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// Filed under: Verbiage on Friday October 28th 2005, 9:23 am I remember her like she was yesterday. Oh, I’m telling you, that dame had moxie. Moxie tough as nails. More moxie than you can throw a brick at, even. And I’ve thrown more than a few bricks in my time. She had the cutest little blue eyes, and these legs that must have gone straight up to heaven. I know they took me there on more than one occasion. I take a long, cool drag on my cigarette and swirl the smoke around in my mouth, tasting the aroma as I lean back in my rickety wooden chair, and hike my feet up onto my desk. Yeah, she was the best. Pity about this dame in front of me, though. “Hello? Are you even listening?” The morning haze fills my office, mingling with the cigarette smoke, pierced in alternating shades of light and dark by the vain attempts of the sun to make it through my curtains. “Yeah, doll. I hear ya.” “Doll? What do you think this is, 1930’s Chicago?” I don’t say anything as I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk and grab the neck of a cool glass bottle I’ve called friend for the last twenty years. The soft clink against the stained wooden desk, and the play of light off the amber liquid as it fills the dusty shot glass is music to my ears. I grab the glass, and gesture what I guess is her general direction with it. “Want a belt?” “It’s nine am,” she says. I shrug and drain the glass. “The original liquid breakfast”, I mutter as amber fire cascades down my throat. I look at her – or at least, I assume I do. It’s still far too early for me to stop squinting, even in this musty cocoon of an office. “Remind me again what you want?” She strides up to the desk, tosses a plain manilla folder at me. The contents spill out across the beer-stained surface and I see it was filled with black and white photographs. I pick one up after several uncertain attempts and examine it through bleary eyes. A vaguely familiar face peers out at me, a broad, plain face of a young man. He has a ponytail, and is wearing a slightly quizzical expression. “This young man goes by the name of Tim. I need you to find him,” she says. “He’s about to do something very stupid.” “Eh?” She moves closer, takes a reluctant seat on the chair in front of my desk and fiddles nervously with her handbag. “He’s just about to start writing his final piece for his creative writing class, and he’s having trouble coming up with something clever to write about.” I take my feet off my desk, and lean forwards on my chair. “Sorry lady. I think you’re wasting your time. I don’t do nutcases.” She leans forwards to match me, unfazed, and pins me with her eyes. “You don’t understand. If he can’t think of something clever to write about, he’s considering writing something… something meaningful.” She spits the last word out as though it is purest venom, and a chill passes through me. For a moment I think it’s the onset of another cardiac, but it feels different somehow. “Okay, alright. Let’s say I find him. Then what?” “Stop him.” “Stop him?” “If he writes something meaningful – some tripe about the triviality of human existence, or the darkness within the soul, or heaven forfend – something with symbolism in it… he’ll never forgive himself.” The intensity in her voice is mesmerising. “If that happens, he’ll be a broken man. And I can’t let that happen.” “Why? Why are you asking me to do this? Who are you?” She smiles ruefully. “I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. But you can call me… a plot device.” Reaching into her handbag, she pulls out a wad of notes so thick that you could beat a whale to death with it, and places it down on the desk. I look at them for a second, then at her. Then, helplessly, back at the money. “That amounts to about triple your usual fee, I believe. Upfront, in unmarked bills, as requested.” “What makes you so sure I’ll say yes?” I manage to say, still staring at the money. She laughs as she stands up, a lilting, musical sound. “What else could you possibly say?”, she says. “If you don’t say yes now, the story will end, way short of the required word limit. It’ll be as if you destroyed him yourself.” I look up at her, helpless, eyes narrowed. She had me by the narrative drive, and she knew it. Without looking, I pour myself another glass and slug it down. Her eyes tighten, for a brief second, but she knows what my answer will be. “Alright,” I hear myself say. “Alright, I’ll do it.” “Excellent,” she says. “We’ll be in touch.” The door slams and she is gone, replaced by the quiet hustle of traffic that filters through from outside. For a few minutes I sit, motionless, before remembering that I had a cigarette. It’s still lit and I pick it up, preparing to take a long and much-needed puff, but I stop halfway to my mouth. Suddenly I don’t feel like it any more. The cigarette ash hisses as I crush it out, disgusted with myself. I rub my chin with my hands, feeling three week’s worth of stubble, and decide I need to shave. Then I remember the photographs, and the money. Particularly the money. One thing at a time, I think to myself. (…to be continued…) // 10 Comments
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t3h (h4r says:
October 29, 2005 at 11:51 pm
Tom says:
October 30, 2005 at 3:59 pm
Rock And Roll Destruction says:
October 30, 2005 at 6:34 pm
Edminster says:
October 31, 2005 at 9:24 am
Doomy says:
October 31, 2005 at 11:05 am
Doomy says:
October 31, 2005 at 11:05 am
Satan says:
October 31, 2005 at 5:32 pm
Aniuk says:
November 13, 2005 at 4:08 am
Sparkles says:
November 15, 2005 at 2:03 am
Kostya Anenkov says:
November 30, 2006 at 9:38 am