Beatroot Workshop

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Beatroot

So here's the first post - feel free to comment as you see fit. We hope this will spur you on to send us your own work to: beatrootworkshop@gmail.com
Any questions, please ask.

Enjoy!

A dollar bill, cut right down the middle, is stuck (badly) to the window. Every time the train shakes, takes a corner or makes a stop it slips a little, then corrects itself like a seasoned subway rider. I scan the window ledge for the other half, but find nothing. No one else seems to have noticed this lonely, broken bill. Just me.

Washington’s pronounced nose sprouts out of nothingness, and looks all the worse for it. With no profound forehead or flouncy hair, his nose looks a little pointless. Like the homeless guys who walk up and down these carriages begging for change; disgruntled half-faced George looks like he’s been doing the same – looking for his missing 50 cents.

I lost my job yesterday. Careless of me, I know. It was all some stupid argument with my manager; apparently my selling technique was pissing off the customers. The fact that I don’t wet myself with excitement at the prospect of selling someone a pair of overpriced Nike’s is something I’m actually quite proud of. But there you go. So anyhow, I got on the subway this morning, same time as usual. I usually get on at 149th, and then off at 59th Street. That’s my morning journey. It’s no pilgrimage, I can tell you that. Today though, I thought I’d live a little (and make use of the travel card I pay through the nose for). I want to see it all today. I’m going the length and breadth of this metropolis. Brooklyn, Coney Island, the Upper East Side. I’m going to make my mark everywhere.

Now though, I care more about this dollar bill than anything else. This poor neglected note. From a broken home, shoved out on the grimy underground. I spend a few minutes thinking about why someone would cut it in half. Was it intentional? Or is he (I’ve decided it’s male) an aberration? A bastard child of the American system cast into the depths, maybe. Or maybe I’m just inferring too much into currency.

In this city, where everyone is a Senior Partner, or a CEO of some highflying investment bank, it’s hard to place yourself in the social food chain. Not that I need the reassurance of a pecking order, it’s just whenever I hear someone say ‘One of the Partner’s said…’ on their cell phone, I always think that I could never be one of them. Then again, I’m unemployed now with rent to pay, so maybe there is a part of me that wants that title.

I’ve lived in New York my whole life; I’ve become immune to everything it can throw at you. I’ve been peed on waiting in line for coffee, I’ve had my bag stolen getting a bus in Brooklyn and I’ve been to the top of Empire State twice and had to resist the urge to drop a penny off the roof. They have ten security guards up there now anyway and everyone is herded around like sheep for fear that someone has a bomb strapped to them.

I think about paying my friend Theo a visit in Chelsea, but remember that he’s away for the week (he always says he’ll leave a set of keys for me if I ever want to use his apartment, but he never does). The super knows who I am, so he’d probably let me in, but I don’t want Theo raving about my invasion of his personal space. Instead, I decide to just see where the day takes me. I have $30 in my wallet so I may as well treat myself.

I see a guy waiting on the platform at 125th Street station that looks exactly like Luke, my ex-boyfriend and I can’t help but stare at him. You know how sometimes when you haven’t seen someone for ages, they can look like that person, but maybe they’re a relation – a cousin, or a brother or something. This guy certainly looks like Luke, but something about the way he walks looks alien to me. He gets on and sits across from me. He’s wearing a dark grey duffle coat done right up to the top even though it’s about 20 degrees outside. I like that about him. My Luke look-a-like sits right next to the dollar bill, so I don’t feel so bad about catching the odd look at him. His eyes are green - Luke’s were brown - so I’m sure it’s not him, plus there was no awkward look of recognition on his face when he sat down. He’s mid-twenties, I think. I can’t decide whether he’s a native New Yorker or not, he looks a little too happy to have lived here his whole life.

