Written Fall 2019

Stephanie Werner is a young writer hunting for prestige after college. But with little accomplishments and an undeservedly fat ego, it’s going to take her some maturing before she’s ready to publish anything worthwile.

My Last Name Is Werner

By Liam McLaughlin

My sharp fingernails were the slow, successive beeps of sonar as they drummed on the table. I couldn’t understand Kevin’s muffled gargles. When he spoke, his words formed bubbles from his mouth that floated up until they popped on the ceiling, lost to everyone but Neptune. He didn’t like that. It made him louder, angrier with every captured phrase, but never did he fix it, and swim us to shore. He didn’t want to be the first to broker the impolite words, “Are you even listening?” But maybe he should’ve. I was drowning.

“More coffee?” 

I was ripped awake from my deep sea slumber. The waiter smiled over me, holding out the steaming pot. I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

As he poured, my eyes drifted towards Kevin. 

“What were you thinking about?” he said, slow but deliberate. 

“The ocean,” I admitted. “Living at sea.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Why’s that?”

I laughed a little. “I guess there’s something so peaceful in it.” 

The game was tiring. I hardly cared anymore, yet I always came back to play, like a willess husk. He was cute though, for whatever that’s worth. Not the type of guy who’d usually go out for me. I drank from the black cup, bitter taste coming down my throat. I loved how coffee made me feel. I loved the taste. The worst thing was coming down, the fleeting feeling lost like a snowflake on a tongue. 

He started fidgeting with the spoon in his hand. “Yeah, so I worked at the tech firm for a few years. Just wasn’t cutting it. I switched to a job at the Comcast building since I’d rather focus on my band,” He rambled. 

“Oh,” I said. On the first date, he went on and on about his favorite things. TV, movies, books. Nothing impressive. This is the first he mentioned personal life. “What kind of band?”

He wore a narcissistic grin, like he’d just won me back. 

“We’re a tribute band to The Specials. It’s like a little Ska, Reggae mix sort of thing.” He did kung-fu-like moves with his hands as he added that. He leaned back triumphantly. “Imagine if Bob Marley got together with the Ramones, and you’ve got us.”

I started brushing something out of my eye. “Those are some big names,” I replied, my face contorted with a gaping mouth and one eye wincing shut as I pulled out eye boogers. 

He nodded. “Yeah. Got big shoes to fill.” He looked at me.

I felt fluttery in his gaze. Giving a sharp giggle, I said, “Well don’t we all.”

And that was it. The feeling left as I regained my senses. 

The waiter returned. “Can I get you the check?”

“Oh yeah, thanks” Kevin nodded. His eyes bore back to me. “You want to stop at my place? We can watch a movie,”

I smiled. “No.”

He looked confused.

“I’m on my period.”

When the waiter returned, Kevin asked to split the check. Right then, he’d never looked uglier to me.

I walked home through the blistering cold. The city was quiet with everyone huddled indoors to escape the snap freeze. I wasn’t one of the levelheaded ones. That Kevin of all people dragged me out here… I stared into my phone longingly, wondering if he’d text me back. If any of them ever would. I’m on my period. God what a stupid thing to say. What if he was being genuine? I would’ve gone in that case.

I shook my head. Not true. I had stuff to do today. The date was never going to his place. He was rude to even ask, and assume I had nothing to do. People with boring jobs always acted like that. Sellouts. Worthless fucking depressed sellouts. 

I reached my building, climbing up stairs and squeezing into my studio apartment. It was one big room, although it might be more accurate to say two mashed into one. I carefully stepped over months of books, papers, bills, and dirty clothes, then collapsed on my bed. I’d had too much coffee to sleep, so I just lay there in the agonizing discomfort of half a brain wired on and the other half trying to turn off. 

I had something to do today. Something to do now. Out of the corner of my eye it stared at me, covered in stacks of failed manuscripts. I’d been trying for so long to stick the landing. The deadline was tomorrow morning and I was out of time, yet here I was, lying sedentary. The publisher was killing me. I told them over and over how I needed more time, how it could be something great if I just had more time. I’d once managed to get the company president on the phone, a big english professor who did this on the side.

  His voice had come through muffled by bad cell service. “Stephanie Werner, was it? I did read one of your short stories before. You’ve got talent my friend!”

