THE EXCITING JOURNEY OF Writing
a Fictional Book
"IT'S A LUXURY BEING A WRITER, BECAUSE ALL YOU EVER THINK ABOUT IS LIFE."
Weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic like a half back dodging oncoming tacklers, George pedaled his bike up the busy Vermont Avenue sidewalk. Nothing would stop the young boy, his legs churned ferociously.
"Hey kid, slow down damn it," barked an old man stepping out from the tobacco shop.
Ignoring the man's words George continued pedaling. Lost in angry thoughts, and with nowhere to turn, he was going to see his father, Mark Blurth. A salesman at the Ford dealership on Hollywood Boulevard.
George an only child never had a good relationship with his father. When his mother died, the fragile connection between father and son disintegrated, with neither appearing to care.
The two lived in an ordinary working class neighborhood in the eastern part of Hollywood, but the area displayed signs of change. Newcomers were moving in and new storefronts replaced traditional ones. Most arrived innocent with a few dollars in their pocket. Star struck young hopefuls with dreams of fame and fortune arrived every week.
Waiting to greet them with empty promises, phony agents and managers roamed the Hollywood streets like packs of wild dogs waiting for the migrating herds. They lurked in seedy rooms and hung hastily made shingles on doors, attempting to lure the young and naive into their lairs.
Living in the entertainment capital never captured George's interest. A better than average student he excelled in every class but history. He despised gym class and sports, even though he could bike for miles without breaking a sweat.
George never bothered anyone. The majority of the time he preferred solitude. However, on the fourth day of the new semester, everything in George's world changed. That day, he crossed paths with Sam Locke, the school bully, and troublemaker. When all the students were on the move between classes, Sam, showing off, intentionally bumped into George, "Hey weirdo, what's wrong with you? Look where you're going."
Ignoring Sam's taunting remarks George continued walking away which only provoked his tormentor. Angered at the boy's snub, Sam rushed up from behind and knocked the books out from under George's arms. Everything he had been carrying fell to the floor with a thud and before reacting all of George's papers and books littered the school hallway.
Hundreds of students flooded the hall pushing and shoving as they transferred from one room to the next. Although they shuffled along like convicts on a chain gang, their verbal exchanges came in rapid snippets, like nervous birds flittering and chirping at one another.
"Hated that class."
"Hate that teacher."
"Loan me fifty cents."
"See you at fourth period."
"I know who you like."
Uncaringly, the multitude of students stepped on George's paperwork and some even took pleasure purposely kicking his schoolbooks down the hall. Sam Locke along with several onlookers lined the wall and laughed at the boy's painful ordeal.
"Watch where you're going next time weirdo," said Sam walking away leading his small entourage.
By the time the bell rang, which signified the beginning of the next class, George stood in the empty corridor staring down at the aftermath. Leaning against the lockers, he closed his eyes and slipped his hands into his pockets. Balling them up into hidden fists, he squeezed them until his palms hurt. George became angry.
"Why would Sam Locke do such a thing," he asked staring at the mess scattered in the hallway.
A gentle hand tapped George on his shoulder that startled him. A frail-looking young boy stood next to George holding out one of his books.
"I saw what happened. I hate Sam Locke."
"Yeah, I do too," said George.
Handing George the damaged book, "My name is Charlie."
"I hate Sam Locke. He's done that to me twice. I want to pay him back so bad."
Charlie began picking up the papers and books when George stopped him.
"Charlie, let me do it. You go to class so you're not late, you don't need to get into trouble as well. I'll see you around."
Down on his hands and knees George gathered up the results of Sam Locke's harassment and glanced up as Charlie walked away. The fragile young boy waved. George returned the gesture then went back to gathering up his papers.
Glaring at the mess in the hallway, the picture of Sam Locke laughing and pointing at him reverberated as he gathered the up his material. Each time he clawed at the papers his heart pounded. Holding a clump of soiled documents unfamiliar emotions emerged. A faint scratching gnawed away at his inside. A strange voice screamed for revenge. George agreed with Charlie about Sam, but something else troubled George, the cruelty of the other students. He realized no one other than Charlie chose to help.
"Sam Locke caused this," he mumbled pounding his leg as he stared at the scattered papers.
"They're all at fault, all of them. They are just like Sam Locke."
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