Portland, Maine

The morning snow has turned into sleet. The once glistening powder has become discolored with sand and salt from the plow trucks. The four foot snow banks act like bumper guards for the cars on the slippery Portland roads. Having been born and raised in Maine, Gerry, an elder millennial, sees the brutal winters as normal.

Gerry’s eyes shoot open in an oh-fuck state of panic. The clock reads 2:45pm. The icy snow falls outside his well worn tenth floor studio apartment. He flies out of his rundown and mostly-empty apartment building. He sees the roads are icing in the cold darkness of late afternoon. “Sweet,” he says to himself sarcastically. He swings open the door to his faded-grey 1992 Volvo station wagon. He lodges the key into the ignition, “Now’s not the time, Patricia.” The engine clicks a few times then lets out a mechanical groan similar to that of a crotchety old man in the morning. He fishtails out of the empty parking lot.

Richard, affectionately known as Dick, is just as his nickname describes, a dick.

“So sorry I’m late,” Gerry insists as he swings open the door to Richard’s office. “I had to help my,” Richard interrupts Gerry, “Jerry with a G, I figured you had one-too-many bong rips this morning. Or should I say, this afternoon.” Richard smirks akin to that of a used car salesman's.

The thing is Gerry doesn’t even smoke. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the occasional music appreciation session. He just can’t afford to pay for his brother’s caretaker and pot.

Gerry finds the strength to let out a fake chuckle. The kind of laugh that can only be interpreted by normal people as a sense of pseudo-reassurance. But, Richard’s ego won’t let him think otherwise. Gerry needs the money and is willing to play kiss ass to get the daily writing prompt. “I’m sure you’re aware that it’s already three, Jerry, and, and as you know, this is due by C.O.B. tonight,” Richard patronizes. Gerry responds, “Yep, I’ll get it done before you even know it’s seven.” Richard unceremoniously hands Gerry the prompt letter in an envelope. Gerry notices his name on the envelope. The J is scratched out with a G above it to spell Gerry.

Gerry takes the envelope from Dick and urgently paces out of the building.

The weather and roads have only gotten worse, and Gerry’s Volvo slides its way onto the street. His heart has stopped pounding as hard as it was, and he notices the pit stains on his light blue shirt. “Awesome,” he says as he turns on the radio to Q 97.9. As Gerry approaches his apartment building on the outskirts on town, a Brittany Spears song finishes, and the DJ says, “It’s Heidi back with you. I always enjoy a throwback to Brittany’s prime. Let’s check in with Chris for the weather.” Chris says in his best dad voice, “Thanks, Heidi. Well, folks it’s looking like the ice storm of '98’s sequel out there today and for the rest,” Gerry slams his car in park and runs into his apartment. He slips as he rounds the corner outside, but recovers to thrash open the door almost knocking down his weathered neighbor, “Sorry, Janet.” He makes it to the elevator.

Gerry repeatedly mashes the up button. Janet, at the mailboxes, notices Gerry and exclaims in her thick Mainer accent, “Those god damn elevators have been around longer than me.” The elevator doors open. Gerry rushes in as he responds, “No one has time for this thing.” He stabs tenth floor button with his middle finger and presses the close door button. That button hasn’t worked since 1989, but Gerry continues to mash it in an attempt at hope. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the doors close.

As the elevator creeps, the second floor light bings. Gerry feels like he has too much time to think or that this elevator couldn’t be any slower. 

The third floor’s bing is cut short. The moldy yellow lights cut off as the elevator halts. “This is a joke,” he mutters. Gerry mashes the call button, but that hasn’t worked since the turn of the millennia. He whips out his cell phone in a delusional anticipation that maybe his provider added another cell tower, and he’ll finally get reception before the seventh floor. No reception.

“Mother fucker.” Gerry’s mind goes into gridlock. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s physically stuck on floor two and a half and mentally stuck on why he chose to be a writer. Now is the exact time Gerry wishes he was a smoker.

He rests his back on the dirty elevator wall and slides down to hunch over like an upset child in a brief moment of “Why me?” He looks at this cell phone. It reads 3:25pm.

After what could only feel like waiting in a line at the DMV, he checks his phone again. It reads 3:27pm.

The seconds whistle by. His phone reads 3:30pm.

3:35pm. 

Gerry taps the phone against the filthy elevator floor as he racks his brain using all his mental effort to try to come up with a way out of this.

His cell phone reads 3:41pm.

In a brief moment of clarity, Gerry realizes he can write the story in his notebook now and just type it later. “Brilliant,” he mockingly says to himself. Only to think, “Why didn’t I up with that sooner?” He turns his phones flashlight on, “What a device.”

The anxiety of opening the envelope ignites in his stomach. “I can’t just shit my pants,” he mutters. Thinking, “It could improve the smell though.” He forces himself to open the envelope.

The prompt reads, “Write about a character who’s stuck in an elevator.”

Gerry can’t help but find the irony of his situation. 

He shakes his head as he writes an idea: “Bobby, the sailor, has never been in an elevator. Then, he gets stuck in one.” He pauses. “Yeah, there’s a real winner,” he mocks while scratching that idea out.

“What if it’s like Inception. An elevator within an elevator within an elevator, and each elevator is a different stage in life. And, in the end, we’re all just ele…” He interrupts his train of thought, “You have to be fucking kidding me.” That idea sparks impromptu shades of nostalgia. He recalls when he and his college buddies would try to come up with groundbreaking stories that, in hindsight, he realizes were cliche and melodramatic with a false sense of deep meaning. 

