...But Does He Look Good On Paper?

People glanced at Henrick as he passed them on the sidewalk with slight repulsion—this had more to do with his odor and the grunting noises he emitted as he walked rather than his appearance.  But he was blind to this, fully occupied in contemplations of his tragic middle-aged life.
         He had squeezed the fruits of his imagination to the best of his abilities until they were nothing more than dry husks.
There was a time when he’d never have even considered this…madness, but that was before he’d lost his knack for originality and, with it, his integrity.
         He could almost imagine that very thing—integrity—walking past him briskly in the form of a rushing businessman, taking quick strides towards the hustle and bustle of morning commuters.  Smoothing his black overcoat and shifting the hold on his briefcase from left arm to right, he’d glance at his Rolex, politely smile at Henrick, and say something along the lines of “Sorry pal, but I found a better offer in a different location.  No hard feelings though, right?  You know what they say, it’s just business.”
         Then the train would arrive and Mr. Integrity would step through the separating doors and be gone from his sight.
         Henrick sighed.  Loudly.  People turned their heads yet again.
Really?  A Rolex-wearing man-of-trade?  Producing dialogue like ‘it’s just business’?  He’d sunk lower than he’d thought.
         With that mix of self-deprecation and pity (not the loveliest of blends), Henrick made his grudging way to the CMart, a place in which he had never set foot before.  He had refused to, seeing as CMart (short for CreationMart), was seen as a site for only the lowest of the low: the washout writers, capable of producing mere junk-food prose.  The desperate.  The unwanted.  The…creatively challenged. 
         Henrick scratched his scalp and examined the residue within his fingernails.  Once, he would’ve been able to spin a tale even out of this.  He’d have somehow made it talk, sing, fly like a filthy parakeet.  Now?  All it was to him was dandruff and whatever other stuff had collected within his unwashed hair.
         He sniffed his armpit in a discreet manner (or what he thought passed for discreet) and grumbled with displeasure.  Definitely unpleasant.  But his water had been shut down three days ago, a month after he’d ran out of ideas and money.
         The thing to do then would be to find a bathroom, Henrick thought.  And there must be one in there.
         For one crazy moment Henrick wondered if the riffraff inside would rob him, but he quickly remembered how he had no possession left to be stolen.  Feeling properly miserable—properly because, as a writer, he understood that sadness was the most useful emotion to the creative flow (and also because that was his natural state)—Henrick stepped past the “point of no return”.
         Which really was just a glass door with a ‘Push’ sign above the handle, but Henrick often liked to exaggerate.
         At first, the ratty-looking man felt as though he was alone in an empty store.  Just then, however, he took in the true grandeur of CMart.  Voices echoed off the walls, and he could hear a faint bouncing sound.  Bouncing?  Strange.  Then again Henrick did not know this place at all.
         Resisting a curious impulse to explore, he looked around in an attempt to find somebody who could direct him to the restroom but to no avail.  There was not a soul to speak of anywhere in his vicinity. 
         Suddenly, two intense rays of light shot out of no particular spot.  Henrick felt mildly frightened because he could not pinpoint their source and he believed he was being attacked.  Then he saw that the rays of light were pointing at dark signs hanging off the ceiling.  Far too much was written on each, but before he could get distracted he found the standard symbol for bathrooms.  Near it was an arrow pointing to the left.
         “Ah.” Henrick pronounced out loud.  “Well…why would I have looked up in the first place?  I wouldn’t have known that was necessary.  Somebody should change the location of these guides.”
         As if in response, two more lights joined their brothers—again from an unseen source—and revealed yet more plaques with written directions attached to the walls on either side of him.
         Henrick chose not to say another word and followed a path to the left.
         
         After a quarter of an hour spent searching and reencountering directorial plaques, Henrick at last found a restroom, washed himself to the best of his ability with the store’s free soap, and exited.  It only took a second for him to stop in his tracks in front of the flapping bathroom door.
         “Who—wha—huh?” stammered a flabbergasted Henrick.
         Facing him, wearing vividly clashing clothes (a fashion guru’s nightmare) with a haircut that can politely be described as ‘artistic’ was a man with a lively mustache.  So shapely and long it was that at first it was all Henrik could pay attention to.  He even thought he saw it move before he rubbed his eyes and assured himself he was just tired.
         But then his gaze moved up to the greenest pair of irises Henrick had ever seen, and they were so bewildering in their intensity that almost immediately his line of vision shifted. 
         The man’s thin pink lips curled up at the tips.  Along with the mustache, but Henrick refused to believe that really happened.
         “Come.” the nameless man spoke, in a manner Henrick would have described as ‘grave’, and turned on his heels to walk the opposite way.
         Unsure what had caused him to do so, Henrick found himself following.
         “Mm…yes, well, are you a worker here?  I guess you are.  Now where are you taking me?  I hope you understand how extraordinarily large this place is and that it will be no simple matter for me to get back.  You aren’t leading me very far, are you?  I really…I should get back…I was wrong in coming in here.  I thought maybe I could find something helpful but…” the down-on-his-luck writer finished his nervous chatter when he realized that the man had disappeared.
         In front of him, up against the center of the wall, was some strange red contraption that looked liked a lever.  Henrick was about to take another step to get a closer look when another one of those maddeningly bright rays of light flashed on a plaque that read ‘Pull’.
