The day started with three heavy knocks on the door. Lucas awoke in a frenzy, thinking he was late, and forgetting, once again, that he had been fired from his teaching position at the public school. Three knocks again. Now Lucas remembered, it was a Tuesday morning, and his only job was that of a part-time lighting technician at the Sawmill Theatre. He opened the door to his apartment at the end of the hall on the 8th floor, room number 832. Standing outside was his landlord, a terribly impatient man. "I know, I know, I know!" Lucas yelled, "the rent is late! I was fired, okay? I'll have it to you by tomorrow, I swear." "You know you'll be out on the street if you don't, you're just a number to me" said the landlord, he then lumbered back down the hall to the elevator. How Lucas would get the money for the rent was completely beyond him.
As he walked into his kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cereal, he passed through the small living room of his apartment, completely cluttered with various papers, all containing ideas for plays. Stories of adversity, romance, comedy, music, everything he could think of, he wrote. Unfortunately for Lucas, he was tragically distracted. He couldn't write more than a paragraph without starting an entirely different story with new characters, places, and themes. He wrote on an old Sears typewriter. This was solely to save electricity. He opened the refrigerator, the contents of which were sparse, and poured a bowl of milk, followed by cereal. After his breakfast, Lucas went into his living room and began writing. This time it was a story about a struggling virtuoso, and that was all he had so far. He looked at the clock, it was 9:47, about seven hours until he would have to leave for his shift at the theatre. He knew nothing about lighting, he was only working there in desperate hopes of having one of his plays discovered. On occasion he would leave one of his rarely finished scripts at the office door of the head producer of the theatre. Yet another one of Lucas's problems was plagiarism. He always managed to copy someone else's work without any knowledge of it, or at least, he wouldn't notice until he finished the story. This story of the virtuoso was different though. This was original. He knew this because he was writing a story about himself.
Lucas stopped writing, it was hot, and he was uncomfortable in his non-air conditioned apartment. He had an A/C unit, but he decided not to use it, it cost too much to run. He got up and opened the window, and he was instantly hit by a terrible wave of an unidentifiable odor. It was an unpleasant smell, but it wasn't terrible. He knew he had smelled it before, but he couldn't recall where.
Now it was 10:22, and he was tired. He cleared the stacks of paper from the living room couch and lay down. He drifted off to sleep. When he woke up it was 4 o'clock. He went to the kitchen and ate a granola bar. He didn't have to work until 6, but he decided to leave early and explore the theatre before he had to begin work. He grabbed his new favorite play that he had finished, "Whispers of Dawn", and headed out the door. He had no knowledge of the jejune nature of the play, nor the cliché title. As he entered the street he realized that he had forgotten to lock up. He didn't care though, he knew there was nothing in his apartment to steal.
