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"Keenan Travino only has one rule: do not ask stupid questions."
"What do you mean stupid questions?"
Middle-aged, thinning hair with a round belly and wrinkles on his face, Mr. Liddell looks like Hollywood's orthodox depiction of a snarky man stuck at a dead-end job, one who indulges in History documentaries at the end of a week that looks like every other week in the life he was thrown into. As if his frown could not get any deeper, it got deeper. He smacked his lips together; an annoying quirk he's been doing since the first time I stepped into Contented Inc. He stared at me begrudgingly with hazy plain brown eyes. Then, with pity as fuel for his actions, he shook his head.
"Are you sure you're qualified for this program?" he asked, and I wondered whether it's an example of a stupid question or if he's for real.
Regardless of his judgemental gaze on my face that he probably gives to all people below thirty, my own drifted to the sheet of paper on his desk, eyes hovering over the long list of participants until my attention was drawn to 5 - Gianna Alexie. I am pretty sure it says just that on my twenty-two-year-old birth certificate.
I pointed at my name, "Yup," I spoke, "See? Gianna Alexie. That's me," and for good measure, I smiled and flashed a thumbs-up.
The rude fellow grumbled a chain of incoherent words. Do men over fifty have their own language?
Mr. Liddell and his office aren't a fit couple. The room, bright with natural light from the large open windows, colorful with stained wood-panelled walls, a quirky lime green floor, and a bright orange desk gave a totally contrasting vibe to the man occupying it: Liddell in a boring gray suit with a boring mud-colored tie, and a boring personality, not to mention his habit of smacking his lips whenever I say something he thinks is stupid that, for me, is absolutely not. His patience is wearing out, but I believe he didn't have much to begin with.
Intending to kill the agony for both of us, I questioned, "Do you wanna wrap this up?"
His reply came bluntly, "Yes, please."
Reaching down, he opened a drawer and a second later, presented me a yellow folder which I assume bears the information I need for the two-month long mentorship program. He opened it, letting me see the procedures and objectives of the activity along with their mission and vision. It held nothing he failed to discuss in the past twenty minutes I've been sitting fidgety in his office.
Turning a few pages, there is a list of people I'm grouped with. Exactly five lucky souls had been chosen by the organizers to be handled by Keenan Travino, a man whose name I had read at the back of a number of my favorite novels. My stomach did a flip. Heck, my stomach did cartwheels and won a gold medal.
"As I said earlier," Liddell began again, "Some mentors want convenient meetings and Keenan is one of them. Mr. Travino opens his home for the five of you, so instead of heading here every Saturday, you'll go to this address," I followed to where his finger was pointing: an address, Keenan Travino's address.
"Do not, and I repeat, do not give the man's residence away without permission. You will be disqualified and if he wishes to, he can press charges against you since you signed a contract. You will also be called into the office if we hear negative remarks from Travino," he narrowed his eyes at me, "If you think this will trouble you, speak now so we can transfer—"
"No, not a hassle," I spoke loudly, all the while shaking my head, "No hassles at all."
Looking bored instead of pissed, Mr. Liddell smacked his lips together once again. Then, he continued, "Very well. Feel free to contact your group members, maybe get to know each other beforehand."
"Yes, sir," he handed me the file and I held it as if it were my newborn daughter. I am meeting Keenan Fucking Travino. Keenan!
"You can go now," Mr. Liddell added, sounding eager for my departure.
With a smile I can't hold back, I got to my feet, "Have a great day, Mr. Liddell."
I gingerly put the file into my bag before resting the strap over my shoulder. In a celebratory mood, I turned for the door.
"Remember the rule, Gianna," the gruff man warned, "No stupidity."
"Me? Stupid?" I scoffed, "Please," my hand met the cool metal of the knob, turned, and flung myself into the colorful hallway of Contented.
On my way out of the building, I hummed a random tune from the top of my head. A blossom of positivity bloomed in my chest and I assume it's the feeling you get when you're finally doing good in your life. I am at the top of my card deck.
I've always felt that I'm meant for something big in this world and ever since I was a little Gia, I already had a vague idea of what I wanted to do when I grow up: I want to create. There was never a time in my life when my mind was not buzzing with ideas—buzzing with art and its many forms. There was a phase when I decided that I'd want to be an architect and create pretty houses for the land and its people to admire. At some point, I got into dancing and vowed that I'll someday travel and teach others the art of movement.
When I was a junior in high school, I had a thing for films and told myself that in the future, I'll be part of the best production team for the best movie on Earth. Unfortunately, that interest only lasted for six months before I got into painting and drawing—traditional graphic art, my heart bearing the dream of holding exhibit after exhibit until I die. When I was in senior year, I got into writing, and that's where I stuck.
