Wow, so it really is true that your whole life flashes by when you’re dying. And apparently even when death is not even nigh, but inevitably coming. Why was I too lazy to get a stepladder to change that lightbulb and too dumb to realize a rickety old chair was a bad idea? Fuck.
I remember when I moved in here. It was right after my second divorce. A worn down noisy apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods of town. Our gun violence, carjackings and home invasions didn’t even make the news anymore. On my first night there I didn’t get any sleep. My neighbors to the left were only able to communicate screaming, my neighbor to the left had multiple male visitors that night so either her doorbell or loud orgasms would disturb the relative quiet and my upstairs neighbor is apparently very much into clog dancing. So the next morning I took my battered car to the hardware store and bought everything I needed to soundproof my new digs. Even when that meant I had to miss a few alimony payments to at least one of my ex-wives. I decided it was going to be the latest ex. She already accused me of being a selfish son of a bitch anyways.
But how the fuck did I end up here? When I was in my early twenties things were looking bright. I did drop out of college but had a mind numbing job that paid the bills, a small place of my own, a bit similar to what I was living in now, but in a better neighborhood and a bunch of friends I used to hang out with at the local dance club. But I knew things would become better, I was the celebrated, albeit still unpublished author or our little town. The town I would leave as soon as I got my big break.
The town was smack dab in the middle of the bible belt. Loads of devout christians telling us how we needed to live our lives, yet the club we went to only played alternative new wave music, from bands like Sisters of Mercy, Depeche Mode, Type O Negative, Joy Division. Me and my friends dressed in black and I even wore eyeliner and nail polish for a while. Also black of course. When I think about it, I still find it weird that we were able to have that club and even a youth center that would organize all sorts of not very religious activities.
Besides dancing and drinking I was also working on my novel. I knew it was going to be a bestseller. I was sure I was the next Kerouac, Hemingway or maybe Tolkien, since my work was a mixture of sci-fi, fantasy, keen observations and suspense. Some of the short stories I wrote, I gave to my friends to read. They never had any comments, told me they loved them, so clearly they were good. I was a wizard with words.
I remember my friends who were volunteering at the youth center were organizing some sort of art fair. There would be paintings, photographs, people singing and dancing or whatever performing arts they would be into. I expected them to contact me to write something for the occasion, but mostly ignored the whole thing. I had better things to do.
The program of the fair came with a tiny booklet filled with interviews, drawings and photographs of the art works and a short story written by this fat chick that one of my friends was currently involved with. Apparently she was going to read from her work at the fair? What the hell?
I immediately went over to see Petra, one of the organizers, to her ask about this. How could they do that to me? They had this great writer right in their little circle and went for an outsider? What the fuck?
When I knocked on her door, I was livid. So when she didn’t answer right away, I knocked again and again until she opened it. I threw the booklet at her and unfortunately barely missed her face.
“What is this? You asked her to be the author at your fair? You know the next best thing in the literary universe is standing right in front of you!” I yelled the last words at her.
She started to laugh, which pissed me off even more. I pushed her to the side and walked into her room. Still laughing, she closed the door behind us.
“You should’ve asked me to read from my work. I live in this town, I go to all your little shindigs, I thought we were friends for fuck’s sake! Why did you ask her? We’ve known each other our whole lives, you’ve known her for just a second and you know she’ll be gone when Marc finds a new toy to play with. I am here and when I get my break you will be sorry you asked that ugly obese chick!”
“Yeah, we know you want to be a writer, Matt. Believe me, we KNOW.” She really emphasized the last word.
“What do you mean by that exactly, you ignorant cunt?” Her face froze, her eyes went cold and she opened the door again.
“I think you should leave now.”
“Not before you answer me.”
“We asked her because she’s a much nicer person than you’ll ever be and her writing is accessible and fun and not full of shit like yours. And like you for that matter. Now leave my house, please.”
