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A SICK LITTLE SARCASTIC BLOOMING FLOWER OF LOVE, REVENGE, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN. |
CASSIE I swing open my apartment door. It’s dark except for a dim lamp across the room. I hate that lamp, but she loves it. I close the door, drop my shoulder bag, take off my Armani suit coat covered in blood and toss it over a chair. I’m not sure if it’s my blood or the gentlemen from the parking garage, I don’t really care. There is a loud bass pumping rap music down the hall in one of the rooms, blaring profanities and nonsense to a jungle beat. I hate rap music, but she loves it. I creep down the hall to get a closer look; of course, it’s coming from my bedroom. I untuck my shirt, wipe some blood off of a cut under my eye, and casually open the door. There she is, standing there, his tongue somewhere deep next to her tonsils and her arms wrapped all around him like a sappy ‘end of movie kiss’. Cassie Conrad screams, “Charlie!” There is a hurried scuffle that sends her tripping over my Irish brown bear rug, knocking her head on the side of my cherry wood end table with a loud thump and a painful sounding squeal. Some shirtless, dumb looking brute, with an eye patch and a sailor hat turns and stares at me. “Well, don’t stop on my account,” I say, with a smirk, leaning against the door frame folding my arms. “Charlie,” she screams again, getting to her feet. “Char...you...I thought you were...” “Thought I was gone until next week?” The man with the talented tongue lets out an annoyed exclamation in french and points at me. He points like his fingertips are feathers, like I’m a waiter interrupting their night cap. He looks like an idiot school boy at a Halloween party, or the lead singer of a rock band. Bow tie, mascara, the works. Where she picked him up, I have no idea, nor do I want to know. I snort, then I pop out a little laugh. I wish I knew French. They both look at me blankly, I couldn't help but smile; how heart breaking for me. “I swear, Charlie, it wasn’t my fault...” “Oh, is this like a rape or something? Should I call the cops?” I have never seen such a delicious reaction to sarcasm. She honestly looked like she was going to throw up. “I’m sorry, Charlie...” She looks dumb founded, and for a moment almost convincing. If it weren’t for the pigtails, the polly anna hooker skirt, and the fact that I only met her five weeks ago, I might have actually believed her. Well, no, probably not. For a second my mind goes back to where we first met; at a bar, which was probably my first mistake. She laughed at my jokes then she started a bar fight with a guy that wore shades and a handle bar mustache like he owned the copyright. She actually took a swing at him just because I dared her to. She is kind of girl that you blast into a relationship with because it feels hot. Not because you like her, more because you hate her. The kind that makes logical decisions look tasteless. Cassie is the kind of girl that would put a cat in the microwave just to watch it go boom. She shakes her head at a loss for words and shrugs. “You look cute in pigs tails, Cass.” Her face turns to a look of disgust. Silence. After a few seconds they are walking out of the room. Cassie with her head hanging and Frenchy rock star with his nose in the air. He sneers at me, a good old fashioned sneer as he passes. You don’t see many sneers like that anymore. I think the last time I saw one that good was in the movie ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’. I used to love that movie. Now he ruined it. “Hey Cassie!” I say. She turns just before she opens my front door. I rip her lamp out of the wall and toss it to her. She barely catches it but it slips and shatters all over Mr. Boy toy’s bare feet. This makes him mad and he comes waltzing back to me red faced to speak his mind. Then all he does is point, he just points. That is so disappointing. I’m not sure how or why it happened but somehow my fist ends up somewhere between the cartilage of his nose and the front part of his skull. A full healthy crack and a series of French cuss words come streaming out of him like a French Pandora Radio. Like I said, I wish I knew French. After they both leave I step onto my balcony just in time to watch the pair of them exit the apartment building doors below. The streets were still busy in the heart of the city at this time of night, and you could tell they didn’t want to be seen by anyone. Frenchy is holding his face with one hand and holding his little sailor hat steady on his head with the other. He starts running down the street and Cassie looks up at me. This is the best moment of my day, and what a perfect time to have the best moment of my day. The sun is setting, the city lights are turning on, The weather is warm, with just a little cold chill to make you feel alive. I take in a deep breath and let it fly. I can taste a little bit of blood from my split lip, but it’s not a bad metal taste, not this time, it taste like a hard days work. “You will die one day, Charlie,” she shouts. “And I’ll come to the funeral in yellow!” I wipe some blood off my knuckles and stand there leaning over my balcony. I watch Cassie walk away into the deep purple. The sunset is always pretty, no matter who walks away into it. I just wave. I step back into my apartment and look around, I feel cold. Something gives me the shivers and that’s okay because I like the shivers. I sit down and turn the T.V. on. Someone once told me if you want to feel happy, watch those late night infomercials. So I started to record them. It was true, for a while seeing all those happy and energetic people talk about all their wonderful little lives was nice. It made me feel like mine was at least decent. It made me think, maybe I can be extra happy cleaning my sofa too. The Lotto Wrench. The Pasty Rock Glue. The Extra Shiny Car Wax. The floor mat that keeps the chill out. The dog collar that sends nineteen volts of shock into your pet’s jugular when you push a button. Keep it away from your kids, says the happy bald man with the Malti-Poodle mix wrapped in his arms. So, if I buy these things, then I will be happy? Yes, that will make me happy. Then when I use it, I can smile really big while I do the meaningless task. Maybe that’s what life is all about, smiling, and being meaningless. After a while though it got old, annoying, and just made me mad. I especially started to hate the one loud shouting guy with the beard. Then one night I drop the remote and a spanish soap opera pops on. The remote breaks and I’m too tired to get up and change it. So I sit there, soaking in all the carinos el me bomboncitos, and all of the munequitas and el princesitas. I start to make up words and put them in their mouths. Stories for them, putting my life into theirs, and at the end, I’m bawling my eyes out. Which, I believe is very much out of character for me, from my point of view anyways. I guess when you are alone, you don’t have to be yourself, you can be whatever lets you feel. That was a year ago. Since then I’ve been recording ever sappy, sticky, horrible acting spanish soap opera I could find. This week, Peter dumped Jill, because Jill cheated on him with Pedro. In the end, everyone finds out that Peter stole all of Jill’s mom’s money, then Peter dies, and everyone cries, I cry the hardest. When I’m done with the red eyes and pouring my deep dark hidden feelings into the T.V., I get a call from Bruce. Bruce says he feels like golfing. That means that Bruce needs to cry too, either that, or he wants something. Or he just killed someone again. |
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