MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

THOMAS J. MISURACA

Critics have praised my ability to write characters. They say I have a keen sense of the way people talk and act. I owe this all to the coffee shop I frequent.

Here I sit, watch people and fill my notebook with their conversations, styles and mannerisms. My nonchalant presence keeps the other patrons unaware that I am studying them. They probably assume I'm writing some original thought. Even if they read my novels, they would never find themselves. My characters are an amalgamation of all the people I've encountered here.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening, I head to this quaint little shop on the other end of town. A few regulars recognize me and the workers know me well (I'm a big tipper). Every month they hang new art on the wall, giving the place a constant feeling of freshness.

One Monday night, I noticed something odd. A young man, about college age, was sitting across from me. He dressed in baggy clothing and a baseball cap. It was obvious that he hadn't shaven for a few days, yet through the darkness of his face, green eyes stared directly at me. His short arms stretched over the table, where I saw he was scrawling into a notebook.

He was writing about me!

Perhaps I was being paranoid. I continued with my usual people watching and writing, but occasionally glanced at the kid out of the corner of my eye. I noticed that every time I made a movement, he wrote something in his journal.

Quickly, I assembled my things and left the shop.

When I got home, I attempted to enter some of my notes into my computer, but I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't get that kid from the coffee shop out of my mind. What could he possibly want to write about me? I was just sitting there.

Knowing I'd get no more work done that evening, I turned off the computer and turned on the television.

* * *

I returned to the coffee shop on Wednesday, ready to continue my writing. I was relieved to see the young man was not there. I got my coffee, settled into my chair, and prepared to write. As the door opened, I poised my pen to describe who was entering.

It was the kid.

I quickly looked away. I did not want to make eye contact with him. I focused my attention on a very pretentious girl in the corner, who was telling her boyfriend her negative opinion of some blockbuster movie.

Of course, my eyes continued to wander back to the kid. He had taken a seat diagonally behind me. He sipped at his coffee for a few minutes, then reached into his jacket like a mobster reaching for his gun, and pulled out a notebook. The pen was tucked in the spiral binder. He removed it and pressed it's tip with a threatening click.

I did my best to ignore him and wrote. I wrote three pages of description on the pretentious girl when my hand became cramped. I placed down my pen to stretch my fingers. Behind me, the kid jotted something in his notebook.

I picked up the pen, he made a note. I put it down, he wrote again. I stayed still for a very long time, the kid did nothing. I coughed, he wrote. I took a sip of my coffee, he wrote. I stretched my back, he wrote.

This was ridiculous!

I got out of my chair and approached him. His eyes widened.

"What are you writing?" I demanded.

"None of your business," he replied in a very stand-offish manner. He closed his notebook.

"You were writing about me, weren't you?"

"No," his voice was so shaken with guilt, he might as well have been telling the truth.

"How dare you write about me!"

"I'll write whatever I want to write," he told me.

"Not about me you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a writer. I write about people. People don't write about me."

"Well," the boy protested, "I'm a writer, too."

"Then write about other people."

"You are other people."

"Besides me!"

"It's a free country," the boy said, "And I can write about anything I want."

I was so outraged, I could no longer speak. I returned to my table, feeling his eyes upon me all the way.

I tried to write, but ended up dropping my pen. The kid found this to be a golden opportunity and wrote furiously.

I practically ran out of the shop. He watched me through the window, still taking notes as I got into my car and drove away.

* * *

When I arrived on Friday, he was already there. Our eyes met and locked as I walked to the counter to get a drink. He was writing from the moment I entered the shop. He wrote as I put cream and sugar in my coffee. He wrote as I took a seat behind him, similar to the one he took Wednesday.

I opened my notebook and began writing, ready for a round of "two-can-play-at-this game." I wrote about him.

First I described his looks, from his unshaven face to his dirty sneakers. Then I described his mannerisms, the way his eyes reacted with everything he did.

All along, he kept those eyes on me and wrote.

My writing became a tirade about his rude behavior.

The sound of scraping pens filled the coffee shop. I was now writing questions: How dare he write about me? What could he be saying? How long was he going to keep this up?

There was nothing else to write about this man. I sat with my pen poised over the paper, but nothing came.

I looked over to him. He pen was still flying over those pages.

In a fit of rage, I leapt out of my chair and rushed toward him. I ripped his notebook out of his hands. He tried to grab it back, but I pushed him down.

I returned to my seat to read what he had written.

My jaw dropped.

The page before me was covered with nothing but gibberish. I desperately flipped through the book. Each page was filled with meaningless scribbles. No words, not even letters, just scribbles.

I turned to face the kid, but he was gone.

I scanned the notebook again, hoping to find a paragraph that described me. Or even a sentence. But not one lousy word.

Slowly, I began tearing his notebook to shreds.

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