The ongoing debate unofficially named career vs passion is a heavy one for people whose big dreams are inclined to arts, whether it be the art of music, film, speech, theatre, writing, or movement. If there were guarantees in this world supported by time travel or a truthful, magical peak into the future, people wouldn't have to take risks. Risks would not exist in the first place. Unfortunately, they do, and these risks, simple as they are with only five letters comprised of one vowel and four consonants, are actually terrifying—in an odd sense, much more terrifying than a masked serial killer with an industrial chainsaw.
If a serial killer were chasing you down, you'd be afraid of dying, though dying, in my firmest opinion, is a guarantee of rest, whether unsolicited or not. To face a risk, though, eye-to-eye with pressure on your shoulders and doubt in your heart, a head open to sensibility and sensitivity, it's as grave as it sounds. People with simple hopes of providing needs in a hard-to-live-in, pre-sixth-extinction world with a lot to lose would take the sure route of career.
In The Wisdom of Psychopaths by Kevin Dutton, one of my favorite works of nonfiction, I learned that American serial killer John Wayne Gacy's brain after his death was kept by Helen Morrison, a forensic psychiatrist. Curious if a psychopath's brain, structurally speaking, is different from an average Joe's or a Plain Jane's, observation took place and tests were done. In the end, they discovered that the killer's brain was much like anyone else's. The difference, they say, is how it worked when it was still working.
In The Magic of Big Thinking, the book started out with a story of how a man named Harry made five times more money than colleagues with the same benefits as him. With same brains as well, it was stated that structure never matters. Big differences are made by how brains work and they work in different ways. Harry made five times more because he thought five times bigger than anyone else.
With that, I can say that maybe, maybe because I am up for anyone's contradictions, courage works in the same way. You're the same as everyone else struggling with the choice of career vs passion, but you would have to be five times more courageous to pick passion. If the financial aspect is like an anchor at your tail, then you'll need to be ten times more courageous. I get why it's hard. To add and subtract is easy, but multiplication is a different lesson.
I got into my cute little yellow car, a graduation gift from my mom and step-dad. Only God knows what they were thinking when they decided to buy me my own vehicle because I never complained about public transportation. Taking buses and taxis is efficient and my only responsibility would be myself and not some thousand pounds of complex machinery. I didn't even know how to drive yet when Lemon was given to me, though I fell in love. Until now, I'm still having trouble.
Do I hear corny taxi jokes because of its color? Yes, a lot.
The engine started with a meow and with one hand on the wheel and the other on the lever I keep forgetting the name of, I zoomed down the avenue. The buildings were made of the traditional grays and browns, some parts of blues and reds. Then there are the greens; unhealthy greens, suffocating in a concrete forest. The sky is brighter today, though I think my mood affects my perception. Colors affect feelings and vice versa, after all.
Behind the windows of my car, I watched the usual scenes unfold before me: grade schoolers exiting the doors of the academy close to my apartment, Aunt Rem cooking spaghetti through the windows of her diner, the daily group of old men reading their newspapers while smoking cigarettes in front of a cafe, and the canines in the police department through their glass sliding doors.
By the time I pulled up in my parking spot, it was time for lunch. Like usual, the elevators are out, but the apartment is only four floors up with senior residents on the first two stories, so no one really complains. Flight after flight, I reached the fourth floor where my unit resides exactly twenty Gianna Alexie steps down the hallway.
Apartment designing is undeniably exciting for a young adult. When I first saw the space being offered at a reasonable price roughly four years ago, my mind was overflowing with ideas of how I wanted my place to look like. In the end, it settled looking like shit.
Don't get me wrong, I really tried my best, and in the eyes of other people, my efforts did not go to waste, yet for me, my efforts pushed the studio apartment tumbling downhill and into a pit of shit. I don't know if it's because my taste changes month after month, hence, pieces of furniture taking after various styles, or if it's the unproven fact that units can only look nice if your wallet looks nice. Maybe both. All I know is that the place bothers me and I plan on redesigning when a book of mine blows up a vault.
In my four years of college, my mom had only visited thrice because I'm usually the one who travels to meet her. In those three times, she brought trinkets and ornaments from home that all added a sense of sentiment to my sanctuary. I look forward to her next visit.
I slipped my sneakers off, making them dirty in the process. I then laid my bag on the dining table for four which is stupid because the flat is only meant for one person. Zeus hailed thunder in my stomach when I opened the fridge and caught sight of cold pizza, the universal leftover. After letting it spin a few times in the microwave, I laid the slices on a plate and carried my meal and my laptop to the balcony.
