I started to worry again about what I should or shouldn’t say to her tomorrow. Well, actually, as you may recall, I had already decided. Nothing. Tell her nothing. Do nothing. If I ever forgot that, all I had to do was remember that sickening image of the two of them arm in arm waving good-bye to me from the doorway of their house. The thought now makes my anxiety turn to anger. Bitter. Hateful. I want to kill. Anger.
I feel every muscle in my body tense. My heart race. Not like the debilitating attack in the car. Not at all. But like some other force is taking me over and possessing me. I feel incredibly powerful. The anger just makes me stronger and stronger. I think of her with him. I think of them in the doorway so happy together. Once again, the randomness of life has meant he met her first. He won her heart long before I would even have the chance. Total luck.
It just sickens me the way everything in life is just the subject of chaos and chance. Those who think things are “meant to be” are deluding themselves. There is nothing “meant.” Just random actions intersecting with other actions to produce more random actions. Why should she come into my life only now? Only when she is so clearly his? Only weeks before I had to put a stop to this whole stupidity that is my life?
What would have happened if I had met Nancy ten years ago instead of Melissa? Would we be together now, Nancy and I? Would we be married? Have kids? Already hate each other and be divorced? Maybe, we never would have even spoken. Maybe, we would have just passed each other in the halls and said nothing. Maybe, I suddenly feel like Alanis Morissette. God, listen to me going on and on about this crap. You’d think I was in High School. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you. Really. There are even times when I realize I’m babbling on like an immature idiot. It’s rare, mind you, but it does happen. All the same, immature or not, I was just really pissed off that things had worked out the way they had.
For those of you that always like to play the “it could always be worse game” to cheer yourselves up, allow me to say, Fuck Off! Of course, it could be worse. Yes, I have legs when there are people that don’t. Yes, I have food and all those people in India don’t. But, and I think these are pretty significant “buts”…1) I have a hereditary disease which is going to kill me soon if I don’t do the job first AND 2) I am in love with someone I will never have. That’s right, Poor ME. Either one of those is pretty high up there on the sucky scale and to have both…Well, it ain’t fun. So, come on Folks, a bit of sympathy here. Empathy is OK, too. Look it up if you don’t know the difference.
I am still filled with anger and rage. I take a glass in my hand and think about hurling it against the wall. That would be dumb. I guess if I was really a throwing-things-kind-of-person I would already have totally trashed the room instead of standing here staring at a glass in my hand wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with it. I can’t even be angry right. Then again, I always wondered about those Italian movies where the quarreling lovers throws things at each other. Yeah, it’s nice to be passionate and all, but hitting your true love in the head with a glass vase could do some serious damage. See, I told you I was lousy at this passionate anger stuff. I just suck. Even at being angry, I am just truly lame.
I decide to go out for a walk to cool down. It’s late and it’s raining which actually makes me feel better. There’s nothing worse than being in a really, really shitty mood and it being a bright, sunny day out. I hate that. No, darkness and rain suit me better. Maybe, that’s why I like London so much. And what the hell was I thinking when I moved to Los Angeles? Fuck Me. I deserve to be miserable with dumb choices like that. I thought about how pathetic it was to kill myself there, of all places. Would it be a final Fuck You to the place or just a final stupid decision on my part? I bet if there’s news coverage of my death it will refer to me as a “failed screenwriter.” That would be so L.A..
And then, after walking for a while, I am suddenly exhausted. All the anger is depleted and I just find myself cold, wet and out of breath in some not really great looking neighborhood. Luckily, I have at least some sense of where I came from and trace my way back to the hotel. The walk seems like it goes on and on for days. I even think about taking a break under some doorway to rest and get out of the rain but somehow I know better. I know that the way I feel right now I would just sit there like some wino muttering to myself. We’re all closer than we think to that madman eating out of the garbage can. Especially, at times like these.
By the time I get back to The Clift, I am so cold I am shivering. The doorman looks me over very carefully, but doesn’t stop me as I push my way through the lobby. I promise myself that I will kill him on the spot if he makes some comment about it “being wet out there.” He doesn’t.
I get back to the room and take off my clothes. No, you pervert, not to do anything like that. I feel so cold and crappy right now I couldn’t even find my dick, yet alone get to the point where…I just really need a hot shower and do so. It feels really good, but also makes me realize how truly exhausted I am. I really wonder how much more of this I can take.
