Bill pulled the door closed behind him, stood on the porch and lit a cigarette. One cigarette a day was all he smoked anymore. He wore a t-shirt and some shorts, the latter being too short and the former too long. His hair stood up on both sides and flat in the middle. The beginnings of a beard grew on his face. Bill thought he might shave soon but was in no hurry. He stepped down off the porch and onto the driveway. The mailbox loomed at the bottom, welcoming and exciting him. Bill had been a writer, once, in that he wrote a few things and sent them off to various publications. One had been accepted, and when the check came in the mail it was the single most thrilling experience of his life.
He dumped some ash onto the driveway and continued down. Mrs. Greyson, the widow next door, stood up from her garden, stretched her back and waved.
“Hello, Bill.”
“Hello, Mrs. Greyson. Beautiful day.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Stronger every day.”
She smiled. “That’s good.”
He nodded and returned the smile, then resumed his walk to the mailbox. His mother was sick, dying in fact. He had moved in with her five years previous. Everyone assumed he was a good son and taking responsibility for her. The truth is he was broke, and his mother had simply lasted a lot longer than expected.
Some kids across the street sat on their bikes and stared at him. He knew they laughed at him. A middle-aged man who’s best part of the day was checking the mail and smoking a cigarette while looking like he just woke up, shit he’d laugh too. But they didn’t know the pure joy of being paid for creating a story. He hadn’t actually written anything since he moved in with his mother, longer than that even, but there were a few stories he’d sent out that never got rejections so he figured it was still theoretically possible a magazine could publish one of them.
At the curb, he flicked the butt into the gutter where it floated away toward the sewer. Bill opened the mailbox. There was an electric bill, some coupons and a gardening magazine his mother liked. A last envelope caught his eye. It was hand addressed to him. He tore it open. The letter said:
You are cordially invited to attend the Santa Barbara writer’s seminar.
Bill’s heart leaped. He fought the urge to run over to the kids on their bikes and show them his invitation. What would he lecture about? Oh, he could talk about craft to the students but there would be plenty of that. He’d focus on the disappointments and dealing with rejection, because when somebody recognizes you and your work it’s the best feeling on earth and all the rejection in the world just can’ t compare. He excitedly kept reading.
Come learn from masters of their craft. The cost is only $350 per person.
Bill laughed, laughed so hard his eyes began watering. He dropped the letter into the gutter where the water slowly pulled it away from him. He kept laughing. The kids’ eyes grew wider and Mrs. Greyson asked if he was alright. He waved a hand at them. Once the fit had left him he reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. He would have two today, so what? He lit it and breathed in. His mother would probably die soon and then at least he’d own a house. Not everybody could say that. Maybe then he could even start writing again. He exhaled and a cloud of smoke rose up, swirled around and faded away in the sky.