The balcone is one meter by two, my all-time favorite spot in my 50 square-meter home. There I put a large beanbag, my favorite blanket, plants, and fairy lights that I rarely turn on. When it rains, I just drag the big lump of cotton inside. There are only four occasions in the past when I was not able to because I was out for the day.
PC on my lap, I ate deep dish all-meat cheesy pizza as I surfed the internet, particularly Keenan's Wikipedia page. I had read multiple articles about the thirty-three-year-old man before. He is easily one of my favorite novelists, sometimes taking the Top 1 spot, depending on my reading mood.
The last time he published a book was seven years ago. People haven't heard from him ever since. Keenan Travino lives his private life by what it's called: private. There are only six pictures and one video of him on the internet. Two pictures were formally taken, commonly used for the back covers of his work. The other four are candid and I heard that he hates them; he hates being followed, he hates being interviewed, and he hates being taken pictures of. He doesn't even have social media accounts, so his fans instead follow his agent for updates that we never receive.
The lone video of him is his first ever interview with a local night show host. From then, he only accepted interviews on audio streaming programs, mostly public radio. If not, interviews happened through phone calls with screens flashing either of his two official pictures. Understandably, he vaguely answers queries pertaining to his personal life.
Keenan Travino is one hot motherfucker.
One sad truth is that humans are suckers for other humans with physical features reaching the typical aesthetic standards. There are a handful of amazing beings breaching the industry of traditional expectations, though trying as we are to break the toxic system, the ugly truth is that we're only nearly halfway there because runway models still look like runway models.
He is a sight for the sorest of eyes, the sweetest lollipop among eye-candies for sugar-craving optics. The writer himself looks like the male love interest in a chick lit. According to Wikipedia, he is of Colombian, Irish, and American ancestry, one hell of a mix for a lucky bastard.
It's easy to assume that Mr. Travino doesn't show his face because people might only read his work because he looks like sex on an office chair. I, however, fell in love with his writing even before I saw the face behind the pages. Even though I'd totally smash, the ratio for respect still overcomes. That is why, sitting on my comfy orange beanbag, I am taking my time gathering all info I can get to assume his personality, likes, and dislikes for out first meeting in three days.
After feeling that I had read enough, I pulled the yellow file out of my bag and searched his address on the maps. From what I could see, his house is large, though it's nothing surprising. It seems that the paperbacks not only fed him, but also guaranteed the man and his family enough needs for lifetimes.
The mansion is an estimated forty-minute drive from here. My stomach dove into a pit of bile when I was reminded that I'll be driving there three days from now and shall be meeting the Keenan Travino. Shit, I wonder what he's like.
In his interviews, Keenan had been professional—so professional that even from the way he spoke, nothing was a giveaway of the type of person he is other than, clearly, his ability for refrigerated professionalism. Truly, the only way into his mind is through his books, and the only things I can pick up are obvious ones: that he's a creative mastermind with overflowing passion, a man who can switch his perception and juice the right words from his imagination. Although it sounds good, the same can be used to describe other writers.
A modern-day sound snapped me out of my reverie. Pushing the little button on the side of the handheld device, my screen lit up with a notification: a message from my next-door neighbor aka best friend, Ralph.
Ralph and I have been friends since college and by friends, I mean that we were once fuck buddies with rabbits' libidos, though that all changed when he opted for a serious relationship with a girl who later on broke his heart. After that, we just became friends—close friends, no sex, just talks, hangouts, and the occasional arguments.
Dig Bick Ralph: dinner at my place?
Since greasy pizza slices were the only leftovers I had, I replied that I'll be there in a few hours.
After snooping around on my mentor, I worked on my current project which is a romance novel.
I am aware that there are millions, maybe billions of books under the same genre and that I am only making a multi-decimal contribution to the growing statistic, but hear me out: this is my first.
During my college years working my ass off for a Bachelor's Degree in English, I wrote on the side, though I strictly wrote fictional thriller and mystery. This is my first attempt at romance and so far, I am doing as good as trying to freeze a burning house. I already have a nice storyline, even went as far as to make detailed outlines for each chapter. It won't end tragically, but the ending won't be too happy.
I started on the project a month ago and until now, I am still on chapter one. I reread all that I have so far, feeling like I just visited a friend whom I hate. I rephrased lines even though they were doing fine as they were, my frustration getting the best of me, causing me to reverse my progress. Before I could do more damage, I closed the software. This. This is why I need mentorship. There are some things you just don't learn at school.
Since the meeting with Mr. Liddell ended earlier than I expected, I'm vacant for the rest of the day. Despite my efforts to make my life as eventful as possible, repetition is inevitable. Humans fall back on patterns, it's natural. Boring as the rest of the day is, at least I have something to celebrate instead of something to mourn.
