you: a story in three (short) parts

I can’t believe I’m watching this shit, reruns of some old talent show from the 1980s. Odd hair, odd clothes, odd people. Bad singing, too. I grab the remote, change to another channel.
The news. War. Death. Genocide. Sports.
Press another button, change the channel again.
Suddenly, I see Barney, singing:
“I love you
You love me
We’re a happy family”
Who the hell watches Barney at this time of night? (Me, that’s who.) It’s the only thing on, so I keep watching. I’m reminded of my childhood, of happier days. I raise the bottle to my lips and take a swig. The beer tastes particularly foul as it goes down my throat.
It’s only my second time drinking, and my first time drinking alone.
I’ve got enough beer here with me to get my whole hometown drunk. Probably even more than that. Make that my hometown and the next town over.
And I take another swig.
Soon, Barney says goodbye and gives way to static. Ants warring on a snow-covered plain accompanied by mind-numbing white noise. I’m too lazy to switch the channel (not that there’s anything on anywhere else, anyway), so I just continue watching.
And I take another swig.
I hear someone screaming in the distance.
I hear an explosion from downstairs.
I can hear the east wall of the apartment complex crumble down in a mess of concrete and metal.
I can hear the universe begin to unravel.
I start to hear the voices of the dead amidst the white noise.
I start to see faces of dead people appear on the screen amidst the static.
But you still haven’t called.
. . .
I wake up the next morning and the first thing I do reach for my phone. 1 new message. I open it. It’s from you.
“Call me today? =]”
I get up, brush my teeth, wash my face and make myself a mug of coffee. Black. As night. I could never operate without my morning mug of coffee.
I dial your number slowly.
I sit there in the kitchen with my phone to my ear, listening to your caller ringtone. It loops once before I decide to hang up. I’ll never be able to listen to James Blunt in the same way again.
Maybe you’re busy, I say to myself. I decide to call again later.
I go out onto the balcony, mug of coffee in one hand and cigarette in another. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the traffic’s moving nicely and the birds are even singing.
I spend the morning on the balcony, doing nothing.
(The best time to do nothing is when you should be doing something, like assignments.)
Later, after lunch, I try calling you again.
James Blunt again. I let your caller ringtone loop twice before I hang up.
Maybe you’re asleep, I tell myself. I’ll call again later, I say to no-one in particular.
I’m at a restaurant, biding my time before heading off to class. You used to be in the same classes as me, but you changed universities halfway through the semester. The seat beside me always feels empty.
After class I spend time with friends and forget about you for a while.
Later that night I call you again while I wait for dinner to arrive. (I had ordered take-away from McDonalds. Big Mac McValue meal. Your favourite.)
It isn’t James Blunt anymore. I don’t recognize the voice nor the song. But you still don’t pick up.
Where are you, I ask myself.
And then I hear the doorbell ring and I know it’s time for dinner.

. . .
The next night I tell myself I’m not going to get drunk.
Give away all my alcohol to the kids down the hall. They’re having a party. Invite me along as guest of honour (presumably for providing the drinks) but I say no. I have better things to do.
I texted you in the morning asking why you didn’t pick up yesterday when I called you.
No reply.
Yet. Always be hopeful, mother said.
Pornography is a sad excuse for having the warmth of another human being beside you. The electric feeling of your skin on mine, the intoxicating smell of your breath as you whisper sweet nothings into my ear.
I can feel my cock harden.
I decide to watch a movie instead. Coppola’s Godfather. I’ve seen it many times before, but what’s the harm in watching it one more time?
Three hours fly by just like that.
At the end of the movie I notice I have a message on my phone.
“You have 1 new voice message,” it says. I hope it’s from you.
I open it, and it is.
Your sweet voice sounds crystal-clear through the tinny speaker.
You were busy, you say. You didn’t have any credit to call me back or even to reply my text with, you say. You’re sorry, you say. Really, really sorry.
And then you say that you love me.
I feel a welcome sense of relief. Everything’s right with the world.
I turn off the TV and go to bed.
In the dark, lying stark naked on my bed, I listen to your message over and over as I masturbate to the sound of your voice.

the number you have dialled is no longer in service

This is quite personal.

–

          “God . . .”
          You utter his name as if you believed in him. It’s often said that people forget God when they’re happy and things are going well and only remember him when things get bad, but that never applied to you. God was never really a huge part of your life. You hardly ever thought of him and you hardly ever prayed to him, even.
          But tonight’s different. Tonight’s one of those nights where things are so bad that you just have to turn to him. Perhaps you’ve turned from him, you think, but you still feel that it’s not too late. God gives many chances.
          So you sit on your bed and you pray. Pray to him for help, for relief from the pain, for a good night, free from all the demons haunting you.
          In the distance, cars honk amidst the hubbub of Kuala Lumpur at night. Somewhere outside your apartment you hear two cats start fighting, screeching and wailing like demons. Your neighbour suddenly decides it’d be a good time to blast some music at obscene volumes. You hear Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ la Vida Loca” starting up. You groan.
          But you shut all that out, and you pray. You feel odd doing it, as if it was wrong, somehow. But you’ll try anything just to see if it’ll help. You can’t remember the last time you prayed to God, and maybe that’s what’s bothering you. Awkwardness was never something you liked.
          And in your head, Steve Albini starts singing.
          “To the one true God above
          Here is my prayer
          Not the first you’ve heard, but the first I have wrote . . .”
          And then you shut him up as well. You never liked Shellac, but your old roomate used to play that song over and over until it got stuck in your head. You were even forced to play that song once, on drums, for a university battle of the bands competition.
          Your band didn’t get past the first round.
          And when you’re done praying, when you’re done with pleading and making requests, when you’re done prostrating yourself to a higher power you may or may not even believe in, the cats suddenly stop fighting, your neighbour suddenly decides to turn the music down and Kuala Lumpur suddenly becomes silent.
          For a moment, at least. And then everything starts up again.
          You look up at the ceiling, waiting for an answer, but soon realize how futile it is. So you turn off the lights and go to bed.
          Tomorrow’s another day.