The Epiphany

The Epiphany





And as Allan sat—he had been waiting there for the past hour—and waited for his potential publisher, sister by arm side, he tensely watched the passersby as they frolicked through large crowds. That Mr. Smith’s lateness was due to a morning epiphany that had him throw Allan’s manuscript out the window, screaming of its overbearing prose and lack of characterizations, amongst other things, had dawned on Allan, as he waited on the station platform.

In those passing minutes and hours, Maryanne—Allan’s elder sister by two years—had done her best work to attempt to save her brother from his own anxieties. Allan remembered that she had been there, those long nights; nights that watched as he rid his room of all furniture and other troublesome items, leaving only his writing desk, coffee, paper, his mirror, and of course Mary, to stand by in the stark emptiness. There, he would sit and feverishly scribble upon paper after paper, endlessly writing, then tearing, then writing, and then tearing some more. Before long, his room’s evacuated furniture would be replaced by dumps of crumpled and tattered martyrs, bouncing off walls and floor with the force of his angered thrusts, leaving little space to move. Maryanne would sit idly by, supervising it all, whilst giving her brother elderly advice, cheering him and praising him on to the finish line, which would come many hours later. And what would come of such a fuss? No more than twenty pages of writing; most of which Allan would eventually throw away and re-write later. But Allan appreciated her attentiveness and concern, and loved her company, though he never told her.

What has happened to me? He thought while staring into rushing crowds. Am I not a writer? All those long nights, were they for nothing? If it’s not to write, what is my purpose? Of course, Mary thinks I am paranoid. Too sensitive. Too rash. But is not all writers? I have read books on Kafka, Joyce, Conrad, Carver, Gogol. I have taken so much from each, so many techniques, and styles and marvelous fluidity of English, I have taken from each. So what is left? Why has it been so hard to be accepted as such a great writer as Hemmingway, when I have studied and picked, like fruit, all from his soul that I could hold? Why is Smith not here yet?

He felt a tug from the side of his brown, long jacket and saw that it was Mary. “I have a phone call from work; I’ll have to take it.” And with that she patted Allan on the head and was soon lost within the crowding crowds of the train platform. And he was deserted. Having been awakened from his mournful and melancholy trance, Allan observed the platform. Grey. Black. Brown. Dreadful colors, he thought. It had been raining for many days in New York, and it turned the whole train platform—which was outside—into a mass of muddy puddles, dreary colors, grey skies, and rampant colds. He disdained it all, and found refuge in the flocking crowds. What colorless people, he thought. There! He wears a black jacket. And There! So does he! I wonder if they knew each other, or if creativity could possibly be so bland. This is the real reason for my lack of acceptance. These people! They have nothing to offer me. Writers, feed off of reality, mask it, morph it then resell it for prize, accolades and money. The experiences of Fitzgerald were enough to write endless stories. But where is my inspiration, in this dreary place. What is there to write, here? Genre fiction they say? Science Fiction they say? It is human nature to dream of things sublime or eccentric, to want to re-create them. But there is no such thing here, no such—

And as he spoke, he was interrupted by the most amazing sight he had ever seen. As he was speaking he was surveying the crowds, and at the end of his speech, his eyes came upon his inspiration, cuddled into the far corner of the opposite side of the platform. And his inspiration wore Prada.

And not just Prada, Louis Vuitton too. Who was this man? Could he be homeless, lying there on the cold, hard floor? And what does he wear? Was it really Prada, or was it merely a mirage? Well, it was certainly expensive. And he was drenched in such elegant clothes. From head to toe, he was enveloped in pricey looking jackets, shirts, shoes, pants, necklaces, and from what Allan could see, a gold watch. More odd, was his uneasy cleanliness considering where the man sat. His jeans were white, and seemed to have decided dirt a fallacy, and would not have any business with the muddy puddles that they lay beside; instead, even from afar, they seemed to glisten! How obnoxious! thought Allan. And so is the man! His jacket looked like fur, a deep, dark brown, striped fur, almost wooly that covered his entire body. His watch dangled from his wrist, and in his hair were glasses, with what Allan thought to be diamonds! His hair was greasy, slicked and thick, and black, but not nappy or tangled, instead it was wavy, but not fully straight—a sort of cross between the two. Even his hair is a conundrum, thought Allan. The most troublesome thing to Allan, however, was not what the man wore, but what he held. A sign: New York Times, published poet and novelist, I’ve won many prizes and many accolades—will write for money or simply for pleasure.  A writer? Thought Allan. How could someone of such skill lay upon a station’s floor? This is it! This feeling within me. If I am truly a writer, if I have learned a thing from my studies, If I am to be great, this man’s story must be imagined—It must be told. Allan wondered about the man, glaring at him from across the platform—so much so, that he did not notice the crowds interrupting his view, nor the incoming trains.

