SHORT STORY: Track 13 – Nothing to Write Home About

Track 13 – Nothing to Write Home About

Harley Crisp sat and sulked before his large hand crafted oak masterpiece of a desk. Occupying the desk were only two stationary residents, a single sheet of blank paper and a motionless pen. Harley winced and let his tear be the third arrival to the desktop party and his sigh of contempt was the soundtrack. His life was not all that people made it out to be and he knew it.

He picked up the pen with great hesitation and he hovered over the upper left hand corner of the page. It should be so easy, he told himself, just “Dear Mom,” and then tell her all about the good things in your life. What good things, he scoffed; he gave away all the good things a long time ago in order to achieve this level of fame and fortune.

Harley could write about how he up and left his small hometown in Alabama for a bright future in acting, completely ignoring his mother’s pleads for him to stay. He could write of how he dropped out of school and turned his back on the only people who genuinely loved him. He thought about this constantly and the shame he had been able to bury was the greatest thing keeping him from having any communication with his family for over fifteen years; he had brought this on himself and he was punishing himself for it.

Harley shed another tear as he recalled some of his mother’s words of wisdom that, at the time, sounded like nothing more that empty lies to keep him grounded in Alabama. She said that this place of acting and money was filled with nothing but cruel people who are only out for themselves. Why didn’t I listen, Harley damned himself. He placed his head into his hands and took in a deep breath thinking that no one here in big time Hollywood understands what it is like to feel so alone and empty because they are hollow already; Harley did not want to grow hollow, but he really saw no other outcome for himself.

In all his time living the glamorous life, had he learned anything of value, Harley clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. Why live this life at all? What was the money good for? Harley reckoned that the answer was the same as what war was good for, and yet he remained, doubting that he would be able to turn away mostly for the fear that he would not be accepted back home.

And who am I anymore? Harley stood abruptly at the thought and knocked his solid chair over with a crash. “John, please sign this,” or “Dear John, I admire you,” or “John we have a perfect role for you,” from the so called fans, and producers, and agents, but that is not his damn name, John is a character he played and every time he was called by his most famous persona he felt a little piece of the true him died. Harley punched the wall and slumped to his knees weeping; it was all his fault, he wanted this.

Who was he to complain, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling fan mocking him with its carefree existence. There were worse things in life than a bout of identity crisis and being homesick, Harley winced, like having a real crisis or actually being sick, like the millions of people all around the world. He was just one miserable millionaire, so he had no right to talk about his woes; no one wants to hear the selfish ramblings of an egotistical and self-centered hypocrite. Just keep on doing what you do just like every other day Harley Crisp, dance like the fool you are.

“No,” Harley shouted at no one in particular and jumped up to his feet to readdress the blank letter. “I control my own fate; I can teach myself the things I have yet to learn.” Harley reached for the pen and with great control he scribbled exactly what he wanted to say.

“Dear Mom, I love you. Love Harley.”