Chapter 3 - Gene, the Fourth-Rate Twat
It's fair to say that Amy left a strong impression on me. I thought about her the rest of the night and dreamed about her when I finally fell into a restless sleep. It wasn't exactly that I was in love with her. Love felt too possessive for her. She was a force of nature, and I would count myself lucky any time I got to see her again.
It was more of an awe. I was in awe with her. For one thing, she was so spectacularly hot and thinking about her body was intoxicating. But Amy as a person was a fascinating creature regardless of her sex appeal. She faced such dramatically different problems than I did and seemed to have no struggles whatsoever with the things I found constantly challenging.
I struggled with isolation. It often seemed like nobody in my life had any interest in me beyond what I could do for them professionally, and here Amy comes blowing into my life one afternoon, lavishing attention on me as if it came from an everlasting well. Her attention really stuck with me, like a security blanket over my soul.
As did the memories of our bodies intertwined in ecstasy. As long as moments like those existed, life was worth living, if only in hopes of another moment of transcendence. The knowledge of her card in my wallet was a boon to my soul; a hope that more moments of beauty were on the horizon.
The card itself was as interesting as she was. Thick, bright white cardstock, with delicate gold filigree tracing the border and nothing but her first name and phone number embossed in jet black in the center of the card. If it weren't my most secret and prized possession, I would frame it on my wall.
But, life's troubles did not relent. Returning to work the next Monday was a rude awakening. In the best of times, my job was tolerable and slightly boring. But most of the time, it was exhausting and draining. I loathed the act of pouring over other's lackluster work and attempting to make it more presentable, only to have them burst into my office shaking my edits in rage as if I were attacking them personally.
"If you were capable of stringing together 3 decent sentences that made a lick of sense, you wouldn't need me to shit all over your copy, would you, Gene?" I found myself saying to a particularly obnoxious writer on a Thursday afternoon, several weeks after I met Amy. He stormed out of my office toward that of my boss, and I braced myself for the inevitable.
My boss, Frank, was a pretty decent guy as bosses go, but he was probably the most boring individual I had ever known in my life. He would say his hobby is golf, and his office was adorned in nothing but golf paraphernalia, but the word around the office was that he was uniquely terrible at the game. He was improbably ignorant about the range of pop culture interests that floated through the office, never able to participate in chitchat about the popular TV, movies or sports of the day. He was presumably married, as evidenced by the ring on his finger, but never discussed his family at work. He always wore that sort of oversized glasses which everybody else realized were a terrible idea in 1976, but he had apparently already integrated into his identity.
A smile crept onto my face amid my dread as I imagined what Amy would say if she met this man. I would love to hear the turn of phrase she would use to describe him. 'Slightly obese human bobblehead born with only a third of a personality' was my best guess. By the time he was at my door, a stupid smile had found its way onto my lips, and I greeted him with, "What can I do for you, Frank?"
"Greg, you've got to stop being an asshole to Gene." He looked at me over his ridiculous glasses with a 'consider this your last warning' kind of seriousness.
"You don't even want to hear my side of it?" I asked innocently, knowing where this was going.
"I don't need to hear your side of it, Greg. I know Gene is an asshole and a fourth-rate twat..."
"Hey!" I head Gene yell back in the hall. Frank extended his hand in warning behind him without looking back.
"But that doesn't mean you get to be an asshole about it, and it's not like this is the first time." Frank shook his head disapprovingly. "You're an editor for christssakes, Greg, if you can't handle babysitting writers then you should really find another line of work."
He left me to ponder that harsh reality. He wasn't wrong. I hated this shit, and I should really find another line of work. Of course, it didn't help that I felt a low-level jealousy toward the writer pool, and when they committed heinous atrocities against the English language, that jealousy quickly boiled over into contempt. It wasn't fair to them.
But what was the alternative? Quit my job and write a novel? How would I live?
This fucking job crushed any creativity I had, pouring over the drivel these morons pushed across my desk. I couldn't hope to ever achieve my aspirations working here, but I didn't see a way to achieve them by quitting either.
I felt a cold and disquieting certainty creep over me, starting from the back of my skull and spreading over the rest of me in a rush. I knew what I was going to do, and I knew I had better not think about it anymore.
I thought again of Amy, that beautiful armor she wore so that she could do what she had to do. I stood up and grabbed my jacket. Walked down the hall to Frank's office, the echo of Amy's confident stride filling the vacuum left in my mind.
"Frank," I said softly in his doorway, startling him. He stared up at me, open mouthed and wide eyed. I had never shared anything with this man without prompting.
"You're right. I'm not happy here, and I make others unhappy being here. That's not your fault, I just need to do something else with my life."
He was bewildered, this interaction falling so far outside his normal range of experience he was momentarily stupefied.
I finished with a simple, quiet, confident, "I quit."
And I turned on my heel and walked out of the office without looking back. I saw Amy's stunning smile in my head as I walked away, feeling empowered in that moment to adopt her confidence as I exited that loathsome building for the very last time.
-
Chapter 4 - Wings
I can't believe I did that. I'm so fucking stupid. What am I now, an unemployed wannabe writer?
It certainly felt that way.
I didn't want to call my parents- my dad would lavish disappointment upon me, giving up on the job he held in contempt to begin with. My mom would just worry and insert herself into the situation attempting to fix it.
Most of my 'friends' were connected to work, so that would be weird. I never really felt much of a connection with anybody there anyway.
I hadn't let anyone into the part of my head that was making the decisions now. The part that dreamed of something more, but didn't quite know how to get there.
Why do I need to call someone anyway? I don't need to explain myself. I just need to figure out what to do. I've got a fair bit of money saved up. And I've got the apartment, and the car. I could make it on my own for a while, live on beans and rice. Maybe get a book finished before I become a starving homeless man... if I'm lucky. Perhaps becoming a starving homeless man will be the inspiration I need to write this book.
A book does need inspiration, but perhaps taking to the streets was a bridge too far, and inspiration is the last thing in the world I felt at that moment. Come to think of it, the thing I felt most acutely was loneliness. With my job gone, my world had just shrunk to the space of the 4 rooms of my apartment. Maybe I do need to call someone.
I wanted to call Amy. I wasn't horny exactly, just lonely. But I felt like she would understand the stupid choice I just made and probably make me feel better. And... yeah, maybe sex wouldn't hurt the situation.
So I extracted the card from its place in my wallet and began dialing the number. It took me a minute or two to work up the courage to press the dial button, but before I knew it the phone was ringing.
"Hello?" Her voice was a practiced sultry lilt when she answered.
