Dead Hours

He’s been at the same effing desk for forty damn years. Forty.

The same chair, creaking every time he settles in, mocking him—the ghost of countless deadlines and missed opportunities. A fluorescent light buzzes overhead, a monotonous hum, the soundtrack to his life.

They tell him that’s how things are—a steady paycheck, good benefits. As if it’s enough to fill the void of a soul slowly hollowed out by the daily grind of goddamn spreadsheets and calls that lead nowhere.

The writing? That’s the part he clings to. He tells himself it matters.
After the kids are in bed and the wife is either sleeping or pretending to care about something else, he pulls out the laptop or sits in front of the big computer, depending on the mood, and gets to work. Fiction, poetry. Whatever flows out. But it’s all the same.

He writes into the void and hopes for a miracle, but shit like that doesn’t come to guys like him. The mailbox is empty. The inbox is just junk. Rejection letters pile up like memento mori to how much of a joke he has become to the world.

His name? You can’t find it unless it’s under some crappy pen name. He doesn’t even bother submitting anymore. He knows it’s all just one big hustle for the people who have the right connections, the bullshit, the look. He’s never had that look. Hell, he doesn’t even know what the hell that is.

He writes in the dead hours, waiting for anything to pull him from his rut. He tells himself it’s not about fame. It’s about the craft, the words. But deep down, he knows. He knows if he were just a little younger, a little luckier, he’d be in some room right now, giving a reading to people who gave a damn. Instead, he’s sitting in his cramped bedroom office, pounding out another stupid-ass story few will ever read, hoping for the one thing he’ll never get: someone to tell him it mattered, he mattered.

At work, they don’t know about his writing. The son of a bitches would laugh if they did. They’d think he was a loser trying to hold on to a dream that never had a life, a chance. The assholes don’t see the scars, the long nights, the fingers sore from typing when they should have been sleeping. All they see is the guy who shows up, does his job, and gets a paycheck.

Some nights, he stares out the window and wonders if he missed it—whatever it is. That spark, that chance, the break. But that’s the hell of a thing to wonder about when you’re forty years in and no closer to fame than the day you started. So he sits there, another cigarette, and writes because that’s all he knows to do.

The world keeps turning, indifferent as ever, and he keeps typing, trying to write something that’ll make it all matter, the truth, his truth. But the silence in the room tells him all he needs to know.

The world’s already fucking forgotten him. And sixty-plus years hasn’t been long enough to leave a fucking mark.