Impotent life
Lisa was, as far as Richard knew, my girlfriend. This was true a few months back now, back when I went to work with a purpose. Back when I left small notes in the apartment for her.
"Miss you" and "Thinking about you".
Stuff like that.
This was my way of apologizing.
At home, talking with this girl on the phone. She tells me she doesn't have a dog.
If you as a man perform bad one time, she tells you it's ok. You get over it. No big deal. Then it happens again. And again. And again. Then one day eventually, you'll come home and find a note telling you she's gone. That was two months ago now. And trust me on this, she will tell you it's ok the first few times. Manhood saved. I happens to everyone. It could be stress. Bad eating habits. Smoking. But when you make a routine out of it, eventually there will be a note on the refrigerator door. Her clothes and toothbrush gone. The don't-try-to-call-me-feeling left behind.
The girl in the phone, I tell her it's not important whether or not she actually has a dog. What matters is how the story goes to the insurance people and she's way better off telling them her dog ate her phone. Putting the phone in the microwave oven is not considered a mistake, even if she had no idea it would be turned into Chernobyl.
If you have a problem with any modern life accessory, anything electric really, and you need to call someone, odds are I'm the guy you'll end up speaking with. You'll dial the number found in the yellow pages and a mechanical voice will say: "Welcome to bla bla support and divine intervention service. If you have any questions considering electrical equipment, press one now. If you have any questions considering problems with your insurance company, please press two. Would you like to have your fortune read by one (it's really only me) of our psychics, please press three."
No matter what number you chose, I will be the one on the other end of the line. Sitting at home in my living room watching TV, solving your problem. Reading your future. Dodging taxes.
It used to be I read a lot, back when I told myself and others I wanted to write a book. Shared my dreams with people, friends. Girlfriends. Family. Now, gazing at the bookshelf, I can't decide if I want to read the books or if I want to have read them. Back in the days of dreams and hopes, all my friends helped me get through rough times. Bukowski, Hemingway, Mozart, Beethoven. They took me to places I don't believe exist, but I was happy when I was there. Now I hardly ever do anything other than helping people with their problems. I'm wasting my life. My friends knows this as well as I do. I can change anytime I want. But I won't. Waiting for the big IT to happen. I have dreams if you ask me. Other than that, not so much. I am waiting for something that won't happen.
I have my regulars. People calling just to call someone. Anyone. Me. I can tell by the sound of their voice who it is and what their main issue is. I don't know their names so I made some up based on what we talk about. There is Forever alone Misery, Microwave Kate, Sexalot Steve and Billy Bob Cancer. Go ahead, guess their problems.
Bill Bob is a heavy smoker. He told me himself and from the sound of his voice I believe him. The sound of a man speaking through a hole in his throat like a mechanical recording heard from the other end of the universe. I've made it my mission to make him give up smoking. Anybody needs a hobby.
"You're not afraid of cancer?"
The gurgling sound like a speaking sink tells me, "Naw man. The cure however, that freaks me out."
He goes on telling me how they, the doctors, put you in some sterile white room where they will radiate the hell out of you. Now it all comes down to endurance, stamina, who can last the longest, you or the cancer?
If that doesn't work they open you up and cut away the tumor and even some healthy tissue around it to make sure they really got it all. So, if you have like a brain tumor they'll crowbar you skull open and yank that thing right out along with a good portion of your brain. You might end up like a moaning drooling vegetated zombie. But hey, at least you're alive.
To be continued
