I recently passed 40K with Gabe, which has broken the back of the ‘novel’ challenge.  I thought I’d pop up part of one of the chapters I’m working on at the moment.  Takes place somewhere in the middle and can stand alone alright, I reckon.

Diversions

The problem with being a writer is that you do the majority of your work sitting in self-imposed solitary confinement, so when you do want to temporarily rejoin the outside world, it’s desirable that your social circle is one that you can plunder for ideas.  This means having a very diverse collection of people, many of whom you wouldn’t readily admit to seeing when the words are only dribbling onto the page.  Alcohol is part and parcel of seeing them.  

So, being a writer means you’re either sitting drinking with social castoffs trying to find something to write about or sitting alone trying to write.  Compound this with being unable to write and sitting alone in a small flat waiting for your lover to hopefully come back and it’s just going to lead to disaster.  Daytime television consists entirely of property, cooking and antique shows, punctuated with the news, which doesn’t seem to change much.  After 48 hours I feel like I’ve read the entirety of the Internet that’s worth reading and can no longer bear the sight of a monitor.  It’s time to go out and distract myself so I’m in a fit state to receive Tilley, if and when she comes back.

I go to where single parents and the unimaginative go to kill an hour for free.  Pets 4 U is two stories and smells like sawdust.  Just inside the door is a stand with various animal treats and toys on it under the banner ‘pets like presents too’.  Above the blown up photo of a Dalmatian puppy is a slot to put in a picture for the current holiday season.  Right now it’s empty.  I wonder if they’re going to start milking the Jewish holidays any time soon.

Inside their lidless glass cube the guinea pigs make alien squeaks and hoots at me as they scuttle backwards into a mass of hay.  Two escaped budgies fly over my head and perch on a hanging strip-light.  One employee is peering under the shelves with a net by the chipmunk cage.  I spot Rik at the cashier counter and maneuver around screaming children towards him.

“Hey Rik.  Going on your lunch break anytime?”

He grins and looks like he should have toothpaste in his mouth as a stand-in for a cigarette.  “Hey Gabe.  Yeah, me and Mike are off in about ten minutes.”  There’s no ‘about’ approximation about it.  People on minimum wage know exactly when their breaks are and will be gone for every second of it.  “Wanna grab a burger with us?”

“Sounds good,” I reply, trying not to sound grateful.  I’ve known Rik for two years and Mike for a few months.  It’s one of those casual acquaintances where you drift in and out of each other’s lives, have a few laughs but don’t get serious.  It’s a friendship with all the perks and none of them as well, in a way.  “Burger King?”

Rik’s acne scarred forehead creases, deforming the craters.  “Not McDonalds?”

“Went off them a few years ago.”

“But they’re using 100% chicken breast in their nuggets now.  It’s good eating,” he enthuses, far too keenly.  Suspiciously brain-washed, one might say.

“What were they using before?”

That throws him, and Rik glances quickly to the left before giving up on an answer with a shrug.

I point for razor-wire emphasis.  “And just think: they’re not raving about what’s in their milkshakes yet, are they?”

Another jaded shrug.  “Alright, Burger King then.  A burger’s a burger, wherever you grill it.”

*

The chips are stiff and over-salted but with the Teflon tables and harsh lighting, the chain really isn’t different from McDonalds.  The Golden Arches have this place down on their barbeque dip, though, and I’m quite particular to their squidgey chips that can be folded three times for ultimate dip immersion.

Rik and Mike have burgers with cheese and bacon slapped on beneath the wilted lettuce.  I have a large chocolate milkshake, as much to stand by my point of rejecting the food as actually wanting it.

Mike slams a hand on the table and grins through a mouthful of grey mush and beige grease.  Sexy.  “I’ve got a great one for you, Gabe.  Right up your street.  I’m going to give you your next book, you sick bastard.”

Long sip of chewy milkshake and I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth so my brain doesn’t think it’s freezing.  “Go on then.”

Sitting back decidedly pleased with his attentive audience, Mike plays out his story with vague hand gestures and animated eyebrows.  “So, last few months, right, we’ve had this guy in buying loads of rabbits and guinea pigs.  Like, three a week.”

Rik swallows loudly but doesn’t clear quite everything.  Flecks of white pulp cling to his teeth.  “Thought he was doing a breeding program or stocking a petting zoo or summut.”

“After thirty animals, though,” Mike continues, drumming a finger to his temple, “we get a bit weirded and suspicious, and call the police.”

Rik nods.  “They followed him home since he kept coming in at the same time to buy the things.”

A maniacal grin from Mike.  “Turns out he was fucking them and, like, ripping them up and splitting their insides so he had to keep buying new ones.  Sick bastard, huh?”

I slide my milkshake away and wish that I could go a few days without someone telling me shit like this.  “That’s a lovely story.”

Rik jabs Mike in the arm.  “It’s like that guy they found in a building after that earthquake.  Stone dead with a chicken on his dick.  Hell of a way for the wife to find out.”

Mike glares at him like he’s said something stupid.  As if stupidity could be the only thing wrong with that sentence.  “How could he have a chicken on his dick?  Surely his dick was in the chicken.”

Rik squints and speaks around a mouthful of food that all looks the same.  “Well, they’d both gone, like, stiff from being dead and I reckon that once the Earth started moving he stopped holding it and it stuck there on his own.  Clamped up around his bell end in its death throes.  Hell, it might even have been dead before the building came down.  Chickens pass eggs, yeah, but those are short and nothing deep like a cock. Unless he had a little stumpy one.  I don’t know.  That bit wasn’t there in what I read.”

Mike jumps in before I can.  “How do you even know this whole story isn’t bullshit?  Where in the world did this tale of cross species erotica even happen?  ‘Cause you could get a rough idea of dick size from that. Standard sized American condoms are made smaller than for the British.”

Rik shrugs awkwardly, embarrassed.  “I don’t know.  You know I’m shit for remembering details like that.”

Mike’s nostrils flare dubiously.  “Uh huh.”

I roll my cold cardboard cup between my palms.  “It could just be another urban story myth, like the girl who wanted to grow up to be a tractor.  Or Jesus.”

Rik’s mouth turns sour and he turns to stare through his reflection in the glass wall.   Mike flicks his eyebrows at me and keeps eating.

In his defense, I did come here seeking a distraction.  How can anyone think about their love life when all these images are being smeared across their brain?

-*-

It’s genuinely unsettling how much of what I write is based in truth…

This entry was posted on Monday, October 20th, 2008 at 11:29 am and is filed under My Books. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.