a little bit more (third notice)

I wasn’t sleeping, she didn’t wake me up. Though I doubt she could have known that I would be awake. That I would be on a drinking and writing bender. No sleep till the bottle is empty and the pages are full. Though I was having far better luck with the emptying than the filling. All I had gotten down was the beginning sketches of a story of the Good Doctor: a well meaning young lad in over his head and struggling for air, for life, for love. Deeply in debt to some of the right people and all of the wrong ones, desperately trying to win the love and attention of the dearest little barmaid lecherous drunks ever laid eyes and roving hands on. Not knowing what to do or who to turn to, the Good Doctor finally turns to his last resort: the Saint, a man of ill repute yet notorious for his “miracles” (the only thing that could save him now). The Saint was a man that no one knew, no one could fathom, and everybody feared. The Good Doctor had truly hit bottom. Whether this was the ladder back up or the road into hell, though, was anybody’s guess. It was a pretty crap story, to be honest. An idea that would be less than likely to flesh out into anything worth calling a tale and possessing even less of a chance at insight, skill, or merit. At least I had put the first of the cracks into the Aswan High Writer’s Block. I suppose that might count for something. I was startled by the phone ringing. No one ever calls me. No one to the point that I have forgotten my ringtones and was wondering how AC/DC managed to work its way into the middle of The Velvet Underground. I didn’t recognize the number.

***

“Hello…?” What the fuck time is it? 4 am. Who the fuck calls at 4 am? I mean respectable folk know that the only appropriate times for a telephone call are between the hours of noon to 10 pm. Excluding lunch breaks and dinner time and leaving a contingency for afternoon naps. Don’t they?
“Isaac?” A girl? Is this that Debt Solutions telemarketer again?
“Yeah.” Play along. Always the better course.
“This is Samantha…from the bar…um…” Ho. Ly. Shit. So, not a telemarketer.
“Oh, hey. What’s up?” Be cool. She called you. A good sign. An excellent sign. Just fucking be cool.
“We’re you sleeping? Oh shit, you were sleeping, weren’t you?” No, but shouldn’t you have considered this before calling? Does this mean that something is wrong? Is something wrong? I am not good at dealing with emotional crises. I hope she doesn’t expect me to fight someone for her.
“No.” That’s it? That’s all you can say?
“So you’re awake? Are you busy?” Busy? Who’s busy at this hour?
“Nope. Why? Do you need something?” Because I don’t think I can kick anyone’s ass for you. I’m something of a pacifist. Coward, whatever.
“Yeah, um… Could you meet me?” Are you in jail?
“Sure. Where?” Don’t say jail. Don’t say jail. Don’t say jail.

... (being part the second)

I was waiting for the end of the world. I was waiting for the sun to rise in the west. I was waiting for my contradictions to resolve themselves so that I might get down to the business of living and living rightly. No such luck. If my first impression of Sam was one of condescension and professional disdain, my second was no better. Having been duped into a night on the town with the lads, I left the comfort of my apartment and my bottle for crowded bars and overpriced watered down drinks. While a heavy glass of amber poison would have contented me for the evening, I was instead blessed with the joy of inane chatter with lesser mortals and the sly come hither insinuations of scantily clad harpies wishing only for me to buy them drinks and jewelry with the money that my fashion and flair implied but did not conceal. And there she was, in all her glory, the queen of the castle, sitting court above us all deigning only to speak with the most promising of gentlemen and even then casually dismissing all advances with ease and grace. The room loved her. It is safe to say that I despised her immediately.

Damn all beautiful women. I drank heavily that night. Some in the bars but mostly when I got home. When I surfaced later in the week I was more miserable than ever; haggard, unkempt, and exhausted. I may have slept a few nights in the park. That might have been a dream though. I can never tell. My writing was still blocked. Fuck it. I cleaned myself up and went to see Chuck. If he couldn’t make things better at least he would have a better/new way to forget. I may be drowning but I ain’t dead yet.

It was a different bar the next time. We were finally formally introduced and spoke at length. Or so the story goes. While I was clearly there physically that evening, I have no recollection whatsoever of the events and unfortunately have to trust what little information I have been able to piece together from my detail deficient friends as to the true nature of the events. She was wearing blue. The only image from the experience that remains within the grasp of my conscious mind is that she was wearing blue. Blue to match her piecing eyes, her dark tresses falling loosely over pale bare shoulders and a smile promised warmth for a man so long alone in the cold and desperate winter winds of solitude, of exile.

She came up like she knew me the next night. My street cred skyrocketed with everyone who saw us together. No longer the surly degenerate leering over his drinks at the frolicking of unencumbered souls; anyone who was in with Sam was in. Fucking high school all over again. I went with it. What else could I do? She’s beautiful and I have no self-respect. We talked about her mostly: it seemed safer. She proved herself to be of far more depth than I had thought possible. It won’t stop me from judging books by their covers, maybe a glance or two at the backside, but it certainly improved the evening having someone intelligent and witty to banter with. I almost got the impression she found my posturing attractive (cute at the very least). I did not expect her to call at 4 am though.

Number in Wrong Place (first installment)

“What’s the deal with your clocks?” She’s a morning person. Fuck. I have a bitch of a hangover and was not planning on moving or speaking for another couple of hours. Looks like that idea has gone to shit. This whole thing might not work out.
“Wha?” Dazed/best I can manage.
“Well they all read different times, and …” checking her cell, “none of them are accurate.” I suppose I could come up with some tale as to how my notions of time and existential reality differ from that of the consensus. But that’s mostly bullshit. There is no reason for it, like most of the shit in my life, I just felt like it at the moment and haven’t worried about it since.
“Yeah…”
“It’s just that it’s a little weird. Doesn’t it bother you? I mean, not knowing what time it is…” No. Not at all. Does it bother you? They’re just clocks.
“I really don’t notice them.”
“Oh.” And now she'll never call again. Odds that this is the last conversation we will ever have: 20:1.

***

Samantha is a rising star in her law firm. Just a year out of law school and she is already starting to make a name for herself. Or, this is what I hear. While being attracted to powerful, opinionated, driven career women, I couldn’t give a fuck about their actual careers. I met her in a coffee shop and then again in a bar and then again in a bar and then again in a bar and then she decided to ask me out. I still don’t know how she got my number. I don’t remember giving it to her. Of course, there’s always been a fair bit of my life that I can’t remember.

Everything started out fine…

I hadn’t been writing, I was lost. I can’t write if I’m not settled, I’m not settled if I am not writing. I was in a spiral. When Sam bumped into me while I was waiting for my coffee I was spaced as fuck and had she not been startlingly beautiful, controlling the entire room with her presence, her glow, I might not have noticed her at all. She was on the phone, talking into one of those Bluetooth fucking earpieces as if it didn’t make her look like a preposterous fuckwit, as if she was granted an air of importance, nobility simply because she would now always be in the middle of the phone call of her fucking life. I sneered and thought less of her. Fucking drones and their jobs and their notions of “importance.” Fucking who needs it?