The puppet

There were days where he was okay knowing that he was not in control of his actions or words, but today was not one of those days. As he watched the pretty barista make his coffee he found himself mute because he literally had no words to say. He would have no words until the author gave them to him. And then, more often then not, he would find himself inwardly cringing over the words that would spill from his lips. 

As the barista handed him his coffee he wanted desperately to smile, wink, and say something witty like a modern day Clark Gable. Instead, he was forced, like a puppet on a string, to awkwardly grab at the extended cup while glaring and muttering the words “it’s about time”. 

As he shuffled down the street, bumping rudely into people on the sidewalk as he made his way towards the office building where he worked, he mulled over his fate in life. Life, what a joke, he thought bitterly as he gulped the scalding hot bitter black coffee. For once in his life he would like to try one of those sugary coffees that everyone else around him seemed to be drinking. But no, he was forced to drink bitter black coffee while it was so hot it would cause blisters to form on the roof of his mouth every time. 

He would also love to be able to be pleasant and congenial to others. To have people actually be happy to see him. Like that barista. He had never had a date in his life and it was all because of the author. How he hated this person. How one dimensional they had made him and his world. How achingly lonely he was. There were days that he wished he could end it all but he knew that would never happen because he was not in control of his life.

As he sat at his desk, doing the monotonous work in front of him, his mind kept drifting back to the barista. How things would be so different if he could just have control of his life. Or at the very least, have someone else in charge of his story. Someone who knew about the importance of character development to a storyline. But it was painfully obvious, just by observing those around him, that the author had no clue what they was doing. 

Everyone around him were stiff, one dimensional caricatures who were seemingly clueless that their lives were being dictated for them. The secretaries at his work were either so sexy but painfully inept or they were surly, plain, and overly efficient. His coworkers were one typecast after another. As he blankly watched the same two coworkers have the same daily argument while he filled his disposable cup up at the water cooler, he had to give the author props for predictability. However, it was clear that the author was rather inexperienced because of how flat everything and everyone was.

He wondered if the author ever interacted with any real people. But, if the author did, then why couldn’t their interactions be extended to their world? Unless the author didn’t know how. He paused at that thought. At least he did mentally. In reality he was paying for lunch at the lunch counter at work. It was the same lunch he bought everyday - turkey on rye along with a Coke and a dill pickle. 

Which brought him back to the barista. Could that be why the author never had him interact with her? Or why everyone was so painfully flat? It made sense. Either the author had no idea how to write a story or they didn’t interact with the outside world enough to be able to apply that to their characters’ lives. 

As he methodically ate his lunch alone he pondered his thoughts. Of course, there was also the very real possibility that the reason why the author was writing their story the way they were was because they did know what they were doing and this is all deliberate. If that was the case, well, he didn’t know what to think. So, instead, he turned his mind back to the pretty barista. Because that is what he always did when he became too morose. While she was his greatest torment, she was also his salvation from this mental anguish. 

He inwardly smiled as he thought about her. How perfect she was in her every movement and speech. How lovely she was to look at. Pretty could not begin to adequately describe her but pretty was always the adjective that came to his mind when he saw her. Of course, he knew that was because of the author. But he appreciated the fact that at least they recognized that the barista was pretty. There were others that he encountered where the adjectives that came to his mind were less than flattering. 

Take, for instance, Veronica. Every time he saw her the words “slutty bimbo” would come flooding into his mind. Why he would think this about her, he knew was only because of the author. Granted, Veronica dressed very provocatively and acted in a very unprofessional manner, but he really couldn’t blame her for her actions. After all, she was merely a stereotypical character in a badly written story that seemed to have no ending. Just like he couldn’t blame himself for his actions, no matter what they were. And sometimes, they were not very admirable. 

As he made his way home he contemplated everything the author had made him do thus far. Maybe it was a good thing that he could not pursue the barista. Knowing how this author wrote, he was sure her life had been very pure in comparison to his. The fact she was always referred to as “pretty” whenever he saw her very much confirmed this. 

He thought about how perfectly adorable her face became every time she smiled and he knew that he would always want her but she would never be his. 

As he laid in his bed, waiting for sleep to come, he hoped that tomorrow would be one of those days where he wouldn’t care that he was merely a puppet in a story plot. Being this inter-speculative was just too draining. And with those thoughts, he went to sleep.