Skyler Stevens

I need to put a question out there for people. I recently read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield (and by recently I mean this morning...the whole thing) and I completely agree with him. I despise higher education and the whole system. I don't want to be in college; I want to be pursuing my dream. I’m one hundred percent in love with the risk, the freedom, the style, the difficulties, the benefits. 

Here’s my problem and maybe you can help. I don’t know exactly what my passion is. I enjoy writing, filming, drawing, dancing, singing, guitar-ing, conlanging, reading, thinking, creating, experimenting. I really do. But, it is so many things. How do I chose which passion I pursue? I’m willing to risk it all, but I have nothing that I’m risking on. 

This morning I woke up around 5:30 A.M, maybe a little later. I tried falling back asleep, but–like usual–I didn’t. So, I finally mustered up the willpower to do what Francis Pedraza always told me to do. I read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Read the whole thing. I finished at 9:30 A.M and wow those four dollars were worth it.

Steven talked about overcoming “Resistance.” Resistance is that evil, sinful laziness inside of you which keeps you from working throughout the day. It’s that little voice telling you, “you cannot do it,” or “you’ll never succeed so stop trying.”

Resistance is every excuse and reason that keeps you from achieving you dream. From pursuing your passion!

And to summarize Pressfield’s main point: stop letting resistance win. Get your work done. Resistance will always be there, creeping over your shoulder and telling you it is impossible or futile to pursue your dream. “You’ll never make any money,” or “they’ll say your stupid,” or “you’ll just get rejected,” or “your friends won’t be your friends.” But, you know what? To hell with those falsehoods! You can make money. You are not stupid. You will be rejected, but not forever. Not if you keep trying. And if your friends reject you, then they are not your friends and through the process you’ll find better ones. 

He, a nineteen-year-old boy, opened his rusty truck door for her, his forty-three-year-old date. He scooted half of his belongings off the passenger seat: an empty cologne bottle where he hid his larger bills, a pale mug shaped as a tit with a nipple to drink from, last year’s old mail (or was it this year’s?), and the unopened card his mom had sent him a few days ago for his eighteenth birthday. Then, with a gentlemanly gesture, he took her hand and helped her to her seat; she was smiling.

The boy opened the back door next and sat her five-year-old kid in the middle seat and strapped him in. The kid, squirmy, gnawed and sucked the head of those rubber chickens which squeaked if squeezed, especially the head. Some drool dripped onto the boy’s fingers as he buckled the booster last belt of the booster seat. He nearly hurled, his tongue falling out. Luckily, she didn’t notice.

The boy shut the door, hard enough to be cathartic, soft enough for her not to notice. Then he got into the driver’s seat hidden with a black seat cover, something cheap to keep her from noticing the cracked, scratched leather. If he wasn’t good enough, she would leave. That’s how women are.

He turned the ignition. He had to turn it again. From the rear-view mirror dangled a pair of her panties, the black ones from the time they escaped to downtown for the weekend. For some reason, the kid’s father agreed to keep him for the weekend. She had paid for the hotel, he had paid for some things: a Los Angeles lanyard and a single meal at Red Robbins. It was their best time yet and he wanted her to remember it every time she got in the car.  

The boy adjusted the mirror (not the side ones because he didn’t want her to realize how non-automatic the car was) and backed out of her driveway and was off.

“So,” she asked, “where’re we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he smiled. When he looked at her—whenever he looked at her—he always noticed those huge motherly tits, especially in moments like this when she wore a low v-neck to unveil her deep cleavage. The shirt hugged her waist too and she didn’t have a muffin top or any roll or any fat in the wrong places. She may be forty-three, but damn she looked fucking good.