I was fearing for the day he read this. “I’m just nervous I don’t have the time. It’s supposed to be my debut.”

“You’re scared of critics? Don’t be. This novel has to be good. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got so far?”

“It’s an allegorical Bildungsroman of the female writer. The plot isn’t really straightforward, so I don’t know if you have the time for me to lay it all out to you.”

“No, that sounds fine! I like it, actually. Like a feminist take on a classic novel. ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman’. Can I call you Stephanie Dedalus?”

Ha. Ha. 

The publisher continued. “It sure sounds like you’re writing for critics, so don’t be sad if a tabloid who doesn’t get it tries to drag your name through the mud. It happens all the time. I’ve spent hours reading the negative reviews on my otherwise praised novels. Nothing good ever comes out of it.”

I sighed into the phone. “But what if it isn’t an otherwise praised novel?”

“Well, that’s what editors are for. But otherwise, try again!” 

Without a publisher, sure. Maybe my parents might buy it. I managed to sit in front of the computer, staring at the blinking cursor. The ending was supposed to be around 10,000 words in total. So far I had 3. There were more before I trashed it all in a fit. 

Anytime I started, it felt like that spongebob episode where he tried to write an essay but only managed to put a fancy The on the page. Nothing but style and guff. I had less than twenty four hours to do this, and it couldn’t happen. I knew by this point that there was no forcing writing. I had to have inspiration strike me. It happened at random intervals and left in a flash. I could only get down so much before it was gone. 

There was another solution. If the universe wasn’t going to deliver, I’d force my hand. I reached into the side drawer and took out two orange tablets.

I marveled the them, picking them up with my fingernails and spinning them in circles. I smashed them with my first and ordered them into a neat line. I snorted it all with a straw.

It went up my nose like fire ants. I breathed out hard and sat forward, blinking in shock. Deep inside, an engine was revving up. It pushed through my cheeks with boundless force, a headrush stronger than encephalitis. Whatever was about to happen would be a masterstroke. An example of fate. 

I couldn’t stop staring at the cursor. In blinked on, and off, slower, on… and off…, slower, o…n…, a   n   d      o    f      f. 

Time stood still. 

In that moment, a conductor took the stand in my brain and began to control her orchestra with masterful craftsmanship. 

The page was bigger in my eyes. The cursor began to move as my hands splayed out over the keyboard. I was a circuit and words were current, blasting away, onto this page. My fingers burned as they squeezed through, my hands a blur. The conductor knew everything. She pointed to the bass drum of my heart, speeding up. It was all there. The story was already written. I was an observer.

I couldn’t believe how good it was. I’d never written anything so good. It felt amazing. I’d probably fall over and have sex with the conductor if she ever came here in person. Someone that amazing deserved everything. I took more orange pills. Come downs can’t happen.

We blasted off. The classical conductor was gone, replaced by blunt commands. Write this. Now this. You want to be rich?! Keep going! It’s amazing. It’s the best fucking piece every written. Fuck the publisher, fuck James Joyce! Old, decrepit pervert. He couldn’t define me. 

15,000 words and I stopped. I walked around town, ate toast from the supermarket, danced in circles, punched the wall more than once. I went to the gym and ran on the treadmill until I was near ready to faint, texted Kevin and called him an asshole and told him I hated Ska and to stop ripping off The Specials. I went to the coffee shop where I worked and ordered 3 big cups of coffee. The manager looked at me strangely, so I matched his gaze with an angry expression. 

I ran circles in the park. I got lost in the city, then found my way home. I went to another date with me and me at a restaurant I didn’t know. Time got wavy as it undilated and things started to become normal. 

Walking home, I began to come donw like a hag grabbed my conductor from behind with a garrotte and choked her to death. It made me nervous. I realized the magnitude of my mistake. What the fuck did I do today? I shook my head. I went home and cried in bed for over and hour. I sank once more into a deep, cold sea. I could only be safe in the deepest, darkest crevice. 

I woke up the next day with tears still in my eyes. The hair fell into my face as I struggled up. I’d bled through my pants in the confusion. What a come down. I nervously laughed. At least I got one thing from all this. My novel was done. 

I started reading with a coy smile that soon faded. This was so bad. I don’t even know who wrote this. But it was the end of the line. I went through and big chunks to shorten the damn thing. 

