Some Guy Named Harris

As a child, I used to conform to the idea I was meant for greater things. But as I look out at the vast ocean ahead, I'm not so sure. Maybe I was truly meant to be a speck of sand on the enormous beach of life. Ordinary and unnoticed. 

Everyone desires to be remembered by someone. That's why artists make paintings to hang in museums, and hopeless romantics singing songs about lost lovers. 

I knew that the only way I'd leave my footprint on this earth was by pen. 

Even if it was just for a hundred years or so, I knew I had to make a minor impact. I refuse to be a meager grain of sand trampled underfoot. I wanted to be the conch shell treasured upon the mantle. That's why after Mom got sick and took us to the sea to get her healthy again, I knew I had to begin writing my novel. If not for myself, her. I had to make her proud.

During that time with her at sea, I mostly sat deep in thought. I pondered about how precious life is and how fast it can slip away. I was watching life slip away second hand in Mom's dreary bedroom. The poison was seeping into her like an uninvited guest. 

After she died, I took it upon myself to sleep on the beach instead of the house. I felt her ghost haunting the halls like a phantom sent to plague me with unrequited loneliness.

As the months passed, I found myself still living in a little cottage by the sea. I just graduated from college, so I had nothing to return home to. I could find a job just as comfortable here by the ocean as Indiana's flat grasslands, where I grew up. 

When I wasn't working, I was reading and writing on the beach. I knew I had to keep honing my skills and expanding my vocabulary to be great. I sat there for hours, romanticizing about the great American novel I would write.

I started to get quite good, surprisingly. I formed coherent thoughts in ways that captivated my audiences- the old ladies tanning on the docks and passersby perusing the beach. They would encourage me to publish my stories. To this, I would blush and murmur a cordial, "Thank you."

I find that I get the most inspiration for my stories in the dead of night. When all that's awake is ocean waves and sing-song of the crickets, I lay out under the stars and sleep. I get a sense of peace- looking out into the constellations and discovering each one like a hidden gem. 

It happened on a night like this that I met my muse. Well, rather the inspiration for the book that would make me remembered. 

I started the night disgusted at myself. I was an emotional youth. When I got upset, I would cry big tears and throw myself around in anguish like a child. Looking back decades later, I could have handled my emotions better. I think that's what drew you in, though—my lack of maturity and adolescent mindset. I could tell you found it freeing because you always felt caged and so much older beyond your years.

I was so upset the night I met you because I had no idea what to make my novel about. I tried to write about my mother, but that only ended in not knowing what to say. How do you write a book about the one who gave you life? Instead, I concluded I would dedicate the novel to my late mother. She would have appreciated that more, anyways. Mother was a private woman, only letting a few people into her personal life. 

"What would Mom want me to write about?" I thought to myself, pen twisting between my lips and a small notebook on my lap. The salty breeze rustled through my hair, and I peered out at the restless waves. 

I sat there for hours, lost in thought on my deck. 

I was startled back to reality when I heard a voice say, "Hi," I looked up from my blank notebook to see a guy standing in front of me. He was thin and pale, with dark brown curly hair.  His eyes were light, a pale green.

"Are you okay?" He asked, confused. I snapped back and quickly replied, "Oh yeah, sorry. It's been a long night."

"What are you working on?" He asked, pointing a pale finger at my notebook. "I'm working on a book. The only problem is I have no idea what to write about." I probably looked so distraught. I hadn't slept in days, and I was running on coffee and the will to get something written. "You can bounce some idea off of me if you want. I have nothing but time, trust me." He gave an encouraging smile. "I mean, if you want to stick around, you're welcome. But my writer's block is so bad I can't even think of what to write about." I laughed at the idea and added, "I'm going to make some coffee. Do you want some?"

Ten minutes later, I came back with two mugs of coffee and some donuts I found in the cabinet. 

I handed him the mug and said, "Here you go. And I just realized I never caught your name." He took it from my hands along with the donuts and replied, "Harris. What's yours?" "Penny. Are you from around here?" "No, I'm just spending a couple of days with my grandparents. I've been living in Chicago for the last three months. Is this place yours?" He said, motioning to the house. The hot coffee felt warm against my skin in contrast to the cold ocean air. I took a sip and replied, "Yes, I used to live here with my mom, but she passed away a couple of months ago. Cancer."