“Mommy, I have to pee-pee,” the kid said. The boy glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. The kid had his legs bent inward and his hand on his crotch like he was about to explode. But, he still had the chicken hanging between his teeth

“Baby, you just went,” she said turning back to face him. He screamed, “I gotta go again!” She mouthed to the boy, “I’m sorry,” then said, “Just suck the chicken. It will make it go away, okay?” The boy admired her care for the kid, how she had at least stuck with him even though she was all alone to take care of him. Yet, that kid talked to much and thought he was the center of the world. He should just be happy he’s got a mom.   “Okay,” the kid said. He actually shut up. There was some time and then she pulled down the sun visor and review herself in the mirror. Some extra lipstick, eye makeup, some powder on her cheeks. Then she said, “Do you think I look alright?” “Oh, yeah,” the boy said. “You’re smokin’ tonight, babe.” He went to place his hand on her thigh, but she moved her leg as if to avoid it, probably nervous because of her son’s presence. Normally, the boy and the lady just went to the park when she couldn’t find a sitter. The boy’s hand still landed. But the compliment must’ve made her happy because she still smiled and smiled big. So big, her lips pulled back so her he could see the extra yellow in her teeth where they met her gums. She smoked cigarettes, drank alcohol. They both did.

“Why is there underwear there?” The kid was pointing towards the mirror. The boy said what came to mind, “They’re my backup.” It must have lightened the mood. She laughed and put her hand on her face. “Why do you need backup?” “Just sometimes I do,” the boy said. The kid asked, “Do you poop your pants?” She kept laughing. The boy never did. Only a couple more minutes. “Nope,” the boy said. She leaned forward to grab something from the floor. As her back bent, the line between her shirt and pants revealed some good, tan skin. The boy could almost follow the trail of her skin to her ass. Such a good ass. She picked up the tit mug and said, “I’ve never seen this before.” “Ha, yeah, that was my dad’s.” The boy glanced at it then back at the road. “He gave it to me before he passed. It’s kind of like a family heirloom.” “My oldest son would love this,” she said to herself. The boy believed her oldest son was about his age. He hoped not more than that. He never wanted to ask. The kid was still talking when they arrived at Boomers, but the boy and the kid’s mom were ignoring him at this point. Well, she was ignoring him in the way she normally did by saying, “Keep sucking your chicken.” The boy said “ta-dah” when they pulled into the parking lot because it was where they had first met exactly one month ago. It was perfect for their one month. She laughed weakly, looked at the boy, hid her head behind the headrest so her son could not see, and fashioned her purple painted like a kiss. It was cute. Maybe a prediction. Maybe another one of her so-called “mating calls.” They parked and walked into Boomers. The boy held her hand at first, but the kid grabbed her other hand so the boy let go. The boy paid for them all. There was no discount for the kid; he was extra twelve dollars. The boy received his four dollars of change, left no tip. Beside his savings in the cologne bottle, it was all he had slaved for that week and now one of his marijuana plants hidden in the back of his truck had died from being kept under the Tarp for too long. They walked first towards the go-karts outside the back of the building, the engines buzzing over the kids talking and talking. The boy’s hands felt sweaty so he wiped his along his jeans as his hands swayed with his walk. When the kid rushed ahead, past the benches and up to the fence where the go-kart employee stood, the boy reached for his date’s hand. She took it, clamped it. It lasted five seconds ‘cause the kid turned around. After that, her arms were fucking crossed.

But it was okay once the kid got onto the go-karts and raced a few laps. When he’d get to the far end of the track, the boy would sneak a kiss in with her. It was even better because the kid asked if he could go again and she said yes so they got to kiss some more. The boy even smacked her ass and she didn’t seem to mind it. The boy wanted to ask her if she wanted to go to the bathroom, lock the door, do the thing they do at the park, but the kid was done racing and begged to go play arcade games. Whatever.  So they went inside watched the kid k.o. Marshall Law and Devil Jin, shoot down the velociraptors and tyrannosauruses, and mutilate zombies after zombies. He actually sucked, but his mom told him he was good and he believed it. 

The kid remembered after all those hours he had to go to the bathroom so boy and the woman escorted him there. Then the boy said, “You and me, let’s go,” and he bumped the side of his hip against hers and nodded towards the woman’s restroom.

“We don’t have time for that,” she said. “He’ll be out soon.”

“Then he’ll be alone for like thirty seconds, it’s fine. Come on just a little.” He kissed her neck, followed her arm with his finger.

“No, it’s not.” She backed away, turned around, crossed her arms again.

The boy said, “Oh, my god. No need to be a bitch about it,” and he stomped straight out of Boomers, ignoring the “Come back anytime,” from the worker with the blue collared shirt, and got into his truck, red faced. 