Gerry goes with his gut about deciding which story is the best to write. The story has to sit well with him and come from a place of creative sincerity. If his entire body doesn’t feel good about the story, he won’t write it. When he has to, he will write hollow narratives for a paycheck, but he loathes that process. He’s well-aware those stories are spurious sacks of shit.

“What do I want to write?” he asks himself as he stares at the poorly-removed graffiti on the wall.

His stroke of genius shows itself, “Write what I know… awesome,” he mumbles as he realizes writing about his current situation is as authentic as he can get.

While taking creative liberties, he writes about what happened to him today. As much as he’d enjoy the pettiness, he plays it safe and changes the characters' names. Even though, Gerry knows Dick’s ego wouldn’t let himself think an unfavorable character stemmed from him.

The pages fly by.

As Gerry finishes the last line of his story, he becomes aware of the desert that is now his throat. He swallows to sooth his sandy esophagus and checks his phone. It’s 6:19pm.

Gerry wonders, “When am I going to get out of here. Maybe Dick will work late… Who are we kidding? He never works late.”

6:27pm, the third floors bing finishes just as the musty lights flicker on. Gerry shoots up with cautious optimism. The elevator crawls passed the fourth floor. 

The elevator reaches the tenth floor. The doors drag open, and Gerry dashes into his apartment.

He flings open his laptop and hammers the keys copying what he wrote in his notebook.

6:53pm, he scans over his work. “Done.”

Normally, Gerry would proofread and revise his work, but there’s no time for that.

6:56pm, he emails the story to Dick. Gerry takes a deep breathe. He goes to his fridge and opens an ice cold Peeper from the Maine Beer Company that his boyfriend, Jon, gave him. It’s his favorite beer. He dreams of being able to afford kegs of it at their upcoming wedding. The wedding will be in the backyard of Jons Aunt’s house on Peaks Island. It’s the New England version of a shotgun wedding, but, as Jon puts it, “With more rainbows.”

6:57pm. DING. Gerry receives an email from the Dick in charge.

“Better late than never, Jerry. We’re going with Ryan’s story as he’s just out of college. $20 an hour for your work? Get real, Jerr Bear. Your Boss, Richard.”

“Fuck this guy,” Gerry exclaims as he tightens his grip on the beer bottle. He takes a sip that he wishes could take back the effort he spent writing that story.

“Man, fuck this guy,” Gerry repeats to himself. He stares out the apartment window at the complete darkness.

It’s Thursday, and Gerrys brother’s caretaker bill is due at the end of the work week.

Gerry has to find a way to make it happen. “What can I sell?” He knows a pawnshop downtown that takes just about anything. He scans the room. 

Unfortunately, he’s already pawned off everything that he hasn’t deemed absolutely essential.

“Fuck me.”

After a few moments, “Hmmmm... No, fuck Dick. What an asshole.” Gerry opens his laptop and googles New England publishers. He finds a list of twenty-five of “New England’s Best Editors.” He sees one from Rhode Island and thinks, “That’s not even New England.” 

Regardless, Gerry emails each publisher and with the same message: “Hi, I’m a writer from Portland, ME, and I just finished the attached piece. If you like it, feel free to use it. Sincerely, Gerry Leblanc.”

Gerry finishes his beer and lays down on his couch bed. He wraps himself tightly in his motley mix of hand-me-down blankets. He starts a podcast about cults as he blankly stares at the light coming from his laptop screen.

10am, DING.

Gerry continues snoring.

10:07am, DING.

He starts to regain consciousness.

10:09am, DING.

He opens his eyes and registers where the annoying sound is coming from. It’s his laptop. He looks at his phone, 10:10am, “Nope,” he says as he closes his eyes.

10:12am, DING.

Gerry stares at the battered apartment wall.

10:13am, DING.

“Alrrriiiight,” he mumbles as he staggers to his laptop resting the table. He sits.

The first email is from the biggest publisher in Boston and reads, “Thanks for sending this over, Gerry. We may be interested in future work.” Their response is a nice way of saying, "Thanks, but no thanks."

The second email from the Rhode Island publisher’s assistant reads, “Hello, We don’t accept unsolicited work.” Gerry thinks, “Of course you don’t.”

Gerry reads the third email, “Hi Gerry, We love it.” He can’t believe what he just read. He rereads the line again, “We love it.” “What?” he rhetorically exclaims. He continues reading the email, “I sent it to my senior editor, and, he said, he ‘hasn’t read such authenticity since Salinger.’ However, we will need you to send us an invoice for your work. Sincerely, Beth Bouchard.” “What?” he repeats incredulously. The email is from True & Company, one of the leading American publishing companies.

It hits him. Shockwaves of excitement reverberate through Gerry’s body. He immediately starts on the invoice. “What should I charge? $50 an hour? No… that’s greedy. $35? Hmmm… No, what if they ask what I’ve been paid before? I don’t want to lie.” He marks, “$20 per hour,” on the bill. He sends it to Beth Bouchard with True & Company. 

Gerry ponders in disbelief for several minutes. 

DING. The sound shakes him out of his real life day dream. He receives a text notifying him of a direct deposit. It’s from True & Company for his story. 

That day, Gerry paid the bill for his brother’s nurse.

Two weeks later, Gerry’s story had gone viral. As a result, and much to his amazement, True & Company offered him a writing position that he eagerly accepted.

Gerry can now afford to pay the caretaker and occasionally buy the music appreciation enhancer.