Kevin D. Hendricks

Typing Away One Afternoon

Hey boys and girls, just a quick warning of introduction. Today’s pondering is just plain weird. So deal with it, okay? Snuggle up with a warm cup of coffee and enjoy the ponderings of a mad man, and be glad that you’re not cursed with this desire to ponder to no end.

The lights are dim and the cradle is empty. Is it just me, or do you feel it as well? Somebody flip the lights on, and save me from this wretched darkness.

I saw you sitting there, head bowed and eyes closed. Everyone else was standing and singing, but you were sitting alone in the crowd. I know how you feel. I’ve been there before. It’s intimidating, and if your heart isn’t right it eats away at you. It’s not anything for the weak. I whispered a prayer in my heart for you, and I wanted so much to reach out my hand and lay it on your shoulder. Someone is here for you. You’re not alone. But I didn’t, and I have my reasons, as stupid as they are. I watched you stand and awkwardly make your way towards the door. Where are you going? But as I saw you disappear out the door, I knew. I’ve been there before. A crowded room of a thousand souls isn’t the place to be washed clean. You need the silence.

—

The rain came down slowly, splattering in the puddles. It wasn’t hard enough to make you run fast, and just enough to be a nuisance; slow enough to make your soul feel like it was washing away. Melting into an unrecognizable puddle. But there just wasn’t enough water to wash it cleanly away. It ruined the day like scratching on the eight ball.

What a feeling, a draining of the soul, a leaking of the mind, a watering down of the emotions. There’s nothing like running your motivation over with a truck, and then backing up to run over it again.

And why? Why did I feel so odd last night? Have you ever not wanted to go to bed. Your eyes are heavy and your body is tired, but you have no desire to climb into bed. You know you would fall asleep before your head even hit the pillow, but you just don’t care to. When it becomes ridiculously late you grudgingly give in and go to bed. Your body wants to sleep, but the rebellious wheels of your mind refuse to give in so easily. Forcing your eyes to stay open, you just think. Not of anything in particular, just think. Sometimes life comes to an odd pause like this, and nothing seems to matter anymore. It’s all illusion, but it still happens. This is when the weak ponder suicide, forgetting that, “suicide is painless until tomorrow afternoon.” But what do the rest of us do? Stay up too late wondering why? Go to bed early and hope this disillusioned feeling will be gone tomorrow like a headache or a fever?

Perhaps it’s merely the disillusionment of sin. What I want to do, I don’t do, and what I don’t want to do, I do. “Be careful little eyes what you see. Be careful little hands what you touch. Be careful little ears what you hear.”

—

“What are you doing?” she asked, lounging lazily on the bed. It is after all, a Sunday afternoon.

“I’m typing.” I replied, as smug as possible. I knew she’d ask.

“Well duh. What are you typing?” she asked, slightly annoyed.

Hmmm. What do I tell her? I don’t really know what I’m typing. I’m just typing. I think I’m trying to organize my thoughts in some strange and odd sense, but I don’t really know. I tried that this morning before leaving for church. I wrote several pages, successfully clearing my head and lifting the weight from my heart. But the thoughts still remain.

“I don’t know…” I answered, not really wanting to explain everything that’s going on in my head. What is going on in my head? Is it anything, or do I just feel like writing? I think I just feel like writing.

“What the heck are you writing?” she asks again. I ignored her this time. Probably not the best answer.

“You know, this looks really weird from here. I can see the screen, but I can’t make out the letters, so I just see all these lines.” she explained. Oh the joys of a laptop screen. I didn’t say anything, but instead scrolled down to the bottom of the screen so she’d see a screen full of horizontal lines.

“Kevin.” she said. I could tell I was annoying her. Although it wasn’t quite annoyance, it was more of a concern. I suppose you’d feel that way if someone was compulsively typing and not saying anything about it.

“What are you typing?” she asked again. This time I mumbled something incoherent.

“Putz,” she grumbled, tossing a stuffed leopard at me. Turning, I picked up the stuffed animal, and set it on my lap.

“You know what I named that?” she asked.

“What?”

