Bob, a frustrated Co-Creator at JoeCo, sat at his typewriter, frowning. He'd really better get back to work, not stay here, typing away at some silly nonsense. But he was "inspired" so he stayed. He wrote. He wrote about nothing in particular. His unease and anxiety lay revealed before him on the paper, covered with the thin gauze of prose and not very subtle symbolism.
In the story, it was a party of sorts...
" ...with Merle Haggard and some piano player, and Bob. Was it after life? He didn't think so, but maybe. All he knew for sure was that you can't trust anything anyone posts on the internet social media sites without extensive fact checking. Oh, and that Merle could drink him under the table. Luckily Bob was on the wagon, and the liquor he and Merle were tossing back by the bucket-full was merely purgatory, or perhaps pre-purgatory blend. As in--it did nothing to you, as a spirit is not a physiological being and therefore not subject to laws of biology and chemistry, i.e.-other spirits, if you know what I mean.
Merle was clearly getting annoyed. He started his query again.
"So you aren't even dead yet? What are you even doing here, wut wuzzit, uh... Bob?"
Bob slammed his shot glass down, and looked at Merle Haggard with red eyes.
"I think this is a dream, that, or I am making it all up in a Joe story."
Merle blinked. "A what story? Are you another suicide? You aren't making a whole lot of sense."
Bob smiled. He stroked his hair that wasn't there, trembling hands smoothing over bald shiny pate.
"I am not suicidal. Just happy and energized. I've been taking stock of my life as of late, and have discovered that I am a made man. Not only in a financial sense, but my creative life is a surprisingly rich garden of masterpieces, my family life is a precious gift, my wife works her butt off all the time and is totally awesome to me, my kid is amazingly beautiful, and my spirit is aloft and feeling triumphant. I'm lucky. I must be dreaming this because I wish I were dead. But I can't afford to die. I'm too happy."
This time Merle smiled.
"Oh, I don't think it is as good as all that. But perhaps you should stop spending what little spare money you ever get on LP records and crap. Try paying down that student loan debt a bit? Try being responsible with your money instead of acting like an ID with no super-ego. Since they have you with your back to the wall to begin with, best not to let them grift you of your last dime. That's why I quit drinking the first time."
Bob laughed cynically, having not heard the last half of Merle's little speech.
"Not buy vinyl. Yeah, right! Collecting LP's is one of my only pleasures. As to my student loan debt-- If I want to get out of default I have to let them keep garnishing my paychecks AND pay them $250 a month extra. It is simply not possible!! I don't make that much income. I cannot pay them what I already spent on rent and utilities. I am 43 years old and have two kids already, what am I supposed to do, move back in with my parents? I couldn't even if I wanted to. My only choice is to get a CDL so I can be a truck driver, then MAYBE I can dig out of debt someday. Even though I do NOT want to drive a truck."
"Ah, quitcher bitchin'," snapped Merle, "...have you ever been in prison? There was a fellow in here just now who suffers from extreme chronic pain ALL THE TIME. Are you dying of cancer? Do you have all of your extremities? So your lifes' ambitions fell through and your dreams are shattered, you don't think this kind of thing happens to all artists nowadays? People don't buy art or music anymore, they steal it. Nobody cares about your music, Bob. Nobody ever will care, not enough to fulfill your very unrealistic vision of yourself as a famous touring singer. You will never be Jim Morrison or Johnny Cash. Never. But you will be those boys' Daddy forever. It's about time you get over yourself and deal with the real reality. Which is that you are a father first, a husband second, a person who is in debt third, and an artist LAST."
Merle sighed.
Bob asked for another round from the bartender, who, though he/it was never visible, always kept the glasses full.
"I always thought I would be further along than I am by now. Own my own home and stuff..."
Merle couldn't stand it anymore. "For Christ sake! You babies and your depression. In my day we didn't have depression. We just DEALT."
The piano player started playing "Hey Bulldog" by The Beatles as Bob woke up. It had been a dream. "
Bob rolled the page out of the typewriter, inspecting it. Ah, editing he said, putting the cap back on an enormous bottle of Liquid Paper.
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