“I’m leaving,” he said.
The dog stared at him, ears flat.
“I’ll be right back buddy, you’re a good boy, be right back.”
John got to the sidewalk and took a left. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was on track.
112 steps to the convenience store for smokes, 432 to the Post Office, 23 to Giorgio’s Trattoria for takeout meatballs, then the 567 back to the apartment.
“Oh hello John, what a lovely day!” Mrs. Cranberry said.
“Right,” John said, keeping his head down, moving forward. There just wasn’t enough time.
110, 111, 112, and he stepped into the store.
“Hey man,” the clerk had his cigs ready for him on the counter. John laid down a crisp five dollar bill and took the box.
“Thanks, er, uhm,” John said, walking out the door.
He couldn’t understand why everyone wanted to talk all the time. What was there to talk about? The weather? How your knee was killing you? Who won the Super Bowl?
He didn’t bother other people with questions, why should they expect him to answer theirs, to stand there for ten minutes talking about… nothing.
A young man in a red hoodie passed him on the left, staring long and hard. John held his gaze, and kept moving down the sidewalk.
429, 430, 431, and the Post Office doors slid open automatically.
He walked to box number 776, opened it, and pulled out the bundle. John always had a lot of mail. He took it to a counter and started sorting the junk mail from the regular.
Junk mail was gold. He kept it all, good and bad, filed in endless cabinets in his apartment. He poured over it, as well as dozens of magazines and newspapers for his work.
None of his neighbors knew that he was one of the world’s greatest living copywriters.
He’d written seventeen of the top twenty-five producing ads of the last decade, all from his studio apartment in Portland.
John was responsible for hundreds of millions of dollars in sales for products of every kind.
The regular mail was a mix of bills and requests for his services.
John didn’t use email, didn’t have a website, but his P.O. Box was somehow consistently found by the most successful entrepreneurs and business people in the world.
They all wanted him. Only a few got him.
He wrapped up his bundle and got out of there. On the sidewalk, John checked his watch again.
“Perfect,” he said under his breath.
He looked south, and saw Red Hoodie again, ducking behind the last payphone in town. John moved north toward his lunch.
He kept an eye out as he walked, but the wind was cold on his face, so he pulled the collar up and looked down.
He passed the bookstore and in 20, 21, 22, 23 steps, he pushed into the warm, familiar din of Giorgio’s.
“Hey John!” Amir said from the tiny kitchen.
“Hey my man,” John said. Amir was one of the few that he didn’t mind talking to. His spaghetti and meatballs were the best on the west coast, nevermind he was from Egypt.
“How’s the typer today?” Amir said.
The meatballs were wrapped and waiting at the register. John paid with exact cash, and took the balls.
“She doesn’t like to move around until 1 pm,” John said.
“Yeah, well… I hope she keeps moving my friend.”
“You and me both. You never know with these things.”
“Just pretend you’re making meatballs John, just make the meatball, it’ll come out all right.”
“Just make… the meatball,” John said, walking out the door. He’d try to remember that.
565, 566, 567… John’s hand was at the door of his apartment building when he heard a small branch crack behind him. He turned and saw Red Hoodie standing in the walkway.
“John Marlowe?” Hoodie said.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Jackson, I’m the Marketing Director over at Oregon Apparel.”
“Your ads are shit,” John said, turning back to the door.
“That’s why I’m here, it took me five weeks to find you. I want to hire you, blank check.”
“I’m busy kid, leave me alone.”
“We’re the third largest apparel company in the US… can’t we talk… what’s it gonna take Mr. Marlowe?”
The door slammed shut. John got into his apartment, pulled the meatballs out of the bag and sat on his old couch.
The dog walked over for a bite.
Through the window he could see the kid walking away. They never got it, and they never would.
John Marlowe glanced at his typewriter, then his watch. 12:43 pm.
The meatballs were excellent today.
Seventeen minutes to showtime.