Diary of a Dead Man (Re-Write) 3

3.

     The story of how Brian came to spend his life in abject misery is a rather difficult one to tell. 21 years prior to the failed musings of Professor Coulton two individuals sat in a coffee shop. One was Brian, the young, not-all-too-handsome man, with a slender frame, and the other was a woman, dark, also slender, but with a shrewd look about her. Brian gazed down at the freshly wiped glass of the table as his coffee cup leaked new stains onto its surface.

     “Come on; tell me what you’ve got. It’s been months and you haven’t shown me a single page.”

     “I’m nervous,” said Brian, taking a diplomatic sip from his coffee. “This could be it; this could be the one that finally takes me out of this shithole. No offense.” The woman moved her arms in a placating gesture.

“None taken. It’s rough out here, I know. I used to be here, and I’m doing my best to help take you out, but you’ve got to give me something to go on.”

“Alright here goes.” Brian cleared his throat. “I look into the mirror with tired eyes, soft, bleary, and full of regret. The years have been kind to me and yet I have not. I have no right to feel this way. The world was handed to me on a silver platter, but still I stand, watching myself decay, slowly, but surely passing into the abyss. How many days more will I stand here? 5,000? Or 5? It haunts me to know that the years that have been my youth are now passed and I stand on the threshold of making a new life. One step out the door is disgrace, or greatness. If only I had the wanderer’s feet to move.”

     They sat in silence, sipping their coffees. She stroked her long brown hair, staring out the window for a moment at the stream of cars racing by. Brian could not tell if she was impressed, bewildered, or even both. For the most part he had worried that his writing would come off as a bit too depressing. “Come on Shannon, give it to me straight. Is it any good?”

“It’s morbid for sure, but I think you’re on to something. I want the first ten pages in my inbox this afternoon. None of that waiting three days shit. I think I’ve got a whole load of middle-aged mothers just unsatisfied enough to read it.” She reached for her wallet.

“No, please, let me,” he said in an attempt to be polite. In reality the coffees would have just about broken his nearly empty wallet.

“Hey, you might be a big shot soon. Then you can buy the coffees.” She left ten dollars on the table and started to leave. “Hey, listen. If any of that’s real, you might want to see someone. I can’t be losing my clients to ‘emotional outbursts’, if you catch my drift.” Writers have been known to overindulge in spirits and cozy up to the deceptive friendship offered by the barrel of a shotgun.

“No problem! I’ll e-mail it to you right now.” He looked genuinely excited. Someone liked his work; it was the beginning of a new life for him. People were going to notice him and hear his words. He hopped up from the table and bounded into the street where he was promptly obliterated by a semi-truck. The laptop containing the only copy of his work skittered across the pavement and fell through a sewer grate, where it fizzled out, and faded into obscurity. Rather than writing The Great American Novel, Brian ended up haunting people in a dreary old hotel for kicks.

Note: I've been thinking about making this the opening chapter for the story. For those of you who have read the lecture opening, which do you think would go better? I've gotten some advice from an editor that says I should start with a chapter purely about Brian, and that the lecture diversion is too distracting. Thoughts?