Well, that’s what editors are for. 

I emailed it to the publishing office with little second thought. It went:

Hi, 

Stephanie Werner here. Here’s my novel:

Thanks,

Stephanie Werner

———————————————————————————————————————

1 Attachment

(This is where my novel is attached in all her glory)

I took a train to my parent’s for thanksgiving. We didn’t talk much and It’d been since christmas that I’d last seen them.

I got to their house late, walking into the door right as dinner started. There were only the four of us there. The should’ve been my grandparents. It was too quiet. 

“Stephanie, sweetiepie!” My Mom screamed, choking me with her hug.

“Hi, Mom. Good to see you,” I grunted between labored breaths. 

She let go and walked to the table. “You got here right on time. Dad made the most lovely turkey.”

It’d been a while since I ate meat. The idea made me a little woozy. I didn’t like it how it made me feel sluggish. When my Dad set out the food, only my Mom and brother filled their plates.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” Dad started.

“Train schedules can be unpredictable…” I answered. 

“Hmm,” he nodded. “How’s living in the city? You partying every night?” He laughed. 

“It’s fine. Not really as exciting as you think.”

He took my plate and served for me. I started to pick at it.

“I hope you’re still not working at that coffee shop.”

I went white and stared down at my plate. “Well…”

“Harold, do we really need this?” My Mom asked.

He put out his hand. “I’m just concerned for my daughter! She’d said she was going back to school, but that was two years ago!”

“I changed my mind.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not planning to finish college?”

“I mean… someday, I think. I just don’t like it there,”

“So never. Okay then.” 

I clenched my teeth, my fork pushing down through the turkey.

“Oh, you should try the stuffing, Stephanie,” said Mom. “It’s delicious!”

Everyone was quiet for a while. I absentmindedly stared down, eating a little to take my mind away. My brother already finished. 

“So Richie, how’re things at Duke?” my dad asked.

He nodded. “Good, good.”

“Heard you’re president of your fraternity now? What was it again… Iota Kappa?”

“Yeah, IK.”

He lifted his fork and pointed. “And you’ve got that internship this summer.”

“Cut it out!” I screamed.

Rich looked back and forth nervously. “Well, Stephanie’s got her writing. She’s probably gonna be a famous author someday.”

My father pursed his lips and nodded this way and that. “Sure, sure. I just think it’s a little risky.” He rose from the table. “I’ve worked my ass off for years at Brown and Goldwater to provide for this family. And this is despite how I loved to draw. Because I knew growing up was about buckling down!”

“It’s not immature.” I glared at him. “How dare you imply that.”

He looked defensive. “I’m only saying it’s maybe not the most financial choice. Sure, I would’ve loved to have stuck to drawing.”

“You suck at drawing.”

He looked at me cutely. “And you’re that much better a writer?” He said.

“Yes. I am.”

“Okay.” He put up his hands. “Whatever. You’re great, I get it. You’re like a Stephanie King.”

“Don’t compare me to him. He’s not a literary author. He pumped out so much shit on top of the stuff that worked.”

My father crossed his arms. “Oh yeah? Then where’s your hundred million.”

“It’s more actually,” my brother chimed in.

“I just turned in my first novel to a publisher, so we’ll see.”

My dad snickered. “And you think that’s better than the likes of Shawshank Redemption? The greatest movie of all time?”

“Did you even read the book? King writes like a wannabe Ken Kesey. On top of needing to be coked up to even get anything… down.” I lost my train of thought and went silent. 

He nodded, knowing he won. “Why don’t you get some success first before you bash one of the greatest writers of our generation? Now, have some dinner. You’re so bony, I can tell you don’t eat anymore.”

I put my head in my arms and banged it down several times. I got up and left.

I cried for a while in my old room. Rich knocked on my door.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

I sniffed up all the tears flowing out of my nose. “Not really. But thanks.”

He opened the door and sat next to me. “You know, dad’s wrong. You’re the best artist I know.”

I looked up at him through blurry eyes. “Okay.” I bowed my head. “Thanks Rich!”

He smiled awkwardly. “Come on.”

I pointed my head up towards the ceiling. “And it’s not like I can’t offer something profound. I always do. People just don’t listen.”