Soaking Sunset

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's bad enough I'm stuck in traffic trying to get Lars Arson to the airport.  But it suddenly dawns on me Lars has chosen this moment to give me some professional criticism.

Fuck.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" he asks.

I laugh.  "No."

"You need to stop answering me on reflex."

"What does that mean?"  Lars and I are pretty comfortable as friends, but occasionally I forget he is one of my bosses.

"I asked you if you knew everything."

"Of course not.  But if there's something I need to know, I know how to learn out about it."

Lars pauses.  "But how do you know you need to know something?"

Am I being fired?

I think about these questions carefully.

"A circumstance occurs," I says, stalling words by pretending to be preoccupied by unmoving traffic. "And if I find a problem, I'll seek a solution."

"That's reactive," says Lars.  "Can you be preventative?"

I'm a little stunned.  "I'm not sure."

"I don't think you can."

Trapped.

"I could prevent this conversation by driving into oncoming traffic," I reply, despite the fact that oncoming traffic is stopped, and within arm's reach.

"That's reacting to this conversation," Lars replies.

"So what are you getting at?"

"You're swimming with sharks now," he replies.  "Reactive animals don't fare well against sharks."

I'm getting angry, but I don't really understand the implications of what he is saying.

"I've spent three years being beat to a pulp for virtually nothing-"

"Relax,"  says Lars.  "Nobody knows better how much of a life-imploding experience this has been on you.  But you showed up."

I really can't tell where this conversation is going, but I am weirdly tearing up.  This is just a really, really excruciating way to get fired.

"I've always been pretty prudent about the company," I says.  "Am I going to get a decent reference?"

"You were 'prudent' before your divorce," Lars replies.  "Now I'm not sure.  And I'm retiring soon. I suggested you to replace me."

???

"But I hate flying."

"That," replies Lars, "is a 'reactive' problem." 

Al Dente Inferno

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I woke up annoyed that, for the third day in a row, something went wrong on the coffee pot timer.

The coffee didn't start, and I would have to undergo the arduous task of pressing a button and wait fifteen minutes.  So I jump in the shower sans caffeine, consciously suppressing screaming obscenities into unsympathetic porcelain tiles.

My brain, well-advised against starting a day like this, tried to head me off.

"Relax, man," it said.  "It's not like anyone died."

-And this kinda worked, until it added the afterthought:

"Eventually, everybody dies at the end of this story."

That thought threw me into an utter crippling existential funk.  I started thinking about everyone I knew, friends, loved ones, children, pets ... all finally dying, and worse, kinda taking guesses at what Fate had in store for them.

I am supposed to take Lars Arson to the airport for his flight back to Illinois, but I don't know what time he is supposed to be taken to the airport.  The couch has a wide defensive perimeter of In-N-Out Burger wrappers, video games and controllers, and Corona bottles.

Rachel yawned as she entered the kitchen.  As far as I can tell, she is only wearing an oversized t-shirt.

"Are you working already?"

"I'm trying to," I says, honestly seeking distraction.  "But I can't figure out if I'm supposed to log in under A01, A07, or A10."

"Go warthog," she says.  "Hey, this coffee is terrible."

She didn't know I was at the show last night, because, well, she bombed pretty badly.  I raced home unsure if my presence would only have somehow made things worse.  The decision of who got the guest bedroom was left for my guests to decide (Lars was predictably gracious), and I retired for much-needed sleep probably long before she arrived.  Call it cowardice.

"Look," I says.  "If you are going to stay here for open mike nights, why not just move in?  I have plenty of space, and I could use the help."

"Because the coffee is terrible," she smiles.  "But thank you for letting us stay."

Us?  She picked someone up -and slept with him in my home?

"Cindy came to the show," she says.

-Okay, now I am depressed and have an erection.

Wolves v Sharks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A badly sunburned Lars Arson stumbles into the campsite about 9pm.  His Hawaiian shirt is tattered, and he is wearing only one flip-flop.

