2:33pm, Deacon is in his living room eating cereal and thinking. The phone rings, Deacon hears the sound, It's been a while since he's heard it's tone, and he's unsure how to react. He panics a bit and drops the cereal onto the floor. He enters the kitchen and stares down the phone, it still rings determined to get through. Deacon rights himself and prepares for disappointment, he reaches down and picks up the receiver, a sheepish Deacon inquires "Hello?" A kind voice on the other end responds, "is this Mr. Cassidy?" A telemarketer, Deacon thinks to himself; but still someone to talk to. "Yes" he replies with anticipating disappointment looming. "Hello, Mr. Cassidy this is John Douglas with Elm Street Shipping Supplies, we received your resume and we would like to have you come down for an interview, how does tomorrow at noon sound?" Deacon freezes, is this a joke? a ruse? He's suspicious but hopeful, "Sounds great" Mr. Douglas responds "Excellent we will see you tomorrow!" There's a click and the call goes dead, Deacon stands in his kitchen unsure of how to react. He stands there receiver in hand listening to the sound of dial tone play in his ear. He eventually returns the receiver to the stand, and walks into the bathroom. He takes a long hard look at himself, bloodshot eyes, yellowed teeth, mangy beard, and straw like hair. "I need to prepare" he utters. From his bathroom cabinet he produces a hair clippers and a razor, unsure of how to cut hair properly, he shaves his entire head. The floor is littered with brown and gray hair clippings, and a small dusting of dandruff. He then takes scissors to his beard, trims it down to a manageable length that he can get with his razor. The process is long and his shaking hand lends him with a few razor cuts, and some missed patches of scruff; but he's much cleaner. He enters the shower and turns on the water, it's cold of course; but it's what's needed. He washes away the remains of dandruff, blood, and the smell of rot, he feels alive again, powerful. He enters his kitchen and swings open the freezer door. Takes a long pause, and a deep breath, he then snatches the gin bottle from the freezer and pours it directly down the drain, as the contents pour out he places two fingers into it's stream pulls them back, licks them and takes a sniff. Deacon spits in the sink, runs the water from the faucet over his hands, and throws the bottle in the trash. Deacon returns to the mirror, looks at himself clean and proud. He's ready, this has been a long time coming, and he's ready, Deacon smiles... A car alarm goes off in the middle of the night, Deacon rolls to his back, feels his face, he's stung by his mangy beard, reaches up to feel his stiff straw hair, reaches down to find his bottle of gin... utters to himself, "What a sweet... nightmare."
Friday, October 11, 2013
The Sweet Nightmare
2:33pm, Deacon is in his living room eating cereal and thinking. The phone rings, Deacon hears the sound, It's been a while since he's heard it's tone, and he's unsure how to react. He panics a bit and drops the cereal onto the floor. He enters the kitchen and stares down the phone, it still rings determined to get through. Deacon rights himself and prepares for disappointment, he reaches down and picks up the receiver, a sheepish Deacon inquires "Hello?" A kind voice on the other end responds, "is this Mr. Cassidy?" A telemarketer, Deacon thinks to himself; but still someone to talk to. "Yes" he replies with anticipating disappointment looming. "Hello, Mr. Cassidy this is John Douglas with Elm Street Shipping Supplies, we received your resume and we would like to have you come down for an interview, how does tomorrow at noon sound?" Deacon freezes, is this a joke? a ruse? He's suspicious but hopeful, "Sounds great" Mr. Douglas responds "Excellent we will see you tomorrow!" There's a click and the call goes dead, Deacon stands in his kitchen unsure of how to react. He stands there receiver in hand listening to the sound of dial tone play in his ear. He eventually returns the receiver to the stand, and walks into the bathroom. He takes a long hard look at himself, bloodshot eyes, yellowed teeth, mangy beard, and straw like hair. "I need to prepare" he utters. From his bathroom cabinet he produces a hair clippers and a razor, unsure of how to cut hair properly, he shaves his entire head. The floor is littered with brown and gray hair clippings, and a small dusting of dandruff. He then takes scissors to his beard, trims it down to a manageable length that he can get with his razor. The process is long and his shaking hand lends him with a few razor cuts, and some missed patches of scruff; but he's much cleaner. He enters the shower and turns on the water, it's cold of course; but it's what's needed. He washes away the remains of dandruff, blood, and the smell of rot, he feels alive again, powerful. He enters his kitchen and swings open the freezer door. Takes a long pause, and a deep breath, he then snatches the gin bottle from the freezer and pours it directly down the drain, as the contents pour out he places two fingers into it's stream pulls them back, licks them and takes a sniff. Deacon spits in the sink, runs the water from the faucet over his hands, and throws the bottle in the trash. Deacon returns to the mirror, looks at himself clean and proud. He's ready, this has been a long time coming, and he's ready, Deacon smiles... A car alarm goes off in the middle of the night, Deacon rolls to his back, feels his face, he's stung by his mangy beard, reaches up to feel his stiff straw hair, reaches down to find his bottle of gin... utters to himself, "What a sweet... nightmare."
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
The Wait...
Deacon sits in his dark apartment, it's roughly 2:37am. Next to him is an ashtray full of discarded cigarette buts, a near empty fifth of gin, and his telephone. No fancy smart phone or cell phone, just an old model early 80's touch tone phone, black in color. Deacons waiting for a call, a very important call, and he'll be here all night if he has too. He's nervous, his hands are shaking, not quite sure what he's going to say when the call comes, in the back of his mind he's convinced himself he will ruin the whole deal; but he must get past that. His hands are clammy, his brow has dots of perspiration across it. He takes a swig from his bottle and a long haul on his cigarette. He regains composure for only a few moments. His mind races back to his younger days of youth and confidence. He was handsome once, and strong, spoke his mind out loud, and was often rewarded with praise, and the promise of good fortune, those days are gone now, and the smallest of victories is the world to Deacon. He gets to his feet to use the bathroom, he urinates long and hard, he's been holding this for a while, he keeps the bathroom door open and occasionally leans back to monitor the phone and make sure he doesn't miss it's impending ring. He flushes the toilet and returns to his seat, he lights up another cigarette, takes a swig and lets his mind wander. He smiles for a moment as his mind shifts to the exact reason he is here waiting by the phone, with such hopeless desperation. Two weeks ago Deacon was at a shopping market, he was purchasing his usual groceries for the week, microwave pizza, eggs, pickles, and cheese. As Deacon went through check-out he noticed the cashier was very pleasant to him, said things like please and thank you, have a nice day, she took great care in bagging his groceries. She was older in her late 40's, had the look of a woman that may have once been a high school cheerleader. Deacon was smitten by the woman and could no longer endure her obvious flirtations. When he received his receipt he mustered up all the courage he had and wrote his number across it and handed it back to her, to which she replied "Ok". Deacon's mind snaps back to the present and looks at the phone, he checks it for dial tone, puts the receiver back on the stand, lights up another cigarette, and waits...
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