The Man Called Elroy: Part Two

(Author's Note: This section of the tale is not necessarily a "story" in the same sense as Part One. Instead, this is more or less a brief collection of my personal thoughts on writing in "short story" form. I say this as a disclaimer that this Part Two is not what I consider a true "story.")



         I would see Elroy over the next few weeks, often times at odd places around the city other than the library. He would always wink at me from afar, and I would chat with him some and learn more about him. I didn't really learn that his name was even Elroy until our second meeting, and I'm not so confident even now that "Elroy" is even his real name. I think our conversation went something like this:

         "Have I introduced myself yet?" I had asked him. To the shake of his head, I continued, "My name is Daniel Morrison. I'm originally from the United States."

         He had nodded and looked peculiarly at me, as if absorbing my words in.

         "That's a good name, Daniel is," he had said. "Your parents must've been good people. And the United States, that's very favorable."

         He had kept considering his thoughts to himself, leaving a silence between us.

         "And your name?" I had asked.

         "Oh, me?" he said. "You can just call me Elroy."

         And that's all he had said. Other than what I had grasped of his history from our first encounter, I knew little else about him. Had he lived in Spain all his life? How had he ended up on the streets, selling cans? Well, that may have been too personal a question to have asked at the time, and our conversations always picked up too quickly for me to ask him about himself. I figured that, most of all, what he probably wanted was just an ear to fill. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how rejected he must feel by everyone else, nor could I understand how he didn't go about his life unhappy or withdrawn into himself like many other homeless people, isolated in their own thoughts until reality purges fantasy and dementia sets in. Elroy was just never like that.

         One day, we met on the streets and he asked if I would go drink with him. I agreed, even though it was my money that would be spent, and we found a good bar to sit in at. That was when I told him that I was a writer, or at least of the aspiration of being such. I was surprised to hear his response.

         "A writer, eh?" he said. "I know a little about writing and reading. I used to teach literature to kids your age."

         "You were a professor?"

         "Of course," Elroy said. "Those were some of the best times of my life."

         He went on to tell me of his glory days teaching, about his favorite authors to read, and he even showed me a few recent attempts at poem-writing that he had stashed in his pockets. I didn't tell him that they were horrible, but I had my own, biased opinions on poetry and therefore I was no critic worthy enough to share my views.

         Our conversation soon pulled itself along into the subject of story-writing, its concepts, and its battles.

         "It's hard to find good writing anymore," he told me.

         "You're just not looking hard enough," I said. "That, and you don't have a lot of leeway for modern writers."

         "Maybe so. It's all too experimental. I admire experimental, but to an extent. I don't want to read about aliens, or robots and the apocalypse," he said. "I'll tell you what; I taught a creative writing course once. It's much like writers these days take those classes and apply the state of mind they learn there directly into their writing. Stories become battles of who can come up with the most original, creative ideas and then they wrap 'em around in silly scenarios with lots of twists and turns to fluster half the world, just to make themselves rich. The value in books becomes lost."

         "How is a creative writing course -- "

         "Uh, uh!" he interrupted. "I haven't finished. No, the course itself isn't the issue. It's like I've told you: Kids these days don't really learn what they’re being taught. They don't want to know 'why' or 'how,' just 'what.' It takes a special person anymore to really know writing as an art. It didn't use to be that way. Authors used to be able to blend a good story with a good message and raise questions that could change the world."

         "Wait," I said, stopping him. "You're generalizing again. Even in your day, there were writers like that; the commercial writers. There are still good writers out in the world today that know what they're doing. And, they do it better, with the authors that came before them to learn from."

         "Oh," he said, disgusted, "all this 'modern' writing is awful. Everything is either 'woe is me, me, me' or reasons why the world is corrupt, why everything is hopeless, why life is not what it used to be. All you young twats think the world's out to get you, and the writers moan with the pen such empty, melodramatic thoughts expecting everyone to raise them on a pedestal as the next realist."

         "You really feel highly about this," I remarked.

         He glared at me, not amused. "It's a damn sad thing. Nobody wants to read about pessimistic ideals, but that's all that there is anymore. You're almost forced to find books by searching backwards in time; it's just detestable."

         "Hear me out for a minute," I said. "Your argument is identical to most people's views on music. Everyone -- no, I do not mean everyone; the older generations, rather -- feel that modern music is a disgrace. They think that the lyrics are too self-centered, that they glorify drugs, sex, and fighting too much, that the music is just plain bad, and the list goes on and on. But, people my age, the type that listen to both new and old music, should be able to easily tell what music is good and what isn't. The truth of it is, all popular music is good music, at least in the eyes of the general population, but the tastes have changed over the years. It'll be the same way twenty, thirty years from now, with the next generation. We'll hate their music and -- bringing around my point -- their books. Or, at least, in general terms we will. Tastes change and the styles evolve. You just haven't -- "

         "That is a poor concept," he argued, "and a poor reasoning. You're too young. When you're my age, you'll see things different."

         "What, correctly? No, it doesn't matter what my age is. I'm smart enough to know what I'm talking about."

         "All you young people think everything you know is right," Elroy said. "And, what's worse is that you don't listen to reasoning."

         "I heard you out, and I considered it," I told him. "I might say the same to you. You're too quick to judge me by age, unwilling to admit you're wrong -- "

         "I won't repeat my point."

         "You're ridiculous!"

         We looked at our drinks, remembering their existence, and picked them up. After a quick drink, we both paused to collect our thoughts. I couldn't help but break into a smile, and so I shook my head.

         "What?" he asked.

         "You really are ridiculous."

         He looked at me, blankly.

         "You're the one paying the bill."

         "Oh!" I cried. "Maybe I'll reconsider next time around."

         He laughed heartily. I shook my head again, then raised my glass to my lips.

         "Next time I'll pay," Elroy said.

         "Bullshit."

         He grinned his toothless grin.

         "But you bring some of those stories along," he continued. "Maybe they won't be as lousy as you think my poems are."

         "I didn't say they were lousy."

         "You have so much to learn," he told me. "So much, so much."