Real Life

So far I've felt very good about everything I've posted on here. This post is different because I'm a little nervous about it. It's the beginnings of a story I'm come up with, but only the beginnings. That's what scares me so much. This hasn't been worked over much and I'm afraid it's not very good or at least not as good as I want it to be. My idea is good—I have no doubt about that, but is the presentation good? That's the rub. As a writer, and I use the term loosely to apply to myself, I need feedback to create things that are actually good, but at the same time I want to simply be told that everything I do is fantastic because who doesn't like that? Because I care so much about this particular piece I ask you to please be gentle yet demanding in your critique of it. I'd like for it to one day be as well written as it deserves, and to do that I need help. Therefore, I humbly place before you:

The Real Life (working title)

Harold sat on his couch staring at the tv. He had been sitting on the side of the couch, but because of the sag he was now in the middle. The tv was playing something, but it was just noise. Harold’s show ended some time ago and now he was just feeling…something. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. Nostalgia maybe, if it’s possible to be nostalgic over something you’ve never had. The high of the day was always watching whatever show epitomized the life that Harold wished he had. It didn’t matter if it was a cop drama or a quirky sitcom. While he was watching he felt connected, felt like he was a part of something greater. That feeling always passed, and he ended up in the middle of the couch. It was a fitting metaphor. The worst part of it all was that he didn’t even know what he actually wanted, as long as it was different than what he had.

                He didn’t know why he felt so disconnected. He had friends—good friends that cared about him—he had a girlfriend who he loved, or at least liked. He wasn’t a social pariah or anything. It was just, during these times when he was alone with his thoughts and even his imaginary friends had left him…well that was the problem right there. His imaginary friends seemed just as real as his actual friends. He cared about them just as much, empathized with them more even. It made him wonder if his friends weren’t more real than made up characters, what was the point of being friends? The truth of it was simply, he was disappointed with life. He didn’t want new friends, he wanted a new Harold. He wanted to create, to contribute, to matter. He was a fine young man, but fine young men often turn into fine old men who never made a real difference in anyone’s life. He needed to be important. He needed to feel important.

                It was time to end tonight’s self-pity. Time for Harold to get up from the sagging couch and get on with life. Get busy living or get busy dying. It was one of his favorite lines, and he used it when he needed to get out of one of these funks. He used it too often. He never really did anything with it. He just repeated it and got off the couch. To top it all off, he didn’t feel a renewed vigor for life or even a desire to change anything. Amy was coming over and he had to clean up a little before she got there. This was the way of his life. It was a good life. Just, sometimes, he felt it wasn’t for him. Anyway, he figured he’d better get busy cleaning or he wasn’t going to get any rest tonight.

                Amy arrived right on time, ready for dinner and a show. They ate a delectable meal of macaroni and cheese sprinkled with bacon and settled down to their usual ritual of some new reality show peppered with broken conversation. Normally Harold would just zone out during all of this and hope they could get to sex quick so he could go to bed and start his daily tedium over again. This night, however, he just couldn’t handle it. Some girl was yelling at somebody else on the show and he just couldn’t take anymore. He had to say something.

“Amy, do you think we could watch something else tonight? I can’t take this anymore.”

“It’s just one show. You can handle one show. ”

“We watch this show all the time though. I just want a change today.”

“We haven’t watched this show for two weeks.”

“I swear we watched this yesterday.”

“No. Yesterday we watched the Kardashians.”

“What’s this one?”

“This is Jersey Shore.”

“What’s the difference? It’s all just girls with fake boobs yelling at other girls with fake boobs.”

“It’s more than that. You just don’t get it ‘cause you’re a guy.”

“Listen, I don’t want to fight. I just want to watch something good for a change.”

“So now I have bad taste in shows? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I didn’t say that, but since you brought it up I'll second it. If there are none opposed...motion carries!”

“Don’t make fun of me or my shows. This is at least better than the god awful cheesy sitcoms you watch. The jokes aren’t even funny.”

“The jokes aren’t funny to you because you’re supposed to use your brain a little to understand them.”

“So now I’m the one with the problem?!”

“As a matter of fact, yes! You have a problem! The whole god damn country has a problem! And I’m sick of living in the middle of this shit!”

“Shit?! What shit?! You think the stuff I like is shit?! You think I’m shit?!”

“Not you. Just your world.”

“What do you want? You want your perfect little sitcom life? Well guess what. It isn’t real. My world might be full of shit, but at least it’s real!”

“You call that real? You call that life? You know what; you can keep your fucked up reality? I don’t need it anymore. I’m leaving.”

It never occurred to Harold that since they were in his apartment, Amy should be the one to leave. It didn’t matter to him. He wanted to be gone, not just from her, from here. From this life. He needed to get out, but as he packed it occurred to him that he didn’t know where to go. This didn’t deter Harold for more than a moment as he told himself that anyplace was an improvement. He made his way to the door when Amy, who sat sullenly watching orange skinned buffoons, decided to get one last jab in.

“Where you going? Off to hang with Dick?”

                Dick of course, was short for Richard who wasn’t in fact a real person. But barring that minor detail Amy had actually come up with a really good idea. “Matches” was shot in Los Angeles, and Harold had always wanted to visit the set, so why not now? Maybe he could actually find his way onto the show in some way. Had he thought it through in realistic terms he would have turned around, kicked Amy out of his apartment, and gone on with his life. Tonight, however, he was only thinking about a new life. A life by the ocean, hanging out with his favorite people, just living life. A real life.

                He hopped in his Jetta and headed West.  Southwest really, but he didn’t concern himself with the actual direction. He was going to live his dream. He had some money in his wallet, not a lot, but enough to get him through Colorado and Utah; at least to Vegas. He had money in his bank—he had a good job, but leaving it behind didn’t bother him in the least. In his mind there was only one solution to his lackluster life. He was going to LA to find his friends. He was going to be friends with Richard and Beau and Jeff and Laurie, and not just fake friends anymore. Somewhere deep down in the back of his head he knew none of them were real people, but that didn’t matter. He knew what he wanted and he was going to get it.