         “Yes, well, I’m not a complete idiot!  No need to tell me I have to pull when it’s this obvious…” Yet Henrick did not feel the wisest for speaking to himself.
         His hand trembling weakly, he wrapped his hand around the cold red handle and pulled down.  What happened next was nothing anyone had ever seen before.
         The wall to which the lever had been attached to crumpled into four pieces, separating and settling in opposite corners.  The lever was revealed to have been a part of some sort of thin metal piece which came forward (quite close to Henrick) and brought with it a gigantic Ferris-wheel looking device.  Each compartment for seats had the appearance of a metal elevator, looking quite heavy, whereas the entire wheel holding them up was thin and purple.
         While Henrick had been taking all of this in with astonishment, his ordinarily unexcited heart pumping confusedly, the ray of light had been flashing more and more fiercely on the ‘Pull’ sign.  At last, the man noticed and obeyed robotically.
         With very loud mechanical creaks, the huge wheel started to turn, at first in a painfully slow pace but then gaining speed.  When one metal elevator had reached the bottom, everything stopped.  Henrick took a deep breath. The doors opened.
         “Welcome, welcome!” a loud voice erupted.  “Welcome to the unique, one-of-its-kind Meet&Greet Wheel of Chance.  All you must do is pull on the lever once, and one of these compartments before you will come down to reveal very unique characters indeed.  After three pulls, and three pulls only, you may decide which of the three you would like to use in your next bestselling book!  But hurry, because you only have a minute to spend with each to ask your questions.  Sounds good?  Well then just sign on the dotted lines and you’ll be free to take your chance!”
         As if he had appeared out of nowhere—as most things seemed to come and go in the CMart—the man with the mustache appeared holding out documents and a pen.  It was very clear where Henrick needed to do his part and, under the disconcerting watch of the man, signed.  The man disappeared without a trace, along with the paperwork and pen.
         Well…here goes nothing.  Hope he’s right about the bestseller part.
         Henrick pulled, and down came yet another elevator.  This time the doors opened to reveal…three people.  Two men and one women.
         That was surprising considering Henrick had only expected one.
         “Who are you?” he was almost afraid to ask.
         “We’re the love triangle.” they all answered at once.
         “The what?”
         “Love triangle.” they repeated.
         “I love her.” one man said, staring longingly at the girl.
         “I love him.” the girl said, staring longingly at the other man.
         Henrick waited, but the third never spoke.  “And who do you love?” he prompted.
         “I don’t know.  It’s not really important, I guess.”
         “Well…that’s a predicament, I suppose.  But what exactly am I to do with you three?  I don’t write romance novels.” Henrick cursed the very thought.
         They all shrugged, one man still looking at the woman adoringly, the woman still looking at the other man in the same lovesick way.  The last blankly looking forward. The next moment, they vanished.  Henrick was startled.  A minute passed quickly!
          When the next elevator came down, Henrick was very concerned.  It was a teenage girl with dyed black hair, too much makeup and torn clothes.  Between two pale white fingers she held a cigarette.
         “…I don’t think I’m interested in a conversation with you.” he bluntly stated.  The girl reminded him of his successful brother’s brat.
         “Of course you don’t.  Nobody understands me.  I’m just an outcast who society doesn’t bother with and abuses daily.”
         Henrick was astounded.  Abused by society?  The girl had potential.
         “Um…er…how are you abused?” He had to hurry for the seconds were ticking.
         “My parents are divorced and they don’t care about what I do; everyone around me is an asshole; I drink and get high to escape the restrictions placed on me everyday and nobody cares.”
         Nope.  He’d leave this miserable child to some young adult novelist.  Next.
         The door opened this time to somebody who raised Henrick’s hopes.  He was similar to his imaginings of Mr. Integrity earlier, with a suit and a case.  Very professional-looking, and Henrick could only hope they’d have chemistry.
         “And who are you, good man?”
         “Listen, bozo, I tell you and you’ll be sleeping with the fishes in a couple hours,” came the unexpected response.
         It took poor Henrick a few moments to recognize he was out of luck.
         “You’re some mafia guy, aren’t you?”
         “What do you know about the mafia, punk?” The man came closer, towering over Henrick.  “Someone in the family sang like a canary?”
         “In the family?  No.  I haven’t talked with them in ages and none of them sing.  Believe me, there’s no need for violence.” He began sweating, counting the seconds.
         “You’re in big trouble, I hope you know that.  The boss won’t be happy to know someone is on to me, and I can’t risk making the boss unhappy.  You catch my drift, chief?  Capisce?”
         “Yes, of course, no worries I won’t tell anyone…I…”
         Then the brute was gone and Henrick could breathe again.  What had all that been?  Those three had been complete failures!  He wanted out.
         But just as soon as he had turned, he yet again came face to face with the mustache man.
         “Where do you think you’re going?”
         Henrik explained he was just trying to find the exit, and if he could just—
         “What exit?  There’s no exit for you.” The nameless man smiled his curling smile again, the mustache doing a little wiggle.  This time Henrik had no problem trusting his eyes.
         “Of course there is.  I entered the store, didn’t I?  Therefore there must be an exit somewhere, back the way I came from or otherwise.”
         “You’ve signed the contract.  You can’t expect to go out now.  CMart owns you.  We’ve been looking for some fresh personalities lately for our Meet&Greet Wheel of Chance since, as you probably noticed, all that is left is pretty stale.  You, on the other hand…are a character.”