Chapter 2:

 

          Floyd was sitting on a park bench watching the birds fight amongst themselves for meager crumbs left behind by some picnickers a short time ago. They looked liked a hoard of homeless people, fighting each other for a little bit of shelter from an oncoming storm. In some ways, the way they acted seemed a little pathetic to him. He laughed to himself.

          The sun was shining bright and the sky was brilliant blue. The clouds in the sky were pure white cumulus ones, resembling little balls of cotton. The grass was green and the children were laughing long and loud. It was a nice day to spend outside. It was also a good day for capturing some inspiration, he thought.

          He was wearing his sunglasses to block out the sun’s light. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and his arms were resting on either side of the bench, along the top of the back end. He had one leg crossed over the other at the ankles and both sticking out. He forced himself into a relaxed state of mind, because he thought that this was a state of mind that would bring about better ideas.

          He was trying to think of something new to write about. There had to be something to break this dry spell that he was having.

          He was in the park hoping that nature would provide him with the miracle of inspiration, like it did for the so many other writers he had read about. He looked outside as well as in. But inspiration eluded him, whatever he did.

          Kids were playing and older people were walking in the park. Some of the older population were walking hand in hand, and some were walking alone. Most of them had grins pasted on their faces. Only a few had sour expressions or tired, worn-out looks. Those, Floyd guessed, were probably the ones who had recently lost love-ones. Or they suffered some other greater hardship. Or maybe...

          I’ve got it! He found himself having an idea and sat up straight. Excited, he roughly whipped off his sunglasses and tossed them off to one side. He closed his eyes and tried to follow the idea. But then, in a flash, the slight spark that he had faded away. Something went wrong. He started to wonder what it was and why it had happened. And why it had happened so fast, before he had even a short glimpse of that idea. He put his sunglasses back on and sat back hard, feeling a sense of extreme loss. “Shit,” he said softly.

          Now what was it? What was that idea about?

          He didn’t like this. He had been basking in the glow of inspiration one moment, and in the next, in the cold darkness of despair. Fuck.

          Still, he tried to wonder what he was going to write about. Was it about the kids? The adults? The park? The goose shit on the grass? Or was it something entirely unrelated to this place and time?

          Maybe his problem was that he was trying too hard. Maybe if he just relaxed and let his mind flow, he would be hit with a whopper. And maybe if he did this... And maybe if he did that... And maybe... shit.

          Maybe the scenery would help relax him to a point that would provide him with some sort of inspiration. He looked at the trees, the young couples, the old couples, and the goose shit littered on the grass a few feet in front of him. He looked at the children, the way they laughed and enjoyed themselves in the sunny day. Nothing came to him. Nothing at all. Even looking at the crap on the ground didn’t do anything for him. Except for slightly nauseating him, that was.

          So Floyd, with no good ideas planted within his brain, changed his position and rested his hands on his knees and looked. Looked with squinted eyes and a blank expression. Looked deeply and with extreme concentration. He looked at the trees and the surrounding scenery. He looked at the clouds in the sky and the harsh sunlight. Maybe after a while, he hoped that something would come. So he waited, and looked until his eyes began to hurt.

          But then his eyes grew tired. He blinked a couple of times, leaned back, and took off his sunglasses. He closed his eyes and slowly drifted off to sleep. He wasn’t concerned about how he probably looked to passersby: a bum settling down for a nap.

 

          After a restful period of sleep, he woke to the slightly annoying sounds of birds chirping and trees rustling in the gentle wind. He realized that it had grown dark and the park had gotten emptier. Now there were only a couple of people walking around, enjoying the beginnings of the evening. He must have been asleep for a long time, though it hardly seemed long to him.

          He couldn’t remember dreaming, and he didn’t wake up inspired, which was what he was unconsciously hoping to do when he first settled down. He had wanted to dream. To dream and wake up with a strong feeling that he had to get home as soon as possible so he could start writing. But that did not happen to him.

          He picked up his sunglasses from the bench, folded them, and put them into his shirt pocket since he didn’t need them anymore. He patted that pocket, as part of an unconscious ritual he had developed a long time ago, when he started getting worried that his pocket might get picked. Although the idea of someone walking up to him and stealing from his shirt pocket seemed ridiculous, Floyd still was paranoid about it.

          “I have got to come up with a good idea,” he said out loud, not realizing it until the words were out in the open. And, when they were out, he didn’t really care. “Anything. Anything at all. Just one spark of an idea. This is getting a little annoying.” Then he turned and saw a bearded man in a faded New York Mets baseball cap sitting next to him. He had been reading a newspaper, but looked up when Floyd had started talking. “Problem?” Floyd asked with just a hint of anger in his voice.

          “Not at all,” the man said with a smile. The smile was more of a smirk, as if the person wearing it was afraid of showing too much emotion. He folded the paper and set it on his lap. He looked at Floyd with a mixture of both humor and annoyance. More of the former than of the latter. Then he pointed to himself and added, “I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”

          “No,” he replied, a little embarrassed. He suddenly felt the need to explain himself to this stranger, though he did not know why. He smiled and added, “I was talking to myself. Sorry to disturb you. I’m sorry.”

          The man said, “I’ll leave you to your conversation then. I do hope it’s an enjoyable one.” He folded his paper and left.

          Jerk, Floyd thought, and then decided that going home and staring at the computer screen would be better than staying here and staring at nothing. At least at home he could talk to himself without attracting unwanted attention. He looked back at the man. The man was walking away, not looking back at Floyd.

          He moaned and groaned as he eased himself out of the bench. He massaged out the knots and kinks in his back and arm muscles and walked out of the park. Sleeping on a park bench wasn’t good for the body.

          He walked home, taking slow strides, perhaps because he was not really looking forward to going home. On the way, he tried many connection methods he normally used to come up with good ideas, but nothing stuck.