Ruin
Roger Barrett was reading under a harsh light. He sat on his bed, books strewn around him in a rough circle. Beyond this alcove, dust was accumulating steadily.
“Clean your room, son!” his mother called from below.
“I will in a year or two, Ma!” Roger yelled back.
He was just getting started on Joyce, having finished Tolstoy earlier. Names like Lawrence, Kafka, Goethe, and Melville surrounded him.
“Roger Barret, get that room cleaned or no dinner!”
Food was used as a last resort, Roger knew. Grounding him was pointless and he was too old for a whipping. Besides his books, there was nothing she could take away, and she couldn't really even take those.
Roger rose hesitantly and began straightening out the piles of hardbacks in the corner. All the while he was thinking, “I can write like that.”
***
The triumvirate piped:
“It’s brilliant!”
“Yes, it’s amazing!”
“Genius!”
Roger’s short story lay between the professors and him. He smiled at their enthusiasm, he was eating it up.
“You all really think it’s that good?” he asked, feigning a moderate tone.
“It’s masterful!”
“It’s a classic!”
“You’ll rank with the greats!”
…and so rang the professors. Roger kept smiling, kept listening. Inside, he was gushing with triumph.
***
The fan’s hum and keyboard’s tapping were the only sounds in the dorm. Large diagrams and timelines had been taped across the walls, which Roger glanced to occasionally.
A rancid smell pervaded. Flies hovered around the heap of tied off trash bags littered around the trashcan. Mold spread slowly across the pizza slice next to him, and cloudiness lingered in an open Gatorade. The clothes he had worn four and five times in a row lay in an acrid mound in the corner. None of this bothered him, though.
He was sticky with sweat and dirt, and his concentration was indelible.
***
“Hello?”
“Ma, I need more money,” said Roger into the payphone.
“What? You call for the first time in weeks and the first thing you do is ask for money?”
“Sorry, Ma, I just need it. Whaddaya wanna talk about?”
“Well, Jesus, I don’t know. How are you doing?”
“Great.”
“Well that’s good… who are you reading now? Not Joyce still, is it?”
“Hah, don’t make me laugh. I’m writing my own stuff now. Joyce will wish he had his name on it.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, now. How are your other classes?”
“Listen, Ma, I don’t have time for this. I really just need some more money.”
“Roger, I’m giving you what I can! Why aren’t you working a little on the side?”
“Ma, just send me some MORE GODDAMN MONEY! Ok? Thanks.”
***
Roger was lying in his bed, gnawing on his ravaged cuticles, wondering what his professors were thinking. He had given them a copy of his work nearly two weeks ago, and they had promised to finish within the month.
Roger wasn’t thinking about whether or not his professors would like it. Of course they would. He was trying to predict whom they would declare him better than, or at least as good as. Which one of the great authors? Maybe a few of them… maybe all of them. He was brilliant after all, he reflected. A true genius, he remembered them saying.
This line of contemplation kept him awake for the days and most of the nights as he waited.
***
“Well, Roger, it’s okay. It definitely has some problems.”
“I’d say, it’s completely incomprehensible in sections.”
“I agree, it really lacks cohesion throughout.”
Roger couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Are you all joking?” he asked.
“Mr. Barrett, you’ve made a mistake common amongst beginning writers.”
“Yes, surely you did. Tried too much too fast.”
“Got ahead of yourself, for certain.”
Roger stiffened, his knuckles whitening and face reddening. Beginning to shake, he thought, how could they be saying this? He was an amazing brilliant genius who had spent himself completing the work they were ridiculing. He was amazing for god’s sake! A genius! A great!
Without warning, Roger struck out. He clawed and ripped and bit and tore like a brute, and with ferocious alacrity. When his fever had waned and his eagerness settled, his hecklers laid still on the bloody ground.
***
Roger was being led to the cafeteria. He didn’t have to eat with the other guys this time.
“Tolstoysonofa*****… Orwellnothing… Twainajoke…” he muttered.
“He ever shut the hell up?” one guard asked the other.
“Nope, not usually. His lawyer lost the insanity plead, believe that?”
Roger’s mother was at the table waiting for him, a plate was across the table in front of her.
“You have an hour,” said a guard.
“Wow,” she said with forced cheer, “they’ve got quite a meal here for ya. Filet Mignon, baked potato, and peas! Is that what you wanted?”
“Yes, Ma.”
He ate in silence, occasionally muttering between bites. His mother began crying.
After he was through he said, “Ma, don’t worry about it, most of the greats go like this. They oughtta be happy I’m going the same way, really.”
“I’m not going to be there. I know it’s not painful, though. I just can’t...”
“That’s ok Ma, most of the greats died alone too, really.”
At the end, she stood up, managed to choke out, “Love you,” and left.
Roger wasn’t listening, though. He got a little angry thinking about the professors again. How ignorant they had been, he thought. He consoled himself with the consideration that maybe he was just ahead of his time.
“Ok, let’s go Mr. Great,” said one of the guards.
“Mr. Barrett, the time is now,” said the other.