And then I sleep. Really sleep. The blissful, dead-to-the-world type of sleep I have only heard about in legend. Is this what normal people do every night? No tossing and turning? No waking up every couple of hours? How strange. The world must just be a different place for those people. Everything must be so much easier. Colors are probably brighter. Food probably tastes better. I hate you all.
Then again, this being me, I sleep like this and wake up feeling like absolute hell. Groggy. Headachey. Like I’m on too many sedatives. Coffee and food help a lot, but I still do not feel nearly as alert and alive as I would like when Nancy knocks on my door at noon.
She looks really good. And it’s killing me. She’s wearing this one shirt she has which really hugs tightly to her chest. Very Sexy. Every time she wore it at the office I noticed that I wasn’t the only male whose eyes found their way to her breasts. She must know and must like it. I think Nancy knew she wasn’t the world’s greatest beauty and just really appreciated that sort of attention, now and then. It’s good to know you’re still thought of that way by somebody somewhere and not just some asexual blob.
And appreciating her breasts, I was. I felt my eyes scan over her entire body, up, down and sideways as she looked out the window at the view. I especially appreciated the way she bent over to look and stuck out her ass like that. Not a great ass. For that matter, not a great body. But for whatever reason, it was a body I craved more than you can imagine. I loved the idea that she was here, alone, in a hotel room with me. I imagined kissing her. I pictured us on the bed making out. My hands all over her. And then she turns away from the window and catches me looking at her, like that. Totally busted. Her eyes look straight into mine. I knew she knew exactly what I had been thinking. And I waited. And then she smiled a little. She didn’t say a thing about it. Instead she just started talking about how nice the hotel is.
How many times have I been in this situation? A woman I desperately wanted to be with and me, alone in a hotel room…talking about how nice the room is. Talking as I imagine doing all sorts of wonderful things to them. As that feeling of incredible tension and excitement builds. Sometimes, I would savor that feeling of release. Like the time I kissed Sam. More often, I would feel a terrible feeling of dread and despair. Like the time I was with Ann in Chicago. And now? What did I have now? Longing? Dread? Despair? Yup. Relief? Nope, none of that. Not yet, anyway.
I didn’t get the chance to think about it too much before Nancy suggested we get moving and on our way. The rain had stopped early this morning and it was a great day outside. As we left the room, I thought for a second how nice it would be if we ended up back here, alone. A thought somewhat ruined by her unfortunate topic of conversation, Josh.
Apparently, Josh had been on her case about how lax she had been about trying to find a job for herself. It was kind of strange, considering what a hard worker she was when I knew her at the agency. What was stranger, was how this entire time I had been hearing from her, she’d been telling me that Josh wanted her to take some time off to enjoy herself. Which I guess was true, up until recently.
But then he realized that it could only go on for so long before they would feel the economic pinch of having only one income. Which must have killed him. I know Josh well enough to know that he hated, and I emphasize, hated, having to admit to himself that he couldn’t be like his dad and let his wife stay at home. I mean, very few could. Unless, you lived in Scarsdale or Connecticut, in which case it was still expected to be 1955 all the way around.
Nancy also told me that the night I called from Chicago, the two of them were having a really nasty fight about it. It was all better, now. But, at the time, it had really shaken her up. Her and Josh don’t fight like that. They even, God Forbid, yelled at each other.
Believe it or not, I was actually hoping to hear something very different about their fight that night. Not that I really expected it. It’s embarrassing, but at this point everything I’ve told you in this book pretty much is. So…I was hoping that she was going to turn to me and tell me they were fighting about me. Yes, I have an incredible ego to even think of such a thing. But really, I was somehow hoping that Nancy would feel more for me than she should and that Josh would sense it and…You get the idea. But no. It was nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. I hate that.
She drives and likes the Mini a lot. As we pull into the parking lot of Golden Gate Park, I realize I have to feel her up…I mean feel her tongue…I mean feel her out really carefully in terms of where she’s at. She hasn’t acted the least bit suspicious the way she did during that one phone call. Kind of like it was a one time fluke and wasn’t something I had to worry about. Which meant it was, clearly, something I had to worry about. Nancy wasn’t the type to just forget something like that. To forget about whatever it was that made her suspicious in the first place. If she wasn’t talking about it, it was by conscious choice on her part. What would I say if she did ask? How many lies could I tell her? How many would she even believe?
BRINGING THE JOY OF SUICIDE TO ALL. RIGHT HERE AT WWW.FIRST100BOOKS.COM