Your story, he thought, what name am I to give you friend? Maybe I should name you Allan? No, Allan is a horrible name for a character. No author would waste time with such a simple and uncreative name, unless he aims for the most worthless! Maxwell is far better; it breathes gentility, riches, and fame.  But what will be your story? How will I create something groundbreaking, something inspiring, something profound, something to the level of Fitzgerald’s Babylon Revisited or Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery? What will be the conflict? Well, everyone enjoys the good rags to riches story: he was a hardworking, dedicated writer, who wrote days and nights—no just days, as no one would believe such an extreme. He graduated from Yale, or the City College—in its grandest years—with high grades, and marvelous short stories already under his belt. His desire was to be the grandest of writers, on the level of the grandest of writers, and he had the talent—albeit unknowingly. “But now the fall” and this Allan said out loud, to his surprise.

Out of college his mother dies, Allan thought; she dies of a car crash—no too quick, too sudden. Instead, she was the unfortunate sufferer of Cancer—people will relate to this growing epidemic, as the news says one in every five people, know someone with it. People will be drawn in now, their emotions will begin the long haul, swelling up within them unannounced like a silent army, waiting for me to pull another string, after which they will unleash as tears, and gasps, because next, his father dies—and this one, a car crash. This will allow for coverage of all people. And these tragedies deflate his drive and passion, relegating him to office work for some insignificant company.

But then, a peripeteia, he will meet a women—love must be present. She will re-infuse him with the wondrous joys and he will luxuriate in their time with one another. She will re-invigorate his creative juices, which will unwind and result, finally, in a hellacious onslaught of, new, short stories. And the readers will be totally, irrevocably absorbed. They will be puppets on my strings, for that is the power of the writer.

“That is the power of the writer,” said Allan, once again out loud, as his hands formed tight fists in his pockets, hidden from the cold.  Passersby glanced upon him, with screwed up faces, seemingly shocked by the odd expression on his face. He recoiled from the glances, jutting his head back towards the homeless man, as in his stupor he had wondered and was staring at the grey sky. And—Allan continued his thought—he is picked up by a publishing house.

He is a writer, who writes with the style of the early 20th century and these people will love him. They will fill his mind, with adorations and revelations about his true form of writing, and his mastery of the English prose, his similarities to the greats—as he should be a historian of the arts. And everything will go well for him, the following years.

But this cannot be the end of the story, as the reader will not feel strongly enough. They will not be exhausted yet! This man, Maxwell, will have children—two children—a family of four. He will marry the woman, whose name could be Mary—as my sister is a wonderful woman, and of course I would pay homage to her at some point. Well, all will seem, until his work no longer sells. The times by this point, will have finished gravitating towards, worthless, stereotypical, mechanic, money-driven, waste, and—similar to me—he will no longer be deemed a relevant writer. Moreover, his work will be overtaken by books about shopping, and large mechanical monsters, and magic, and how-to-books, and ghost-written biographies, from talentless celebrities.

He will be—and the rest of this sentence Allan spoke aloud, “worthless.” His money will fade away, and the lavish—as it will be lavish, to make his fall more drastic, and impactful—lifestyle will come to a halt. His wife will leave him, as the distress from ineptitude leads him to a habit of hanging around bars, drunk and troublesome and uncaring. Packing their things and vanishing, his wife will marry another more accomplished writer—this is a realistic story, and in reality, such would be the case. Children? They will be like ghosts, seen only sparingly, never truly understood, never truly there— without the ability to touch. In time, he will dwindle and dwindle, hanging on to anything of his old life that he can: the Prada, the gold watches, the sunglasses, the shoes, the white pants that he will obsessively clean—signifying a possible mental breakdown, adding multiple interpretations of his fall. And eventually, he will have found himself on the wet, grey-skied, train platform, stalked by a struggling writer, dissected so that this new writer could have the chance to finish what he could not, wondering if it was worth it at all?

As Allan thought this, a train incoming, on its way back to Brooklyn—where he lived—slid by. Rolling down his sleeve, he noticed that this story he made, had taken no more than five minutes to complete. His fists were still clenched, though, and he sat in silence. Why is Mr. Smith not here? He pondered. He got up from his chair, stretched and walked into the train, having completely forgotten about his sister. And as the train doors, closed, Mary had come back, and instantly shot her glare towards her brother, secured within the train. “Brother what are you doing!? Mr. Smith is here! He is right here!”

“Maryanne”, said Allan—his voice was muffled through the train doors—“it is not worth it.”