The Businessman, the Athlete, the Taxi Driver, and the Writer

The businessman set down his half-empty mug of coffee and once again picked up the day’s copy of the Wall Street Journal. Looking again at the top headlines he scowled. His newest investment had proven less than profitable as the CEO had fired his third head accountant in less than a year. Watermarx Industries was a digital security company that had looked perfect on paper. In reality, the businessman could see it had been suffering serious financial problems. It was a small investment, but would damage his financial portfolio nonetheless.

The businessman cursed before finishing his coffee and straightening his tie. He stood and walked across the kitchen of his small one-bedroom apartment to pick up his briefcase and shut the front door. Traffic at this time of day was fairly light, so he normally was not in a hurry. Today, though, he seemed in a rush.

“Time is money, and I’ve lost enough of it for one day because of that damn company,” he said, hitting the elevator call button a tenth time. The day had not started off with the most optimistic outlook.
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A single shot rang out and she immediately dashed away from it. Heart pounding and feet beating the rubber path beneath her, the athlete took off down the track. Months of harsh training led up to this ten-second exhibition. Hard work that would be meaningless should the tape a few yards away not break against her chest.

The crowd was screaming for her and for those behind her, struggling to keep up. The athlete could hear nothing more than her own pulse pounding rapidly in her ears. The rhythm kept her pace and urged her forward, closer to the finish line still an eternity away. Seconds passed as hours and the adrenaline coursing through the athlete’s veins gave her clarity of mind and physical calm she experienced nowhere else. Crossing the finish line exhilarated her, but broke the silent rhythm of her sprint, thrusting her back into the chaotic excitement of the crowd and competition.

The athlete’s facial calm broke to a wide smile as she raised her arms in triumph to meet the ever growing cheers of her observers.
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Another day, another dollar, the taxi driver though to himself as he accepted the wad of cash the old woman handed him through the window. I’m just that much closer to my future, he concluded as he waved to the woman before pulling away and weaving back into the heavy afternoon downtown traffic.

Unlike his father, the taxi driver was not content with working eight hours a day to earn a paycheck. He had brighter plans for his future. In the evenings, after returning his cab to the depot, he went to the community college to work on night classes. In a few months, he would have enough saved away to enter the medical program at the university. He had been awarded a full scholarship, but still needed some resources to make ends meet with bills and other living expenses. This side of five years, the taxi driver would wake up early not sit idly by as others lived their lives but to help save lives at the hospital.

His father had worked at the shipping docks for next to nothing almost his entire life. His mother had been a waitress at the local Korean restaurant. Ironically, she made more in tips than with her regular paycheck; neither or which was at all substantial. The taxi driver’s lifelong goal was to make his parents proud and help prove the American dream was possible for anyone with the drive and skills to reach out for it. Every passenger took him one step closer to accomplishing that task.
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Writer’s block rarely plagued his mind, but today was different somehow. He had written scores of novels and short stories and had several ideas for these new plot lines. But rather than allowing inspired prose to flow from his fingers he sat on the couch, staring through excessive boredom at the television. He had nowhere to go and nothing of consequence to do, but could not find motivation to put his thoughts to paper.

His characters went about their lives in the inner recesses of his mind. Countless story arcs raced past in front of his eyes every time he blinked, but he could not convert the thoughts and vivid images into words on his computer screen. Thousands of hypothetical characters and activities were just an arm’s reach away, but only a handful seemed within his grasp; of those, many were too slick to hold on to and all but a few escaped back into the void that was his imagination.

He opened his laptop and began on page one, with no title. Writing furiously in spurts of five to ten minutes he hastily threw together three pages of his stories so they might not be lost to nothingness. With experiences and ideas given a voice through his words, the characters involved became tactile, real. Their lives, although existing entirely in the writer’s imagination, would continue whether the writer put words to them or not. They would continue to live, as would the universes they existed within.