Over the next several months, I slept very little. Working twenty hours a day on the manuscript of what would later be my first novel, I drank coffee, ate ramen noodles, and typed with two fingers and two thumbs.

The story was fiction but contained many truthful elements from my life. Told from the points of view of five different people, four of which were high school students, the tale unraveled along a winding road of mystery, misery, and mischief.

The four students were all tied together by friendship. Each of them had their own set of problems, most of which were common among high school students. One of the students, a girl, chose to befriend an online blogger and confide her problems in him.

Seeking advice she felt couldn’t obtain from her overly strict parents, she spoke to the blogger through email, text, and, eventually, by phone. The blogger, whose name was simply The Fat Kid, spent all his time in the coffee shop, pecking away on his laptop.

After losing his girlfriend to suicide, he spent every waking hour attempting to help anyone he could through his blog. Unbeknownst to those he helped, he was running from the realization that his girlfriend’s suicide wasn’t his fault.

I typed the last paragraph, read it, and grinned. It was the perfect ending. Somehow, I’d managed to write a seventy-thousand-word manuscript.

In celebration, I called Teddy.

“It’s done.”

“What’s done?”

“The book. I just finished it.”

“Good,” he said. “Now, sell it. I’m tired of paying your rent.”

“I need to get it edited and everything. Then, I’ll see what I can do. Up for a cup of celebratory coffee?”

“Be there in a minute.”

Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the coffee shop that I used to frequent regularly. At that time, I hadn’t been there in well over a year. As we entered the parking lot, I laughed at the fact that nothing had changed.

The same regulars were still seated in their normal places. Through the glass, I could see the college professor I had dubbed the Nigerian Nightmare. He pecked away on his computer, undoubtedly working on a school project.

Seated along the south exterior wall, the six Bulgarian’s glared at passing traffic. Over the years, we jokingly called them the Bulgarian Mafia. None of them worked, they always had money, and they wore matching Adidas track suits from yesteryear.

I opened the door to the truck and stepped into the parking lot. “Some things never change.”

“Looks just like it did last time we were here,” Teddy agreed.

After getting a cup of coffee from a barista with porcelain-like skin, we took a position alongside the Bulgarian Mafia.

Svetli, the leader of the group, looked me over. His hair was closely cropped, and he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee. Beneath the opened jacket of his track suit, he wore a stark white wife beater.

“Scaht. Vehr the fahk you’ve been? Yuri says you write book. Vaht the fahk?”

I nodded. “I just finished it.”

“Vaht the fahk. Vaht it be about?”

“Nothing, really,” I responded. “About a guy who hangs out in the coffee shop.”

“No shits?” He shrugged. “Bring me copy, no?”

“After I get it edited, I will.”

“Who for edits?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I need to find someone.”

“Call the fahking Jew,” he said. “He is for edits, no?”

My eyes narrowed. “The Jew?”

“The fahking Jew,” he shouted. “The Jew with the little car. The fahking Jew.”

It was difficult – if not impossible – to determine the state of mind of any of the Bulgarians. They always seemed angry. They often shouted, rarely smiled, and stern was the only facial expression they wore.

“Little car?” I asked. “What little car?”

“The fahking convertible,” he bellowed.

He looked at Demo, who was his right-hand man and second in command of the group. “Vaht the fahk is convertible?”

“Solstice,” Demo answered without looking up.

“Oh,” I said. “Lawrence.”

Svetli tossed his hands in the air and looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Lawrence. The fahking Jew.”

“I didn’t know Lawrence was an editor.”

“He’s fahking editor. He is for edits.”

I raised my coffee cup. “I’ll give him a call.”

That night, I called Lawrence. I learned he was a freelance editor, and that he had time to edit the manuscript. After borrowing another three hundred dollars from Teddy, I hired him to edit the book.

Then, I waited on pins and needles for him to give his opinion of my ability to write.