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.