Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
“Come on, Sam, pick up…” but the phone keeps ringing until the voicemail kicks in. “Fine, then. Do whatever the hell you want!” And, no longer having any reason to keep staring at the screen, a frustrated Dave throws his phone violently to the other side of the couch. Who knows, maybe it’s just tiredness. Not enough sleep. He’s late for work. After the last meeting, he’d asked Jane to give him a hand, but she couldn’t. Sorry, Dave, I’ve got an appointment… She must have said something like that. It’s nine o’clock. And he couldn’t expect her to stay on at that time, could he? Don’t worry, it’s not a problem. So he’d let her go. And that was exactly what Jane had been waiting for. She gathered her stuff and fled the office, and in the meantime, Dave, without thinking about it, had found himself standing in front of Sam’s desk only to… find it empty. No trace of her except for a few of her things. A photo of a cat, a blue cup and a toy cable car next to the keyboard. Anything else? No, except for a couple of books on the shelves and a forgotten umbrella in the corner behind the filing cabinet. Things of no importance.
End result? Dave went back to his office and didn’t come out until he had sent the last email. And as distracted as he was, he’d found it practically impossible to concentrate. At first he thought it would only take him a couple of hours, but instead… instead he had ended up leaving Union Square at half past eleven.
Too tired to go out and too early to go to bed, he went back to Nob Hill, turned on the TV, and watched an old film hoping he wouldn’t think about her, and for a while it worked, but at midnight he gave in. He couldn’t take it any more and he messaged her. He could have called her, but he didn’t want to run the risk of her hanging up on him. And anyway, it was late… he didn’t want to scare her. He’d thought it was more appropriate to send her a message. Less direct. A bit more discreet. After all, if Sam wanted to speak to him, she could always call him.
But apparently, Sam didn’t want to…
“Because they’re all the same, aren’t they? They look innocent, harmless. They potter about in their jogging pants always saying yes, but it’s a trap! You drop your guard for an instant – for one goddamn moment – you get distracted, and they…” He punches his pillow and finds himself staring at Onky, standing on the bedside table with a wooden rod and several feet of gauze holding his glued on genitals in place. “You know all this very well though, because look what she did to you,” he says, caressing the statuette gently. He’s tried to put poor Onky back together, but if he has to be honest, Onky isn’t looking so great. The glue he bought at the hardware store wasn’t much use: he covered the edges with it and a few hours later it changed colour, going an unhealthy looking yellow. Brian suggested calling a restorer, but to Dave, six hundred dollars seemed a little too much, so he’d tried to do it by himself. Yeah… nice going, Dave! And now God knows how much the restorer will charge him. Because if before they’d just have had to stick them back on, now they’re going to have to pull the damn things off first.
Instinctively, Dave touches himself down there, a shiver of cold dread running up his spine at the thought.
“Yeah, you’re in a bad way, old buddy. A real bad way,” he murmurs, putting Onky back on the table. “Do you understand that I’m right about this?” And when he sees him standing there by the lamp, looking so defenceless, he asks him, “What did you ever do to her, huh? You minded your own business, you enjoyed life without bothering anyone. Then she arrives, picks you up, turns you upside down. ‘Hey, this is cute, what is it?’” he mimics and adds sarcastically. “As if she didn’t know… And she does all that, and then you, who all things considered are one of the good guys, run to her to try and help her. Because you don’t like seeing her struggling, right? And the next moment you find yourself on the floor: bam!” He claps his hands together. “Lying there on the carpet…” he murmurs, peering at the resin impregnated gauze. “With…” and in the end he turns away, uncertain as to what exactly he’s talking about. “Ah, the hell with her!”
He throws himself against the back of the couch and checks his phone to make sure she hasn’t answered, but once again there’s nothing. Sam is still ignoring him.
“Ah, who cares!” he says with a shrug. “Let her do what she likes, just like she always has. Just like they all do. She wants to lose her job? Fine! In a couple of weeks she’ll realise that she’s screwed up big time and come crawling back. And then we’ll see if she doesn’t answer her phone. Then we’ll see…” He smiles to himself, imagining the scene. “Yeah, then we’ll really see,” and as he checks his iPhone again, he realises that it’s past one and tomorrow morning he has to be in the office for eight. He can’t afford to get there late, not tomorrow. Even if he doesn’t want to, even if he isn’t sleepy, it would be a good idea to go to bed. It’s a tough decision, sure, but common sense prevails, and so Dave decides to stop thinking about things for a while and heads off to his bedroom, taking with him a few beers, his iPhone and a couple of painkillers. Like every night, before he closes his eyes he takes a look at the phone, but this time only to turn it off.
To Sam Preston: Sam…
delete?
Yup.
Click