He looked down at his shoes and then soberly at me. "I'm sorry, Penny. My dad just passed away from cancer a year and a half ago, so I get how it feels losing someone like that." We sat in silence for a moment, finding solace in the fact that we understood each other's pain. The silence must have brought back bad memories for Harris because his face twisted into a frown.  Then he said in an animated tone, "I have something to cure your writer's block."

"Oh great, what is it?" I questioned. He jumped up, "Don't be so alarmed, Dear Penny. This will help get the creative juices flowing in that big brain of yours. Why don't you write a short story about me!" He threw his arms out like a cartoon character. I laughed. "You? I just met you ten minutes ago!" "Exactly. I'll tell you some things about me, and you can write the story." I looked at him for a moment, then reluctantly said, "Fine." 

"Great. You might want to grab that pen and paper. You'll have to take notes to keep everything straight." flipping through my notebook for a clean page, I asked, "Geez, how much info are you going to give me?" 

"The first thing you should know about me is my favorite color is brown. And I know what you're thinking, "What kind of psycho likes brown when there so many other amazing colors to choose from?" Well, brown is the color of trees, and people, and cats. How could people not appreciate the color brown?" I laughed at his goofiness, though I could tell he was serious. "I appreciate the color brown." I cut in. "There's one person with taste."

"My favorite book is 1984. My favorite movie is Fight Club. I lived in Italy for a summer… Let's see... My favorite musician is Elton John…" He went on for a couple of minutes, explaining every detail as to why each of these things was his favorite. "Do you ever shut up?" I asked jokingly. "My grandparents ask me the same question to which I reply, "Never," Harris was charming and witty, and I liked that about him. But I could peek through that charming facade into something much more profound. I was determined to add that to my short story as well.

"Okay, Harris, I think I have more than enough about you. But I have one more question." I muttered as I wrote something down on the paper. "Shoot," Harris replied. 

"Tell me something you've never told anyone before." He shifted in his seat and looked me in the eyes. "Like what kind of thing?" I paused and thought about how to word it. "Something deep. I mean, I doubt we'll ever see each other again. I'm just a stranger on the beach." In his eyes, I could see he took this as a challenge. He thought for a moment. "Alright… This is going to sound completely moronic and embarrassing," He paused, and his tone became more serious. "I've never been in love. I mean, I thought I was at one point. But now I can see it was unrequited. She was just using me." His eyes looked sad like he was ashamed. "Did you ever tell her how you felt?" I asked. "I almost did, but then she broke up with me. A week later, she was dating my best friend. That's one of the reasons I went to visit my grandparents. To get away from all the drama back home for a couple of days. I just keep thinking that maybe I could have kept her if I wasn't so good at masking my true feelings." He sounded angry at himself for all this.

"I just wanted to be in love so bad I was willing to settle for the first girl that came my way. Even if she was just using me." He sighed and looked out at the water. After a moment, he added, "It's kind of freeing to say all this. I've bottled up everything so long. Now you better get writing on my story." He nodded at the notebook and pen. 

Twenty minutes passed by, and I finished Harris's story. It was the right amount of comical and serious, so I was quite pleased with it. "Alright, I'm done. You can read it later." I said as I placed a folded piece of paper in his palm. "Why don't you read it for me?" He begged. "I'll critique my writing too much. It's better this way. You get to see the unrevised version. The rawness." He seemed pleased with my answer and slipped the paper into his back pocket.

"Hey, what time is it?" I asked Harris. He looked at his watch and stood up. "It's 3 A.M. I better get home. My grandparents will be wondering where I am." Harris started to walk away when I yelled, "Hey, I want to hear what you think of my story. Can I give you my phone number." He grinned and ran back to my porch. I wrote it down and handed it to him. "Thanks. Until we meet again." He called out as his silhouette faded out over the sandy dunes.

When he faded out of sight I realised something. That I had to center my book around him. 

I never saw Harris again, but I remember that night in the back of my mind. We had a connection one only finds a couple of times. I was sad that he never called to tell me what he thought about the story. Maybe it's for the best. 

That night Harris gave me a gift I can never repay. He inspired the main character in my first book, "Some Guy Named Harris". I decided that the best way I could repay him was by dedicating the book to him. So on the inside cover, after the title page, there was a small note that said: "To mother and Harris- to whom this book would have never been possible."

"Some Guy Named Harris" didn't sell many copies or make me mega-famous. But I can honestly say it's one of the best pieces I've ever created. 

I later learned through many trials that success is not measured in how much money you make, but rather the feeling you get when you look back at the finished product of your labor and say you're proud of it. And it was all thanks to some guy named Harris.