Never would I see that white marble glisten again. Three years had passed since I got off that train, and much had changed. Twelve hour shifts at the factory, a six-hundred and fifty square foot house, a broken down car, three pairs of white t-shirts and one pair of jeans were all I could call my own. I ate alone, I drove alone, and I did my laundry alone. For a while, I started to like it. I liked not talking to people; pointless banter and mindless chatter annoyed me. All I did was like things. I never loved, nor hated anything. Just liked, and I liked that. I didn’t expect my solidarity to become my biggest weakness. Every morning at Ben’s cafe, the smell of bacon and coffee filled the air. It was a quiet diner, in a quiet town, and I liked it. The diner’s booths were filled with couples, the elderly and families with children who seemed to be the spawn of Satan himself. Every booth was full except one. A young girl sitting by herself perused the menu several times, continuously swatting away the waitress every time she came over for the order. Taking a seat up by the counter, I looked over at her again. She was the girl from the train so many years ago. She was still looking at the menu, still wearing that yellow sun dress, still twisting that mahogany brown hair. She shot a glance at me, and being the coward that I was; I looked away and choked on my coffee.
She walked up to me while I was cleaning my pants and asked, “So, what are you going to have?”

“Bacon and eggs.”
She grinned. “Are they awesome? Spectacular? Tell me so I can order the same thing and start living my life.”
I started to sweat, those big blue eyes peered over me, searching for an answer. After much thought I replied, “They’re fine.”
My God, I had forgotten how to talk to girls. The familiar solidarity I had come to love so much, had me by the balls.

“What’s your name stranger eating bacon and eggs?”

“John, how about you?”

“Mary. So John, how about you come with me for dinner tonight? Up at Baker’s point.”

“Sorry, I hardly know you and-“

“And you’ll bring the beer. Good, it’s settled. Meet me up there at nine.”
I went up there that night, not knowing what to expect. “Awesome, you made it! C’mon!” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to her car. We sat in the dark, drinking beer and eating pizza. After a few drinks, I told her about my becoming a great writer, and she told me she wanted to travel the world. I wanted to have one kid, she wanted twenty. She was the polar opposite of me. She was like the girl in the red dress everyone watched at prom, and I, the kid in the corner drinking punch for two hours straight. For the first time in years, I enjoyed the company of someone. Drunk and full of angst, I blurted out,

“You know what’s really weird?”

“What’s really weird, John?”

“I like being alone.” I chuckled nervously.
She laughed, and with a hand draped around my neck she whispered “But you’ll love being with me.”

Safe to say, the rest of that night was explicit and filled with scenes unsuitable for other viewers. Mary changed everything, we ate together, and car rides were full of melodies and harmonies alike. She sang louder than the radio itself. She said she was a photographer, but I thought she should always be the picture.

She moved in with me that winter, which was rather easy because all she had was a camera and a garbage bag full of clothes. Nestled up close to the radiator, I said to her, “I’d seen you before the diner. A couple years back, up in Northbrook when you were with that guy.”

“Really? Wow that must’ve been...like... three years ago. What did you think of me?” she said as she shot me a flirty smile.

“I don’t remember really, probably something horrible.”
Mary shoved me and smiled, “Well I would say the same about you asshole.”

“It’s crazy how things work isn’t it? Anyways how was-”

“You should start writing again John. I know you’re great at it, you just have to try.”
The change of subject was anything but subtle, that’s how things were with Mary.

“Mary, you’ve seen my writing, it’s horrible. I don’t even-“
She pulled me up, and threw me onto the bed. With her warm skin pressed against mine, she whispered, “Writing is making people feel things you brute, make me feel something.” I took her shirt off and kissed her chest, her skin was like that white marble, elegant and perfect. With her hand gripping my hair, I kissed her neck and pulled the blanket over us. That night Mary awoke something in me. At first I felt it in my lips, then again in my lungs, and then I felt it in my blood. She infected me with passion, with herself. She was a part of me and I knew there was no way of getting rid of her. I was a forest, and she was a wildfire.

The next day, I stayed home while Mary went out to work. Reading the Daily Tribune, I looked over at the window and saw a pen. It sat on the desk and mocked me. It sat there, as if to say, “You’re a failure”. With a quick jolt and a burst of inspiration I snatched the pen and a piece of paper. For the first time in five years, I began to write.
Mary came home and stomped her feet on the carpet.

“John? Babe I’m home.”
I walked over, “Hey baby how was your day?”

“It was great, I...what’s that?” she pointed at the piece of paper in chest pocket .

“I wrote today,” Mary jumped on top of me making us both tumble to the floor. “Do you want to read it?”
“Of course I do!”

When I was a boy my father taught me many things. He taught me how to drive, and how to give a firm handshake. He taught me to stand tall, and proud. He taught me that love can be the filler of gaps and holes and broken things. He taught me to end my stories with someone else, and never with myself. I was four at the time so I didn’t know what the hell he meant by all of that, but nevertheless I followed what he said. My father gave me my structure and she gave my structure life, with her pale white skin, brown hair, and dark blue eyes. Mary Holloway,
Will you marry me?

She said yes for five minutes straight. We decided to get married at St. Andrews church. The warm August sky pierced the stain glass windows, revealing a portrait of Jesus on the floor. It was an old church, lined with intricate carvings of ebony and oak. There was no one in the pews to see us, no family nor friends. We had each other, and that was more than enough. At 7:00 AM the train would pull into the Northbrook station, and at 7:05 AM, I married girl I had seen running through the crowds. Her passion that I once found disgusting now pulsated in my veins as I kissed her.

Now, I am an old man, with ten kids, five of my own books and a million photographs of Mary and me around the world. Mary passed last spring, but my God what a run we had. There is no word in the English language that describes the awareness of the lives of those around us, so sometimes we’re oblivious to their stories. We see ourselves as the main characters, the sole reason why a story carries on. But, when you find someone, your story becomes theirs and theirs yours. People and words have similar traits. Words inflict pain, bring joy, make you sad, and make you angry. Words have the power to affect people, much like how Mary did to me. The smallest things, whether it be a few scratches on a piece of paper or a hello from a stranger in a quiet diner, can change your life. I was numb before Mary, and she made me feel. Every time I write, she’s the ink in my pen and the lines on the page. I write because of her, I write to make others feel things they didn't know they could feel. She was a wildfire, and I’m still a forest.