I wonder whether I should call work and apologise, I know that Jan would come around in the end. I find myself going over and over how I just walked out the shop with no word to my colleagues – I know Tony will be upset, but he’ll understand. I’ll miss our code words for people we secretly hated, or those we liked. ‘Shoe horn’ for those we thought were hot, and ‘Adidas’ for those who were a ‘pain-in-the-ass’. Luke never liked Tony, he was jealous of our little in-jokes, just like he was jealous of everyone else I used to spend time with. I’d been in that job for four years (Spring 2004) and now I feel sort of useless just sitting here. The guy opposite me looks like he’s about to say something, but the fact that I’m studying every inch of the dollar bill next to him must have put him off because he looks away again. I decide that he could be a nice guy, he may look weirdly similar to Luke, but there’s something about the fact he chose to sit there. He could have sat in any of the seats on that row, but he chose to sit right by the dollar bill, opposite me. I may not be a superstitious guy, but that’s enough of a sign for me.

I make the leap, and look over at him, he tells me he likes my Nike High Tops, I blush slightly and smile. I feel a wave of emotion come over me, and for the first time today I don’t feel so numb. He smiles again and attempts to start a conversation with me. We talk about trivial things for a few minutes – the weather and stuff. Then he asks me what I do for a living, I have two choices here: either I tell him I’m unemployed and riding the subway aimlessly, or I lie and say I’m one of those Senior Partners that I hate so much. I opt for ‘in-between jobs’. This level of honesty jars me for a moment and I can’t believe I’ve just told my ex-boyfriend’s look-a-like that I’m unemployed, but it doesn’t look like he minds.

The train pulls into 59th Street and I get that weird feeling of moving in the opposite direction as the train on the other platform arrives. I look intently at the lapels on his coat and think, for some reason, that his coat has a smell to it – a wintry smell. The guy tentatively gets up and sits next to me.
‘Can I buy you a coffee? I know this little French place where they’re only a dollar.’ He says.

***

My Blackberry clings to my thigh like an external organ. It pulsates and warms me to the core. I have E-mail – third of the day, and it’s only 7:30 am. It’s going to be a busy day. I’ll get into the office and be bombarded from all sides with questions, but I’m prepared. Sales figures for the last quarter? Just give me a second to pull up my Excel spreadsheet and I can show you in PowerPoint form. Don’t like my pie chart? I can convert it into a very pleasing bar graph, or line - whichever best illustrates the trends. I’ve got a hard copy in my briefcase too if you want to see it?

I barely had time this morning to look at myself in the mirror – not that I’d like to stand there for hours gazing at my own reflection, but I literally didn’t have time to. I slapped on a fine layer of Clinique foundation, and a soft peach Chanel lipstick whilst pulling on my clothes in the crappy light from my bedside table. Rufus (my partner) was lying unaware that I was even awake. He doesn’t start work until 09:30am – I secretly resent him for this, but I’ve never told him.

The old guy sat across from me clings to his crumpled plastic carrier bag like it holds everything dear to him – thinking about it, it probably does. He’s got that ‘bed hair’ look, but I don’t think it’s intentional. His feet are spread apart a little too much for my liking, he’s totally invading the space of the girl next to him (she looks mid-twenties, she has killer legs that I can’t help but stare at). When I first moved to New York, I tried to be the friendly, social girl who was determined not to turn into a triple espresso drinking Starbucks clone – but you just can’t survive down here without a good suit of armour. Everyone spreads out there work around them and builds little forts on the subway. I have a wad of paper on the seat next to me; a guy with greasy hair eyes it with disgust. I figure my day actually starts now, whilst I’m on the subway. I actually get a lot more done than you’d think on my journey. It’s a chance for me to proof read everything I’ve done, edit things and catch up with work from the day before.

I majored in Economics at Yale, to pay for it I had to sell nearly all my possessions (which was well worth it in the long run). I didn’t need a car here anyway, so that went first. I worked two jobs just to pay my fees. Seeing people down here in their casual clothes, just out for a trip somewhere gets me so angry sometimes – do they realise the hours I put in? Do they not care that I am someone who needs that extra seat on the subway? That although I may come off as arrogant, I’m not, I’m just really busy.

I run a mental list of all the things I need to do today and get a sense of pleasure knowing I’m fully booked up until 7pm at the earliest. I start organising my work (I always keep a stash of Post-it’s in my bag for this) After five minutes I have a properly ordered stack of documents ready to present to the partners. I make sure I color code everything so they don’t have to wade through the pile with no direction.

