Hunger Like No Other

“You can’t keep living like this,” Lincoln said to me, though I was barely listening. I was too tired to respond, so I just continued to stare at him. His face was blurred and cold, or maybe that was the weather starting to affect me. 

“You need to get a real job,” he continued. “Look at you! You’re freezing out here in the rain, you scrounge for paper and food, and you have no place to call home.”

I continued to stare at him. Conserving my energy was important, for I had not eaten in days. Food that would not kill me was becoming harder to come by. Rats often ate the good leftovers in the trash cans. Pizza boxes were a happy sight for they could be used as shelter and usually had cheese in them.

“Mack,” Lincoln pressed on, “we’ve known each other since we were kids, I just want to help you. You can’t go on living off of scraps you find in the garbage. What would your ma think?

“My ma would want me to follow my dreams,” I snapped back. “One day my stories will be known by all. I am so close, Lincoln. Just one more story to finish my book.”

Lincoln sighed, “And what happens if the book doesn’t sell? What happens if you can’t get someone to publish it? Think, Mack, think! This can’t be your last option.”

“It has to be,” I replied. “I can’t make true art unless it is my life. These stories are my art, therefore it is my life.”

“And what about a shelter?” Lincoln pressed on. “Can’t you find someplace willing to provide you with food and shelter?”

“No one will take me in because I refuse to do your everyday work,” I replied. “I suppose an artist must suffer to make good art.”

“Most artists die before they get to see their work,” Lincoln shot back. “Your art can’t be your life if you die before it’s considered art. Please just try to support yourself Mack. Don’t let your pride get you killed.”

Lincoln pulled a ten dollar bill and handed it me before quickly hurrying off. I put it in a box that I was using to save up to pay a publisher. I then put the small box in my old coat and stood up. I had decided it was time to finish my book full of stories. I was ready for my dream to come to fruition. I then made my way to the library across the street.

When I entered inside I felt the nice blanket of warmth consume me. This winter had been harsh. I made my way toward the computers to begin working. My fingers began click-clacking away at the keyboard. The story was about an injured maiden trapped in a cave with a lion. Every day the lion would strike out into the wilderness and bring back food for the both of them. The story ended with the girl dying of an infection from the injury. It had taken me a week to think of the plot and an entire day to come up with a theme. My fingers knew the final story well enough for my brain to slightly wander off.

I could not help but think of what Lincoln had told me. He did not understand me or what I was going through. How could he? He was fine working in an office among other boring people. Since high school I knew that I wanted to be an author. I loved writing short stories. It was my passion, and quickly my passion became my art. I was an artist, but no one else saw it that way. I was supposed to get a job and be a valuable, hardworking member of society. Well I did work hard, but I worked only on my art. I knew that one day my work would be known around the world. I would simply die and be forgotten.

A tap on my shoulder interrupted my thought process. “Whatcha writing there?” the voice of a young man said behind me. 

“It’s the final story for the book I’m writing,” I replied without looking away from the screen. I was completely immersed in my work and I was not going to stop when I was so close.

“A book, eh?” he said. “If you’re interested, I work at a publishing company. I could take a look at this book of yours and get it ready for the market.”

This stopped my typing. I looked behind me into the eyes of the person who was speaking to me. He was indeed a young man. He was younger than I. He had obviously never gone a day without three meals to keep his stomach full. He smiled down at me. I was just a poor soul he had come across that had talent, but not for much longer. This was it! This was how my book was going to be published. The world was finally going to know how hard I had worked for my art.

“I would appreciate that very much,” I replied. “I am almost done with this story, so if you were to give me a couple minutes I could give you an entire printed copy of the book.” 

“Excellent!” the man said as he patiently for me to print out my work.

It did not take long for I had already printed out the rest of the stories. I kept them in a large pocket in my jacket. I would print them immediately when I was finished writing them. I could not risk losing them. My stories were my art. My stories were my life.

When the final story had been printed out I put the papers at the end of my stack and handed them to the man. He smiled as he took them and said, “I’ll read it and then get back to you,” he said. “Meet me here in three days. I’ll let ya know what I think then.”

My face and spirit lit up as he left. Maybe I would have been more cautious if I had known that he was but an intern at the publishing company he claimed to be from. But this knowledge was not mine and I left the library in a celebratory mood. I went back to my spot where my box was. I squeezed into it and pulled my coat closer to me as I started to drift off.

I was awakened by someone shaking my shoulder. “You can’t keep living like this,” a voice said. I immediately knew it was Lincoln. I sat up and looked at him. I smiled.

“I got a publisher,” I put simply. Lincoln just stared at me. I believed he was shocked. I had proved him wrong. I had won and my work was going to pay off.

“Mack,” Lincoln sighed, “authors don’t get paid much unless their books are generation defining. A book of short stories isn’t going to do that.”

His words angered me. “You just can’t deal with the fact that I’m going to be successful,” I spat. “For once my dreams are coming true and all you can do is just stand there scolding me. If you’re not gonna be happy for me then go away!”

Lincoln sighed and said, “When will you learn that I’m just trying to help you out, Mack?” I didn’t look at him. It was already raining, so I didn’t need his rain to ruin my parade. “I’ll see ya later, Mack,” he said as he walked away.

Three days later I was back in the library awaiting the man who was going to publish my book. I was so excited my stomach hurt. Well, it was either from excitement or hunger. At long last he came in and sat down in front of me.

“Well?” I asked eagerly, “What did you think?”

He smiled and said, “It was very good. Truly, I enjoyed it, but…”

At that last word my stomach sank. That was the word that haunts everyone. The word that crushes the soul. In one word I knew everything had gone to waste. All my hard work and suffering had been for nothing. The world seemed to slip away from me as he explained that the stories were good, but not publishing material. He handed the papers back to me then told me to keep up the good work right before he left the library. My feet took me back to my box as I sat in silence for hours in shock.

“You can’t keep living like this,” Lincoln said as he approached me. “From your look, I can tell that this publisher fellow didn’t exactly give you good news. Well I hope you learned your lesson from this…”

“Just shut up!” I snapped. “You keep telling me I can’t keep living this way, but maybe I don’t want to live anymore! What is life without art? What is a world where art is rejected?!” At this I ran past him.

I did not stop running for a long time. Tears streamed from my eyes as I ran. My life was over. I had nothing to live for anymore. I just wanted to disappear, but I never wanted to make that happen. What happened next was purely fate and misfortune. I had not noticed that I had run out on a frozen lake. I slipped on the ice and the next thing I knew I was in the freezing water.

Every instinct told me to get out of the water. The cold was killing me. But I realized it was taking the sting of the pain in my stomach away. But I still felt the hunger. The need for food may have been dulled, but the lust and hunger for a legacy were more evident. It gnawed at my mind. It was a hunger like no other. If I did not swim then I would simply disappear from the world. Would that be so bad though?

Maybe I would have swam if I had known that Lincoln had picked up the pages I had left behind at my box. Maybe I would have fought the cold if I had known he had taken them to a real publisher. Maybe I would have emerged from the ice if I had known that they had agreed to publish the book once it had been edited. Maybe I would have lived if I had known Lincoln had come looking for me to tell me the news. 

But I did not know any of these things. I allowed myself to only know the bite of the cold water around me. I closed my eyes and let myself disappear from the world. I faded away thinking I left nothing behind. I never became a famous author. I never saw my stories reach the shelves of bookstores. I never got to see how my art affected people. Is that not the fate of artists though? We can not see our work come to fruition, but only hope it does. We can only hope that our hunger will be satisfied, but I let myself be consumed by my hunger like no other.