Only If I Posted Half the Stuff I Didn't Post

Distractions I

One weekend is enough to fuck up your life. You might think what exactly could an ex-addict do to fuck up further than the obvious, but you might be surprised. But let's back up a little bit, shall we?

***

"Do you know what this is, Palmer? This is bullshit!" My publisher was a balding man in his fifties. Divorced thrice and in a platonic relationship with his dog, he was not someone I'd say was my favourite person. He was greasy and slick, with a pot belly that peeked through his shirt when he would move. He was kind of gross. I'd be lying if I said I didn't base the don's posse after him.

"Are you even listening? This. Is. Crap! Do you expect me to publish this?" God, I mentally groaned but remained still in my seat, with my hands on my knees. Does he know how hard it is to write in rehab?

"The ending is shit, Palmer, shit! So bad I could-- I could--" he stuttered, waving the printout of my manuscript in the air, frustrated. He slammed it on his desk, and ran his hands through the remnants of his oily hair. He counted to ten and let out a deep breath. "Listen to me. Take off. Get some change of scenery, and do the ending again. Distract yourself. If you can't, I don't know what I'll be able to do about publishing this."

So I took his advice. And took off.

This is where Angel came in.

She was beautiful in all the wrong ways. Skinny on the verge of anorexic, the hem of her skirt scraped her thong when she bent over, her boots were at least three years late in trend and her hair was bleached a disgusting shade of yellow. But she was beautiful. And she’d decided to be mine the minute she popped her head into my car. “What’s your sin tonight?” She’d asked, like she already knew what my answer was going to be. And of course she did.

We drove all day that day. I didn’t know where I was going. She didn’t seem to care. She just sat sideways in the passenger seat, studying me. The radio was playing some sort of a bluesy song that she seemed to know by heart. It sounded like shit to me but I didn’t turn it off or stop her.

I tried brewing up a character-- a twist-- based off her, but stopped half way after deciding I should save that for when I write.

She talked a lot. Well, not all that much. She asked me a few questions about me, and I asked some about her. It didn’t go too far. After a while a silence fell between us, and it stayed pretty much for the rest of the ride. She simply sat there, leaning on the door. Her short, cropped hair caught the late afternoon gust, throwing it in her face. She traced my arm with her toe while playing with the cheap plastic pearls on her neck, but she didn’t say another word. And neither did I.

We stopped at a lonely motel down the I-20. It was a pretty empty road, really. It felt like a 1980s indie action film, with the desert-like setting and the dry, dusty roads.

“Wait here,” I told her, parking the car in front of the door. I could see an old man sitting at the counter or reception or whatever the hell it was, watching something with great interest on a tiny portable TV. I left her in the car and walked over to him. His reaction to my arrival seemed a little conflicted to me. Happy to finally have a customer, but pissed to be disturbed mid-show.

“How can I help you?” He asked, quickly masking his flash of annoyance with a straight face.

“I need a room.” I’d said. “For two.” I motioned towards Angel in my car outside. He squinted, a little confused, I guess.

“Nineteen ninety-five per person.” His eyes darted to the TV screen.

I dug into my pockets and took out the remnants of my belongings. The man raised his eyebrow, but said nothing. Scavenging among the turnouts I scraped together some bills, not really counting, and handed them to him as I found them. He looked at me with what looked alarmingly close to pity and said, “Uh, that’ll do.” He pushed away my next installment of pennies and stray dollars that I was about to give him. I didn’t really know how much I’d paid him, but I sure as hell knew it wasn’t enough. I didn’t like charity, but when you’re broke, you take what you get.

“Room’s outside. Go ‘round the back. First door to the left.” He pointed off to nowhere outside the door. I walked out, and told Angel to follow me. With a little struggle we were able to find the place.

The walls had old floral wallpapers, stained with something of a rust-like colour. Angel plopped down on the bed and fumes of dust seemed to rise from it. The windows seemed to creak and the lightest wind and the TV looked ten years too late. It wasn't the most luxurious of places, but it would do.

I got down to business. I look out my laptop and turned it on. This was going to work. This had to work.

Angel found the TV remote somewhere and turned it up loud. It was blasting some sort of a sports related news when she stepped ahead, hovering over me. "Yes?" I asked, a little annoyed. I was trying to work. She didn't say anything, but replied with a loud unzipping noise. Her dress-- or what was left of it-- fell to the floor with the softest thud.

*This story (incomplete, like all the other ones) is basically pretty much copied off an indie short film of the same name. Look it up, it was pretty good.