I have a 09:30 with Jenkins in conference room C that I actually can’t wait for; I’ve been biding my time to mention the total lack of commitment from some other employees (I haven’t decided whether I’ll name names, but in a situation like this I think you have to). The thought of Rufus just getting into work by the time I’ve been at my desk for over an hour sends a pang of hatred through me. He works a 40-hour week, for a measly salary. He doesn’t even ask me the hours I work anymore, but if he did he’d just tell me I’m insane. 70 hours is just unhealthy, he’d say. When you add it all up it’s really not that bad. I’ve been at Peterson & Clarke for five years now, and I plan to stay for at least another five, so that’s ten years in total. 33,400 hours, give or take. Rufus says I put more into my work than I do our relationship. I tell him that if I could feel as fulfilled and get the salary I do from giving those 33,400 hours to him, I would. For some reason that was no comfort to him.

The train grinds to a halt. An almost inaudible voice travels through the carriages telling us we’ll be moving in a minute, and that they’re sorry for the delay. I notice half a dollar bill stuck to the window opposite me. I see half of someone’s face on it. I can’t even remember who’s on a dollar bill anymore – is it Jefferson? The train jolts back into action and we make it to Bleecker Street in one piece. Between stations, the train stops again and yet again I’m told why – I can’t make out what the guy is saying so settle for a protracted huff and roll of the eyes – a gesture mirrored by nearly everyone in the carriage. I can feel a surge of adrenalin course through my body and I start to make a mental route in my head of how I can avoid being late and get off the subway. If I get off at 51st I could walk to work, or take a cab, but then the train might sort itself out soon. Can I afford to take that risk? I scribble down some estimates for my route and decide I might as well stay on the subway – it’ll give me something to moan about to Lauren (whom I have nothing to say to) at reception. We start moving again

I’m eight minutes late and the train decides to go even slower. I draft a disgruntled e-mail to Lauren at reception, my thumb poised to hit send the moment I get any damn signal.

The train pulls into 59th Street station (at last), and something catches my eye. That grimy slip of a dollar bill shifts slightly, maybe four degrees to the left. The train coming up from Pelham Bay pulls in opposite me. As the carriages race past I notice something in the window. As the carriages come to a calculated, punch-drunk stop, a smear of green from the other train stops briefly in line with the bill in my carriage. I can just make out the tip of Jefferson’s (?) nose close in on his bridge, and then connect. For about a millisecond that little dollar bill is complete, then the train moves a few feet more and it’s gone.

I walk slower than usual out of the station. I root around in my bag for my purse; I pull out a note and study it closely, taking in every detail. It strikes me how many people have had this very bill in their hands, how many times it’s been used, the places it’s been. By the time I get through the doors at work I’m over twenty minutes late, I check my Blackberry – I have three missed calls and two new E-mails.

Now all that gumph is out of the way...
Welcome to Beatroot, the idea here is simple: we want to use this blog as a workshop. Send us your work, then we post it, then other subscribers can have a peek and make comments and suggestions on your piece - what works, what doesnt etc. These comments will then be relayed back to the author (via the painfully simple blog comments tool) who can make changes (if they want to) and hopefully help improve the wonderful skills we already posses.
It's a simple premise that we hope will build into a useful tool for all you aspiring writers out there.
To get the ball rolling, I've posted one of my own short stories for your consideration. Please send any comments (related to my work or not) to: beatrootworkshop@gmail.com.

Stay safe,

James (Beatroot Co-Founder)

we’re not interested in whom, or what you know. we’re interested in what happens when your callused little fingers put skin to key.

all of us here are aspiring writers who have lost their way somewhere down the line and we’ve had to get jobs and pay council tax, we’ve had to fight our way through the aisles of sainsbury’s on a saturday just because it’s the only day we can.

conclusion: life really is a bitch.

beatroot has had many guises, but has finally settled in this little pocket of the internet as a forum, or a network of sorts, for writers who still have that urge to create something remarkable.

beatroot is about getting those people who think of a killer sentence whilst washing the dishes and just have to write it down, those people who stay up till 3am writing and curse the idiots who worm their way into the times best sellers list. people like you.

in short - join us. post your work, get feedback, give feedback, criticise, console, advise and tear apart each other’s work and we can all make the world a better place letter by letter.