Damn...
What about Substack? (Fiction)
“Hey! Chuck! Wake up! Let me in!”
“Okay, okay, dang…
“What’s going on bud?”
“Nothing man, just sleeping it off.”
“Sleeping what off?”
“I don’t know… life I guess.”
“C’mon dude, get up. Let’s get moving.”
“Nah man, I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired. You’ve got to stop doing this Chuck.”
“Doing what?”
“Drinking so much. Drinking so much you pass out. Every time I’ve been here lately, you’re either sloshed or sleeping it off. We’ve got to get you out of this daze.”
“I'‘m good, I’m good. Just struggling to get my head right, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Ever since you and Carson split up. You just can’t keep living like this. I’m telling you, it’s gonna kill you if you don’t stop.”
“Look Rob, I know I always call you the big brother I never had, but I’m fine. Damn! Close those curtains.”
“No can do, brother. It’s 2:45 in the afternoon. Let’s go get some food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“When is the last time you ate?”
“Uh… I think I had a couple of eggs yesterday morning.”
“That’s what I thought. Put on some clothes, I’ll be outside.”
-One hour later, at the local diner:
“Damn, I thought you said you weren’t hungry?”
“Guess I was.”
“Look Chuck, I’m tired of seeing you like this. Your cousin Cindy called me yesterday. She said you got all mad and hung up on her.”
“Yeah, well… she was bugging me.”
“She just cares about you, like I do. We all do. You’ve got to find another job. Working construction a day here and a day there, isn’t gonna cut it.”
“Yeah, I’m tired of that shit anyway.”
“What about writing again? You were so good at it. I was telling everybody you were going to be the next Cormac, and then you just up and quit.”
“I didn’t have anything else to say.”
“But, you do have things to say. Look, I know you miss Carson, but, she’s gone. Moved back to Cali. I heard she’s already dating someone.”
“That’s cool… it figures.”
“Chuck, you guys just drifted apart. No shame in that. You can’t blame her. You told me you were ready to move on.”
“I guess I lied.”
“No dude, You can do this. We just have to get you interested in some other things. Like writing. What about Substack? Everybody is getting on Substack. Why not give it a try? Get the old literary juices flowing. Get that Charles Colter brand up and running again.”
“I don’t have anything to write about, and I wasn’t that good anyway.”
“Bullshit! Don’t pull that on me. You’re a great writer. You were top of your class. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but what if you write about drinking?”
“What?”
“You know, get real, go deep. Talk about how hard it is to quit. I think it could be cathartic for you. People may really respond to that. They’re craving something real right now. You could really help people that are struggling. It could help to slow down your own habit, too. You can spend more of your time writing instead of drinking.”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve been in a funk about pretty much everything. Not sure I could pull that off.”
-Phone conversation, ten days later:
“How’s it going, Chuck? I saw the new Substack. That’s so awesome. You’re gonna kill it. I can’t believe you used an alias, but I like it. Chuck’s Ruckus. Has a nice ring to it.”
“I though you would like that. Since you always call me Chuck lately.”
“Yep! You haven’t been acting like Charles. Charles kept it together. Always did what he had to do. Helped other folks. You’ve been acting like a Chuck. I refuse to call you Charles again until you get your shit together.”
“All right, Robert.”
-Two weeks later, at Chuck’s house:
“Well, I see you cleaned up the house. Looks good!”
“Yeah, thought it was about time.”
“Your cuz said you got a part time job at the new music venue. What do you think about it?”
“It’s cool. Saw Wilco and Gary Clark Jr. last week. The pay is pretty good and the boss lady is nice.”
“Great! That’s what I wanted to hear. How about the writing, how’s that going?”
“Super, actually. I’ve been hammering home the framework and everyone seems to dig it. My numbers are growing so fast I’ve farmed out some of my set-up stuff to AI.”
“Woah, you’re kidding. I thought you hated that shit?”
“I do, but man, it helps me time-wise. I’m still doing most of the writing.”
“Have you cooled your jets a bit on the drinking?”
“Yeah, for sure, but not according to my stories. I was talking to a pretty well known author the other day and he gave me some great tips. He told me I can’t quit.”
“What?”
“Well, he was just saying If I kick my habit, I’ll have to find something else to write about. He made a good point, though. People seem to eat this shit up. I’m rising up the non-fiction charts so fast, it’s crazy. But, yes, in my real life, I’ve got a handle on it. I’m drinking a lot less, but online… I’m still having a ripper every single night.”
“That’s wild. Just keep your nose to the grindstone. You’ve got this.”
-Three weeks later, back at the diner:
“If there’s a better patty melt in the world, I’d like to see it.”
“You’ve been eating those things since we were kids, Roberto.”
“And, I’m still not tired of ‘em… Charles, Hey, I saw that story you posted yesterday. It was a little different from your normal posts. Had me a little worried. Thought you were heading in the wrong direction, again.”
“Nah man, I’m just letting AI do the heavy lifting now.”
“I knew it didn’t read the same. I’m sure it helps but it feels kind of dry. Your stuff is always so passionate.”
“I know, but I just don’t have the time. The thing blew up so quickly. I can’t even answer all of the comments and I got three e-mails this morning wanting me to do collaborations on other Substack publications. Oh, and they moved me to full-time at work. The Alabama Shakes are playing this weekend. I can get tickets if you want to go.”
“No, but thanks. Trae has a soccer tournament down at the beach. That should be a killer show, though. Tess and I are heading out to Arizona in a couple of weeks. Gonna do some primitive camping. Trae’s staying at his grandmother’s house. We’re going to unplug and live like animals.”
“You better be careful out there. I know what you’re like in the wild. I hope Tess is ready.”
-One month later, at the supermarket:
“Hey Chuckie, what’s happening?”
“Just grabbing some veggies… and that’s Charles, to you… remember? How was the trip to the desert?”
“Hot! Hot as hell! Fun, though. Tess was wanting to go home after a few days, but she hung in there.”
“She always does.”
“Yep! She’s a trooper. How are things going? Everything good?”
“Yeah, sure… I guess. Still working at the amphitheater. Been doing a little bartending.”
“What about your Substack? I haven’t checked it out lately.”
“Well…
“Well, what?”
“That gig is up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I closed down my site.”
“Why did you do that? I thought it was going great.”
“I was snubbed.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah! I was so busy, I just started letting AI write my stories. But, in one of my stories last week, it killed me off.”
“What?”
“Yep! I just kept feeding it so much info about how I couldn’t stop, and drinking was just a monster eating me alive, and the story that came out last week, had me in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. Apparently, I was in bad shape and had a bad reaction to some meds and went into cardiac arrest, and didn’t make it.”
“That is crazy, man.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what to do. But, I thought about it, and just decided to go with it. I ran the post posing as a friend. I used the name Roberto, can you believe that? I just said, ‘Well, I guess that’s it. Chuck couldn’t quit, and in the end, it took him down.’ The last line was a killer, pardon the pun. ‘Don’t let this happen to you!’ That last post got thousands of likes and a ton of comments. Can you believe that shit?”
“So… let me get this straight. AI erased you from your own life story?”
“Yep.”
“Damn…
Damn, is right! So much for the total control of your work on Substack. Then again, Chuck was basically a loser waiting for an excuse. Good work, Marty.
An ironic ending, Marty. The AI killed off the author and ended the story. Not so intelligent if you ask me, but hilarious. Apparently, Chuck didn't read the posts before they were published. I'm enjoying your writing, my friend. Thank you for recommending Cactus Flowers.