For thirty minutes he sat there, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, fingers stiff from squeezing so long. He should just leave. She was likely in there laughing with her kid, playing all the games with him, giving him all the attention he wanted. That stupid, fucking kid. She did everything for him. Why for him too? He was annoying, not even a good kid. She would wipe his ass when he went “ number two.” Oh my god, that kid needed to grow up. But, at least she didn’t leave him like the boy’s mom had done. Damn, that kid was so lucky he had no idea. He got all the attention he wanted.

Then she appeared from Boomer’s front door, the kid’s hand in hers. She made him look both ways for cars. She approached the car and the boy locked the car.

She knocked on the window. “Christ, really?” It sounded muffled through the glass barrier.

“Yeah, really.” He flipped her off. He meant it for the kid too so he held his hand high enough on the glass so he might see it too.

She yelled, “Hey!” She turned her kid around like a good mom would. “You’re acting like a kid. Are you really doing this?”

The boy said nothing. He just looked straight ahead.

“You know what, fine. It’s over. Screw you. You’re a f—” she was about to say “fucking,” but the kid—“You’re a hothead.”

At seven twenty-three in the morning, Daniel pushed one of his kitchen chairs up to the window, sat in it, and peeked through the blinds—thin, plastic blinds so moving just one blind wasn’t noticeable from a distance. Daniel observed the already started silver sedan in Mr. Monte’s driveway. It was almost time. A tickle rose in Daniel’s stomach. Made him tap his foot and nibble the skin of his pinkie.

Like Mr. Monte did every weekday morning, he started the car at seven twenty flat and exited through his front door between the minutes of seven twenty-three and seven twenty-seven. Today he wore the grey suit so he must’ve been filling in for Selina Porter on the Porter Show. Mr. Monte walked down the concrete pathway from his front door towards his truck, taking high steps and planting them softly to avoid scuffing his leather shoes. He was texting on his Blackberry, probably chiming in with his boss, not thinking twice about Daniel. Definitely not thinking about Daniel.

Mr. Monte got into his car and, after a few minutes, honked because Molly was running late. Every Friday she ran a minute or two late because she was putting on her favorite red lipstick. On Friday’s she didn’t get back until late because she was out with her boyfriend, the guy who had that truck with the huge side mirrors and the little domes on them to give extra vision. They were really great mirrors.

Molly exited the house, locked the door, and walked for the car, all with a backpack on her shoulder, a brush in one hand and a mirror in the other. It was a round portable mirror with a white shell, foldable handle. She was starring at the mirror. Brushing her hair in the mirror. Thought, she was lipstick-less. It was her first time ever not wearing lipstick on a Friday.

Daniel split the blinds a bit more with his fingers. Just a little bit more though. In case Mr. Monte looked. One time Daniel had divided the blinds to much and even though they were thin, Mr. Monte noticed. That was the second worst day ever in Daniel’s life. Mr. Monte called him a creeper and said if he caught him again he'd file a restraining order. And Daniel hated restraining orders. On top of that, Dan didn’t talk to Daniel the whole day because Daniel was "looking for a new friend." They eventually made up though.

Daniel leaned in against the window glass. He could nearly see into Molly’s mirror. She just had to turn the mirror a little to her left. Come on, just a tiny bit more. But she didn’t; she just got into the car, and closed the door.

Before driving off, Mr. Monte glanced at Daniel’s window.

Daniel dove sideways, sprawling across the floor, giggling. Mr. Monte didn’t see him. Daniel was too quick.

And then the truck engine started and soon enough was dying off into the distance.

Daniel was still on the floor. Giggling. Had had to. He was gonna get a new friend today. Plus, Dan said it was okay to get a new friend. Daniel giggled even deeper.

Then he lifted himself up and took a deep breath. A pat on his chest. A tightening of his belt. Time to go.

He went to the garage and searched through cans of paint. Brown? or Yellow? He grabbed yellow. The grabbed a rigger brush from the neighboring cabinet. One more deep breath. He returned to the living room, shouted up the stairs, "I'll be back soonish," and went to the back door. He opened it and stepped out onto the patio. Warm sunlight, a chilly breeze. Through his nostrils, Daniel breathed in the fresh air, expanded his belly and--after a one, two, three--exhaled it all out through his mouth. A little giggle from inside slipped through the end of his breath. Calm. No laughs anymore. Not right now. He had to maintain himself or it would end up like the other worst day of his life, the time in Wyoming when Susan had installed mirrored windows to her house. Daniel couldn’t help but stand in her backyard all day—forgetting the time—and talking to all his friends. After that there were legal documents, a restraining order, grimaces from all the neighbors. Daniel left the state.

