Chapter 1:
The Apartment
The man sat at his table, plate heaping with crinkle-cut fries, along with three breaded fish wedges. “Fish & Chips” he thought to himself... He wasn’t British, but he liked to pretend; not that he was English, but any random thing that could take his mind off of his present situation. The faint tap of the leaky ceiling dripping across the room, in addition to the mildew smell that was starting to emanate from behind his couch, was currently grating on his nerves. “Guess the upstairs tenants are running the water.” This was an issue the landlord should have addressed weeks ago; but it would probably be a few weeks more before he would even acknowledge the complaint had been made. So, this evening it was Fish & Chips! But something was amiss... It needed ketchup. “Christ, I hate ketchup!” he muttered aloud. “Do the British use ketchup on Fish & Chips? I don’t even have ketchup...” He didn’t dislike the flavor; he merely regarded the condiment with disdain. He hated it... on a personal level.
He was just picking the last few crumbs of breading from his plate, when there was a knock at his door. “It’s HER!” His eyes lit up, and he bounded toward the door. He enthusiastically flung the door open, and his countenance instantly fell to its default setting of general irritation. Before him stood a man wearing a wrinkled button-down shirt; open to reveal a T-shirt half-tucked into baggy, paint-splashed carpenter’s jeans. It was clear that he’d not shaved for a few days and he was starting to develop a half-hearted goatee. He had just flipped the toothpick that he was chewing on so the frayed end was glistening with spittle in the afternoon light.
“Sorry pal... Your hooker’s not gonna make it today!” He raises his hand in a high-five gesture. “She’s not a HOOKER! She is a physical therapist!” “Well, you WISH she was your hooker!” He punches his guest in the shoulder as the both laugh; the man enters the room and they give each other a hearty embrace. “Why couldn’t she come?” he asks. “Somethin’ with her Grandma... She told me to bring you this.” He handed over a canvas bag containing some hand exercising equipment. “How’s it comin’?” his glib demeanor pealed back for a split second to reveal a sincere concern. “Oh, we’re gettin’ there.” he mumbled as he squeezed the blue racket-ball he had produced from the bag. He winced- “I can almost feel pain again.” They both chuckle; just then the phone rings. The second man lunges for the phone over the lap of his host, who is now sputtering as he wrestles with the phone cord slapping him in the face. “Joe’s chicken shack: You kill’em, we grill’em! Gabe speaking... ...Joel Stenton? Sorry, not available.” click “DUDE! What the hell, man? That could’ve been important.” “It was a telemarketer, at best... And at worst it was a bill collector.” Gabe shrugged; “It, sure as shit, wasn’t your slum-lord!”
Joel smirks and tosses the ball at Gabe, as he gets up and heads toward the sink. “You thirsty?” he asks. “For your c(sh)ity water from the kitchen s(t)ink? No, thanks man...” Gabe is now rolling the toothpick, both ends equally frayed, back and forth between his fingers. “Hey, bumpkin!” Joel motions toward the kitchen waste-basket “The trash is right there. I don’t want that nasty thing in my carpet.” “I’m a country boy, not a slob!” Gabe saunters over toward the trash and flicks it in once he’s close enough to be impressive, but not so far that it’s reckless. “I don’t see what the big deal is, anyway. It’s not like you’re gonna get it lodged in your foot, or anything. You wear shoes in the house, you weirdo, city-slicker!” “Weirdo?!” Joel recoils in mock outrage. “Because I wear shoes in the house? You don’t even wear shoes outside, hillbilly!.. HOLY CHRIST!! I just noticed; you’re actually wearing them, now! It’s a miracle!” “Yeah, whatever...” snorts Gabe, as he chucks the racket-ball right toward Joel’s crotch. “Careful! Not the jewels!” shouts Joel as he catches the ball with his right hand, and recommences his exercise.
“So? I’ve got you here, whatta ya wanna do?” pipes Joel, as he walks over and falls back into the couch. “Actually” replies Gabe “I just stopped by to drop off Stace’s things. I need to be going, here, soon.” “Oh, okay... Well, thanks for coming. Tell Stacy thanks, too for me, if you see her before I do.” “Sure, will!” Gabe waved back as he closed the door behind him. And, with that, Joel was alone again... Not entirely though, while the dripping water had stopped, he still had the musty smell looming about his place; and of course, his ever-present companion, disappointment. As he continued to squeeze the blue racket-ball, the ache in his tendons intensified. He was grateful for the pain. It took his mind off of the current doldrums he found himself in. “Something’s gotta change...” He murmured. “And it’s gotta change, quick!”
That night was no different than any other night in the past few weeks. Sleep was still avoiding him. His mind, preoccupied by the earlier events, darted here and there. “What was happening with Stacy’s grandmother?” “I hope it’s not serious...” “I could have called to see how she was doing...” “I should have called!.. No! That would come across as clingy...” “Our relationship is professional...” The pale light of early morning had already begun creep into his bedroom window by the time he finally nodded off. “If I wasn’t out with this injury, I’d probably have to call off work.” his last conscious thought before drifting into an uneasy slumber...
The next morning, he awoke uncharacteristically early. “Not yet, 8:30? ...less than four hours sleep.” He was still groggy, but not overly tired. He was impressed with his own ability to function on so little sleep. “I’m a machine...” he boasted silently in his own mind. Regardless of how well rested he was, it was still way too early to vocalize his thoughts. He took a deep draw of breath- held for a few seconds –then... Releeeeasss! He shuffled into his kitchen to figure out breakfast. He was a competent enough chef; a good skill for any bachelor to have. He wasn’t going to cheapen his morning nourishment by consuming a lowly bowl of cereal! Besides... he was out of milk.
As he slowly made his way to the refrigerator, he trained his gaze on a bright pink sticky-note he had placed up two days prior. The small florescent square hurt his eyes, but that only made him stare all the harder. He opened the refrigerator and looked inside the egg carton “Bah!” His vocal chords creaked stiffly as they uttered their first sound of the day. There were only three eggs left... Was he to make an omelet that was a little too big, or way to small? He hated the idea of wasting food, and he didn’t want to make himself too full, either... But he hated the thought of a solitary egg taking up space in the refrigerator most of all. “Guess I’ll make a big one...” he grumbled. “It’ll give me an excuse to pick up eggs and milk after I’m done dealing with you.” He took the note off of the refrigerator, looked at it for a moment, then crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