He has been missing for seven hours.

Music is playing, glow sticks are flying, the grilled food smell wafts through the air, and a naked woman is working a hula hoop by the bonfire.

"We were playing 'Capture the Flag!'" he gasps between gulps of water.

"Right," I says, pulling a blue rag from my back pocket.  "Here.  You win."

I Got This

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My iPad and iPhone are finally synced.

-And I can't type on either fucking one of them.

I would try and tough this out, but Lars Arson -somehow surprised I dabble in fiction- told me a few days ago that the company won't pay for screenplays, even if they use them.  You can't throw a rock without hitting someone with stacks of screenplays here (and/or being on meth it would seem).

Now this is ironic on a lot of levels.  I conspicuously never mentioned "writing" while I was interviewing.  It was 50% based on strategy, 50% based on the fact that I'm pretty crappy at it frankly, and 50% based on sheer narcissism.  And I am literally devoid of "fame" aspirations: my life is governed by anxiety, and I spend most of it ensuring I will be promptly forgotten as soon as whenever possible.

But specifically not getting $ disconnected me on that topic until now.

Ponder: they still give the writing credit.

That, I noticed, is weirdly in my contract.

-I am already writing "Pirate Alien Coeds versus the Astronaut Ninjas from Earth."

The Pound of Flesh

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At Saturday's company softball game I got to meet a lot of my new associates. It took place in a area on the map called "Community Garden," which is a hippie euphemism for "park." Afterwards, somewhat enthusiastic, I call my mom (amongst others), pacing outside the front of my apartment during the calls so I could simultaneously smoke.

It was during the call to my mom that I tripped on the cobblestones, and cracked my head open.

This created a lot of problems. First, I don't even know where the local hospital is yet. And I'm certainly not calling 911 for something that probably only required a few stitches. Also, I don't really know anyone here except for my new coworkers. Can you imagine? "Hi. This is your new hire, and I need medical assistance ..."

So, as head wounds tend to, I bled a lot. I stood patiently in the shower, waiting for it to stop for almost two hours. Once satisfied that it had stopped, I did exactly what you're supposed to do when you have a possible concussion: I immediately went to sleep.

Keep in mind I don't have my bed -or other comforts- yet. I am sleeping on the floor with sheets and pillows. I woke to a makeshift-bedding bloodbath. Worse, I decided to get back in the shower -now searing from my softball blowtorched sunburn- and shampooing out the blood, only starting the bleeding again.

I don't usually blog in an expository sense, but the strange thing is I seem to be better at numbers. Like I reprogrammed my new phone from memory. I memorized the new companies' account numbers and client phone numbers. Likewise, I pored over the addresses and roads, everything in the immediate vicinity.

Weird.

Chunks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I stare up at the statue, utterly awestruck.

"Why did you think I hired you?" asks my new boss.

It is a statue of me.

"My qualifications?"

"Son, your resume has more lies than a golf course in a hurricane. I hired you because you're a local hero."

The base of the statue reads:


"HE SACRIFICED HIS EYEBROWS FOR US ALL"    

Chinks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late.  But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week.  The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants.  Today is the real deal.

But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.

I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest.  She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway.  Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me.  With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.

For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint.  Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress.  Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.

"How many keys do you need?" she asks.  "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."

"Just one."

She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed.  "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"

"I'm divorced," I kinda lie.  My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be.  For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen.  But either way, the marriage is moot.

The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.

Is she flirting with me? I thought.

Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.

Eyes are bright, but kinda sad.  Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...

But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.

No visible tattoos.  Great complexion -possibly vegan.  Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...

-Apparently I hate fish.

No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"

So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out.  He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.

So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?

Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.

Bingo.

 

***

The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive.  A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.

I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big.  Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse.   But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.

Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet.  He has wide shoulders and skinny legs.  His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."

"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.

"Sure!" I says.

I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.

I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.

"Here we are," he explains.

I am skeptical.

"What can you film here?" I ask innocently.  "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"

"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"