Daniel took big steps until he reached the fence that divided his house with Mr. Monte’s. His fingers were cycling like they were playing the piano or scratching paint off of glass.

“Today’s the day,” Daniel said. He tossed the paint can over the fence, spat into the hands. He rubbed his hands together and pat his chest once more. Next, after logging his hands in between the points of the wooden fence, he lugged himself up, planting his feet against the fence as an anchor. His arms were now fully extended so he tilted himself forward and his belly squished against the wooden points. Hell. Hell. Hell. Hell. He was holding his breath, wiggling inch by inch, and once he got to his waist, he let his weight take him. Before smacking the earth, he managed to twirl himself around so he landed on his side. Right on some pebble. Daniel let out a grunt. He sat up against the fence, weeded his hands through the grass until he found the rock—the little rock— and gave it a short look. He flicked it off.

Another deep breath. With a quick snatch for the paint, Daniel hurried towards Mr. Monte’s back door.

Daniel didn't check the door. Instead, he reached over the door frame, sliding his hand left and right. Nothing. He checked underneath each of the succulant pots. The couch cussions. The couch. The underside of the railing. He cursed. Maybe Mr. Monte moved the house key to...

At the front of the house, Daniel double and triple checked for people watching him. There were none. He lifted the door matt and the key was there. He walked down Mr. Monte's pathway, down the sidewalk, and to his own front door. He went in, shut the door, and let his walk manifest into a jog. Through the living room, passed the kitchen chair beside the window, into the kitchen, out the back door and over the fence a third--no, not like that. He brought the same kitchen chair from inside. This time he was able to throw himself over feet first and land almost perfectly. His big toe bent into the ground. It was sprained, but he could still walk--and jog.

Finally, Daniel unlocked the back door, picked up the paint can he had left there, and pushed the door open. There was an aroma: overcooked toast and maple syrup. Daniel sniffed in. Mmm. He entered into Mr. Monte's home. But, the door behind him slammed shut. A tingle wakened on the top of Daniel's back and, once enough time had passed for a person to paint a hairdue, it dropped down to his spine's edge. Daniel checked through the drapes of one of the windows and no one was there.

Daniel turned and faced the kitchen, the living room beyond it, the stairs beyond that. It was like his house, the same layout: the too-small island counter, the four cabinets above the sink, the twelve foot ceiling, the flat baseboard, the light switch behind the sink, the oversized entrance from the kitchen to the living room. But it was all spiced with Mr. Monte. A whitish, blackish marble finish bedecked the counters. The walls were white except for the wall of the front door; it was light blue. The floor was paneled wood--not tiles like Daniel's. There was a picture of Mr. Monte and Molly at her eight grade promotion hanging on the wall beside the dinner table. A venus fly trap sat on the window seal. The same, but different. It was the treasure of California suburban homes.

Daniel entered the living room, looked left at the cabinet displaying china pots, spoons, and teacups. "Hi Dev,"

Dev crossed his arms. It had been at least a month.

Daniel said, "Okay, I'm sorry. You know I couldn't."

He did that look just like Damien. It was the "whatever" look.

Daniel waved. "I got to go. Next time." He approached the stairs and removed his shoes. Dirt, dust, anything; It all sticks to white carpet. Then Daniel headed up the stairs, half-giggling. He walked down the left hallway and approached Molly's room ( which would be Dan's old room if this were Daniel's house). The golden doorknob was round like at Daniel's house, but the door was white, not its natural wood color.

Someone spoke from the other hallway. Someone in Mr. Monte's room.

Daniel paused. Listened. More muffled voices sounded. Daniel's bloodstream thudded in the deep innards of his ear. He spend twenty seconds, maybe thirty, turning around. He lifted his left foot. It took ten seconds to place it. Then the right. The left. The right. Until Daniel was half-way down the other hallway towards Mr. Monte's room (Daniel and Dan's room if it were Daniel's house).