I walked to my big book collection that I value more than my life. On the sturdy wooden shelves are thousands of stories. Choosing one is like choosing a drug, an escape from life. As you take the drug, you see the world through different eyes despite using your own. As you spend your time with the substance in your system, you realize things that you wouldn't realize when you're sober. Some drugs make you cry, some drugs make you euphoric. Keenan Travino is one hell of an illegal chemist.
My fingertips grazed spine after spine and if books could shudder, the gentleness of my touch would've made them do just that. Titles and colors filled my eyes, my imagination flashing scenes I know from specific ones. They're all beautiful and I am deeply, utterly, profoundly in love.
My hand stopped when I touched a specific one. Jailbreaker was released roughly seven years ago, a time around my birthday. It is Keenan's latest published work and in my opinion, his darkest.
It tells the story of woman who'd been sexually assaulted at the ripe age of fifteen. The girl gave birth to a boy who was brought to an orphanage. From then on, the story follows his traumatizing childhood up to his eighteenth year of existence, the duration including experiences with abuse, depression, addiction, and mental issues. Unable to get a grip of himself, he goes out on a killing spree and ends up murdering a family of three: a father, a mother, and the baby in her womb.
When he was sent to jail, it was revealed that the mother was his own, and that he ruined her opportunity at a new life after finally recovering from PTSD. In the cell he was thrown into, he befriended a man, oblivious that the gruff bloke was his father. When he found out, he killed him too in a way that involved only hands and teeth.
Summing it up lessens its impact, but reading the whole thing is like riding a rollercoaster with plastic tracks. It's scary how Keenan Travino was able to present a gruesome narrative in a beautiful way when the things that happened were far from beautiful.
I slipped the bound hundreds of pages out of its place and opened it between my hands. Laying on my bed, I took my dose.
By the time I finished reading the novel for the nth time, skipping the parts I already knew too well, it was time for dinner. I put the book back on its rightful spot on my shelf and locked the door to my apartment. Walking about five steps down the same hallway, I stopped before Ralph's unit and knocked.
We had seen each other naked, we go through each other's belongings, and we know each other's dirty little secrets, but yes, we still knock. He answered not a minute later.
In a graphic shirt and some sweatpants, the man welcomed me into his abode which is the same as mine, structure-wise. If I thought my flat was shit, Ralph's is the whole septic tank. Not only does he lack in the design department, but also the cleanliness division too.
"Your place keeps getting worse," I admitted once I was inside. My eyes, wherever they fell upon, always had trash in the frame.
"When I have time, I'll clean," he lied.
Folding my arms in front of my chest, feeling like my arms should not be exposed in his apartment in dangers of a new bacteria in the works, I suggested, "Just bring the food to my place and let's eat there."
"But we always eat there," Ralph pursed his lips, walking to the kitchen counter where takeout from our favorite fast food sat.
"You wanna know why?" I bounced a brow.
Quick to catch on, he scanned his room under five silent seconds before sighing in defeat, "Fine," he carried the paper bags and followed me back to my place.
My evening was spent with nice food and nice company. Even though there's technically a romantic past between Ralph and I, we now treat each other like siblings, specifically twins since none acts older than the other. In different aspects, we're mature.
I actually owe Ralph for presenting me the mentorship program. The man is an aspiring journalist and had been invited to join Contented Inc's activity with the goal of connecting renowned names in the writing industry to youngsters striving to be at the same level. It's easy to get into the program, but you would have to be lucky to be assigned to the bigger names instead of the usual contributors whose careers are steady yet progressing too slow. Instead of taking the chance, Ralph offered me the slot, saying that he doesn't need that shit nor have time for it. He also threw in a recommendation, and seeing that my friend had too many credentials for a new grad, the letter was hefty.
After we ate and watched a chick flick of my choice, he retreated to his room and I got ready to hit the hay. Done with a cold shower, dressed in a shirt and underwear, I slipped under the covers, anticipating sleep that came late due to traffic named Keenan Travino.
My mind was restless, half of it thinking what might happen during the sessions and the other half still processing that I'll finally meet the Keenan Travino. With big gears turning in my head, that of a clock were overpowered. I fell asleep at around two in the morning and woke up at eight, entirety ready to stalk my mentor and list down non-stupid questions I'll be asking him.
Curiosity came creeping in as I ate my second serving of cereal.
Will he like me?
As a person in general, I mean.
What does he even look like now?
Will he be nice? Will he be strict?
Knowing that my daydreams cannot answer questions for reality, I decided to deal with the dread that'll only leave my body when I finally attend the first three-hour class in three days.
Two days, I mean.
Fuck. It's in two days.
[updated a/n: lmao idk why i used italics so much in the first couple of chapters. sori.]