Faute De Mieux

Travel, trouble, music, art,
A kiss, a frock, a rhyme-
I never said they feed my heart,
But still they pass my time.

-- Dorothy Parker

When Toby takes the painting class, he knows he’s trying too hard.

He gets halfway through a watercolor of some flowers (all the colors begin to bleed) before he mumbles an excuse and leaves the class early. He never goes back. He’s a glutton for punishment, yeah, but he’s not an idiot.

He starts going to a writing workshop because that feels less pathetic. He spends Wednesday evenings fleshing out characters, filling in plot holes, and listening to an angry college freshman’s bad poetry. The first class they all go around the room and say what they want out of the course and he decides to be honest (something he rarely is with himself):

“I’m just here to pass the time.”

He doesn’t mention Costa Rica or work or anything, really. Nobody asks about anything but his novel, anyway. He still thinks it’s farfetched to call what he’s working on “a novel,” but the instructor insists that everyone “think big” about their projects.

Toby isn’t the “think big” type and he knows it. He sketches rough outlines of chapters and does character profiles and is kind of disgusted that the hero of his novel behaves more like Jim than himself (except for the always familiar insecurity and social anxiety). He can’t even be the hero of his own imagination.

He’s thinking about this one night during a break from class while he’s standing at the vending machine, jingling the change in his pocket. While he’s deciding between chips or a candy bar, the angry freshman and her pothead boyfriend turn the corner and stop when they see him.

“Hey, Toby,” the boyfriend says. “Awesome stuff tonight. All that stuff about your main character realizing he’s trapped in a prison of his own design was awesome.”

“Yeah,” the girl agrees. “I can’t wait until you decide what’s holding him back from going for his dreams.”

“Me either,” Toby mumbles.

The boyfriend claps him on the shoulder then they continue walking down the hallway.

He remains in front of the vending machine, static and unmoving - just as he’s always been.

He sighs and returns to the classroom without a snack because, honestly, he just doesn’t see the point anymore.