The door was closed. And inside it was Mr. Monte. He was in there. He was definitely in there. How on God's planet did he manage to get inside? Did he come back by an Uber at the precise moment when Daniel had just grabbed the key and was running through his house? But Mr. Monte couldn't have gotten in without the key. Maybe he had his own key.

Mr. Monte said, "Yet, the right and the left are delirious. Shane, you cannot possibly think the banter between professionals. No, not just professionals. Congressman and congresswomen. You cannot think that is okay. I mean, come on. Deplorable. Despicable. Black-haters. Good-haters. Corrupt. Malicious. These are the words our representatives are using.

Another voice said, "Well, delirious isn't helping Henry."

Mr. Monte spoke again.

Daniel jerked the knob open and pushed the door forward. The television was on. Daniel giggled. The Selina Porter show airs every weekday morning at eight. If Dan were here, he'd be laughing so hard.

Daniel returned to Molly's door and entered her room. There it was. Above the head side of her bed. The ten foot-wide, five foot tall mirror. Daniel stepped before it at the foot of the bed. He wiped his eyes, waved, and said, "Hi."

The woman had brown eyes, buzzed brown hair, a square jaw and a gaunt head, one just like Dan's. She turned to face Daniel and said, "Oh. Who're you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Daniel said. "I always forget to introduce myself." He giggled. "I'm Daniel."

"I like that name." She smiled. It was very cute. She was very cute.

"Thanks," he said.  

"And," Daniel asked," what beautiful name can fit such a beautiful face like yours?"

They both chuckled. Then she said, "Daniella."

Daniel frowned. "Oh my god."

Shocked, she asked, "What?"

He grinned. "You're name is beautiful."

She thanked him.

Then he said to her, "I love you're hair." Flirting with her. It was so natural. So right.

She said, "But you prefer blondes, don't you?" She pointed at his can of paint.

"I do." He shrugged. "I'm sorry."

"No. I've always wanted to try it. Please."

After Daniel memorized her location in the mirror, he removed his socks, and climbed on top of Molly's bed. With the house key, he pricked the can open and placed the lid on her bed without letting a drop spill. He dipped his fingers. The paint was cool, slimmy and sticky like it always was. Daniel held his hand to his nose, smelled the fumes with closed eyes, and proceeded to give Daniella her new hairdue.

It came out beautiful. When Daniel returned to his original spot before the foot of the bed, the hair appeared longer than he thought. It dropped down past Daniella's chest to her waist.

"I love it," they said.

For a while they flirted. But, Daniel eventually asked her about her past. Something in her eyes told him she had a unique story.

Daniella told Daniel how she use to play tennis in high school, but broke her knee one year. All the other girls passed her in skill so she gave up. After graduation she took a gap year until her parents said she either had to move out or go to college. So, she went to the University of Wyoming. (Daniel didn't mention a word of his experience; what if it pushed her away?) Once she finished her B.A. in art, she moved to L.A. and began painting city walls and power boxes. The city paid her to do it. "Basic walls and power boxes turned into colorful, various depctions of her imagination" was how she described it. Daniel told her it that was the heart of art. They laughed. Then she asked him about his story.

Her hair looked like it had finally dried. He got on the bed and tested it. It had dried. "How about," Daniel said, "I tell you all about me at my place?"

She agreed.

Daniel removed her from the wall. He nearly lost grip of her, but got her to the floor and leaned her against the wall. He put his socks back on, closed the paint and put it on Molly's dresser beside her favorite red lipstick. After that, he started sliding Daniella from Molly's room.

When he got her down to the bottom of the stairs, he heard a voice yell, "Dude, I'll just be a sec." The front door clicked, then opened too wide and too fast.

Daniella screamed. Molly screamed, none of that red lipstick on her face.

Daniel couldn't feel his stomach. "Calm down!"

Molly sprinted down her pathway, her poke-a-dot Jansport backpack slipping off her shoulder. She dialed someone.

Daniel started forward to stop her. Before he made it off the bottom stair and to the front door, there was a shatter. Daniel turned around. "No, no, no, no," Daniel muttered. It was Daniella. He kneeled beside her. She was crying.

Dev yelled from the china cabinet, "You deserve it!"

Daniel picked up a piece of Daniella's hair. Now, they were both weeping.