Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,47

just kept walking, making my way to the roof. I truly needed to clear my head and there was no better place. The last time I had been up there was with Frank, when we discussed Kurtis’s lighter. I should have told him to never give it back to that fuck! I wanted to kill him for ruining my relationship with Mia. With that thought, I pulled out my wallet once more to stare at the picture of Lola and me.

Why could I find love, but not keep it? I asked myself, and then I heard a voice in my head.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, pussy!

It was in Frank’s voice, of course, but Frank wasn’t there. Frank had gotten so inside my head that he had become the devil on my shoulder. The one telling me to just do it. My better-thinking subconscious was the angel. But to be honest, this time, the devil was right.

With that, I stared at the picture of Lola.

I will finish this book! I will finish this book!

I mean, that’s what all this was about! It wasn’t about Mia or falling in love or any of this other bullshit! It was about finishing something I started. It was about committing to something greater than myself. Something bigger than me or Frank, Lola, or Mia. It was about overcoming my fear of failure. It was about making myself complete through my art. It was about something unexplainable.

The picture had become a burden. A weight I carried around at all times. A symbol of my inability to move forward. It had to go. I had to go. I needed to free myself.

I took the picture and tore it in half. Then I tore it again. Lola was gone. And maybe so was Mia. It was time to rid myself of the things that were holding me back. It was time to do this on my own. Do it my way. I threw the shredded picture over the side of the building. The pieces fell gently like leaves in the wind, rocking to and fro as they approached the ground.

It was nearly seven, which meant I was off. Off to finish the last chapter in my book. I would give it that final, climactic event. In about five hours’ time my main character was going to rob the very grocery store I was standing on top of.

I had to prepare.

On the way home, I stopped by the liquor store and grabbed a bottle of Macallan, Frank’s favorite single-malt Scotch, at least that’s what my notes said. My Moleskine had so many entries I couldn’t remember half of what I’d written down. Good thing too, because it helped me with the details and nuances about the characters—articles of clothing, facial features, mannerisms, voice tics, surroundings, weather, and just about anything else I needed to create a real, moving, spinning world for readers to lose themselves in.

After grabbing the booze I stopped at the thrift shop to snag a ski mask and duffel bag. If I was gonna do this, I was really gonna play the part! Fuck method acting. This was method writing.

Back at my apartment, I prepped my typewriter and poured a glass of Scotch. I took a shot. Fuck that, I thought to myself, then threw the glass. It shattered on the floor.

Frank would drink it straight from the bottle.

I opened the Tame Impala record that Mia had left at my place and put it on my turntable. I set the needle down. As the crackle from the record echoed through my apartment, I looked at my attire—black jeans, black shoes, black T-shirt, and empty black duffel bag on the floor, to the left of my chair. Ski mask in hand. “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” by Tame Impala blasted through my apartment.

I was ready. Frank was ready.

I put my hands on my typewriter, closed my eyes, and began to type. Frank strutted up to the closed grocery store. With every word I wrote, every step I spelled out on the page, Frank followed. I could feel the energy. This would be the most propulsive scene I’d ever written. I was fully in the character’s head. I was Frank! I was robbing the store!

As I sat in my chair, I pulled down my ski mask, as did Frank. I took a swig from my bottle of Scotch, and Frank took a swig from outside the front doors of the grocery store. Then Frank wielded a giant metal