“Leprosy.” I laughed. It was a worn and beaten stuffed animal. The kind she probably had since she was six. I think she said something about having to sew its head back on. But I still didn’t answer her question. What can you really say? What would she say if I told her I was typing a transcript of our conversation? The teddy bear would probably come flying my way. But what am I doing? Am I just practicing my writing skills? I could certainly use the practice. Just the other day I realized that I haven’t written many dialogues. It’s kind of hard to write them realistically. I could definitely use some practice. Is this just practice? Perhaps. But maybe it’s more than that. I don’t think I’ve written anything like this in a while. It’s kind of fun. She asked me earlier what kind of writing I’d like to do. I’ve always thought that writing novels would be ideal (Or novel, as Andy would say), but I’ve never written one before. I think I’m intimidated by how much thought it requires. You need to plan out so much for it to work, or at least that’s what I think. I wonder if it really is that way. How much of a story do you have to plan out before writing it, or can you just sit down with a blank sheet of paper and watch a masterpiece spew forth from your head?

“How many pages are you writing?” she said, the inflection in her voice expressing annoyance. But I know she’s not annoyed. She’s wondering why I’m sitting here with my back turned to her, typing maniacally and not talking to her or watching the hockey game.

I should probably answer that question. You can only drive a person so far with this bizarre behavior. It is fun though.

“I don’t know, it says zero out of zero at the bottom of the screen.” I said. I’m not used to this program. It’s Microsoft Works, a cheap form of Microsoft Word.

“That’s weird.” she said, and looked back to the hockey game.

“Are you having fun with this?” she asked. I just took the laptop of the desk and put it on my lap. What a concept. This is a pretty cool way to work. It’s really comfortable too. I could type like this all the time. I just feel like writing. Writing. Writing. It’s my trade, and I enjoy it. The crafting of words and the telling of stories is kind of fun. Although I never think of myself as a good story teller.

I wish I could do this more often. Just type and write for the fun of it. No reason, just typing. And most people would probably think I’m nuts for just sitting here and doing this. They probably wouldn’t talk to me either, they’d probably just leave me alone. Which would make for a really boring dialogue to type out. So thanks.

What an odd Sunday afternoon. A lazy Sunday. U2 should have sung that instead. I should probably go do some work soon. Dinner’s in ten minutes, and I should start the Table Tent after that. Stink. I kind of like typing for no reason. I feel pumped to write a story now. I just need an idea. Won’t it be fun someday to be able to get paid for doing this? I suppose that day is here, I just have to do it.

She’s sleeping now. Well, her eyes are closed anyway. I’d be impressed if she was actually asleep. I guess that’s the end of the dialogue. Oh well, the hockey game is over now too. The outcome was similar to the day outside, gray and dreary. The Wings lost three nothing.

She’s so cute (I can’t help wondering if I should say that). Just sitting there curled up on her bed with “Leprosy.” Now her eyes open for a moment, filled with that lost look–she was asleep. Her eyes fall shut again, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in her head. Is she really sleeping, or is it one of those things where you close your eyes and wonder what everyone else in the room is doing. Are they looking at you? Are the ignoring you? Does anybody notice that you’ve fallen asleep? Am I the only one who does that? Or is she just tired, and letting herself drift into a quick nap? That’s probably it, after staying up until 3 AM, she should be tired.

I was just wondering if I should set the computer back on the desk and leave, letting her sleep. Pull a blanket over her, and give her some rest. But her eyes opened again. I guess that answers that question.

My mind wonders odd things sometimes, and I can’t help but ask what I’m supposed to do with it all. The dreams, the desires, the wants, the lusts. How do I sort it all out? I try to sift through it all, but what should be tossed out, and what needs to be refined and set as a goal?

“Have a nice nap?” I asked. She woke up again.

“Um-hum.” she mumbled, “How long was I asleep for?”

“About ten minutes.” I answered. Shaking off the sleep, she stood up and shut off the TV.

“So what are you writing?” she asked again. Determined to know, huh?

“Nothing.” I should just tell her.

“It’s really nothing. You’d laugh.” I said. Although that doesn’t quite sum it up. That makes it sound like I wrote something really stupid.

“Then let me read it,” she persisted.

“Okay.” I answered.

I don’t know what it is about writing, but it somehow manages to clear the jumbled mess in my head. I like it. I’m able to figure out just what it is I want when I write.

…a fictional conversation later that day:

“Can I borrow your laptop again sometime?” I asked with that sly smile.

“Yes.” she answered grudgingly, “As long as you don’t leave another warped writing on my computer.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”