Room To Write

"I think this room’ll be just fine", I said to the tavern owner while surveying the room.

"Yessir, it is small no doubt and she’s a little spartan in terms of furniture and such but hell its clean, private and its got a great view of the Gulf – plus you can't beat the price", grinned the scratchy little owner of the legendary Sketching Tavern in Storhees, Texas. Refusing to stop for a breath he continued on "and, you don't have far to go when ya want a drink,” he winked quickly, "you just go whet yer whistle downstairs ‘n climb on back up the steps."

"Well, that’s true enough,” I grinned, “main thing fer me is the solitude, I need that when I write.....so....alright then, I'll take it" and I quickly added, "You shore it’s free rent?”

The landlord grinned again and said, "Costs you nothin’ in terms of greenbacks sir.....only prahs you pay is allow’n me to read your mind a little, n’ your stories, ever’ word.....that’s all", said the man with a sly grin and then as was his habit, he continued on, “I like me a good story ever’ once in awhile and I ‘spect you have some dontchee?”

Little did the landlord know, I would have paid him for not only the room, but for him to read my stories as well.

"Well then, I guess we got us a deal," I said and we shook hands on it.

“And ya know….I’d maybe like to talk about’em a little ever once in awhile too…..I’d throw breakfast in for free on that, I would”, the owner said straightening his filthy apron a little, “Jo Beth can make a good corn cake biscuit…….she can.”

We looked at each other for a second and he must have misread me, because he cautiously backtracked slightly, “Now a course, that’d only be when yer of a mind to chew the fat. A‘course.”

Sitting my satchel bag down on the table and staring back out the window again, I said “Reckon we still got a deal, all that’d be fine too.”

On that, he beamed a brown toothed, lopsided grin at me and smoothed down his hair a bit.

The walls were bare and freshly whitewashed, the wood floor was worn but swept and the cheap furniture wasn’t all busted up. That’s the way I wanted it, no old gashes and scrapes, no faded outlines of old hanging memories on the wall and no worn fabric. It was my fresh slate, like blank pages, in a brand spankin' new journal. I looked out the old style big bay window, breathed the salt air and never heard the landlord close the door softly behind him.

"Thank y......." I started to say turning around too late, as he was already gone. My gaze went around the new room slowly and finally out the bay window again, as a little smile appeared on my face. I was looking out at everything and everybody, but no one could look in. A gentle warm breeze wafted in from the gulf, ruffling the thin cheap white drapes and gently circled the room. As I sat down, without even taking my jacket off, I got my paper out, and pen in hand began to write. I paused in mid sentence, as a freighter’s horn, way off and lonesome bellowed. It was heading out to parts unknown, South America maybe, or hell, Europe even. Finally looking back down, I completed the first sentence and then the paragraph, not at all sure of my story’s destination either. I was not sure of the story after that either, but knew there would be one.

*This was my first story on the first writing blog. I still consider this a room of sorts.