It felt like a punch in the gut. I looked at her, surprised and shocked. She was still pissed off, so I picked up the booklet and left, like she asked me. When I came home, I reread the story. Again and again. And still couldn’t believe why they picked her instead of me. My stories had so much more depth and layers. My characters were well thought out and I always tried to avoid using cliches. And her story was one big fat cliche. Just like she was. Stupid bitch.
That weekend I went to the club, like I always did. Petra was on the dance floor and totally ignored me. Some of my other so-called friends waved at me, but also went to have fun with the people around them. I noticed that they would whisper to each other and then glance at me. Apparently my conversation with Petra had become common knowledge. I grabbed a bar stool and ordered a beer for myself. After my third lonely beer an acquaintance walked up to me and we chatted a bit. From the corner of my eye, I saw how Marc and his heifer walked in. They were greeted enthusiastically by everyone I knew. I ordered my fifth beer and watched them having fun in the mirror behind the bar. Petra and The Stupid Cow were dancing to all my favorite songs and the black cloud above my head became thicker and thicker.
After a few songs I saw her walking towards the bar. She stood right next to me, I could feel her body heat, smell her perfume with a faint hint of sweat from all the dancing. She ordered a couple of beers.
“Hey,” I grunted.
“Oh, hi Matt! I didn’t recognize you, sorry. I forgot my contacts.” She smiled at me, friendly and apologetically. My hate for her grew and grew.
“No worries. So, I read your story in the booklet.”
“You did? Cool!”
“Mind if I give you some constructive criticism? Writer to writer?”
“Sure!”
I don’t remember my exact words, but my criticism could not be considered constructive. That wasn’t my goal. I wanted to tear the story apart, I wanted to tear her apart. And by the time she got her tray of beers for her friends, no for MY friends, I could see it had worked. My words had wiped that stupid smile from her face and she was close to tears. I smirked.
“I hope this was helpful?”
She stammered a yes and a thanks and took her tray.
I smiled to myself in the mirror and ordered my eighth beer.
When the art fair came around, she wasn’t there. Since I didn’t really talk to my friends anymore, their loss of course, I heard through the grapevine she called in sick. I called Petra as soon as I found this out and offered to help her out. Her answer was that she was planning on asking me when hell froze over. Asshole.
I realized that I’d outgrown this small town and moved away to live in the big city. I found a new shitty job that offered better pay, but not very much else. I didn’t look back and see or talk to my former friends. That didn’t matter because I was in the Big City now and I knew better things were coming my way. And for a while they did. One of my stories got published in a literary magazine and I met Carla. We were madly in love. I was sure she was the love of my life. I moved in with her just after a few short months. She had a good and well paying job and owned her own place, so that was one easy choice. My trusty old typewriter and hat collection were the only valuable things I owned. I turned the spare bedroom into my writing den. This was one of the things that rang the early alarm bells, she admitted during our divorce. I never talked to her about it, I just commandeered the room. According to her, of course. I still don’t know what I did wrong. The room wasn’t being used, so what was the problem here?
Just after a short year, she announced she was pregnant. I was in shock.
“How the hell did that happen? You’re on the pill! Or did you trick me into this?” I yelled at her. Her face turned white, red spots appeared on her cheek, making it look as if I just hit her.
“How could you think that! Yes, I’m on the pill but you know it’s not 100% safe. How can you accuse me of lying to you?” She stormed out of the room, ran into our bedroom and slammed the door shut. I remember I shrugged and just let her stew in there.
During her pregnancy, I dutifully accompanied her on her doctor’s visits and read a book on pregnancy, so I could maybe predict some of her hormonal mood swings. Because it was undoubtedly my child, I agreed to get married to have all the legal shit settled quickly. She also announced she wanted to cut her hours at work to be there for the baby, which meant I had to work more hours at mine. I reluctantly agreed, because this would mean I had less time to write. I did have one finished novel, but so far no publisher had accepted it.
For a couple of years I tried to combine family life, work and writing. And I admit, I sucked at it. I couldn’t do it. Carla insisted on doing things together when I had a day off. I usually agreed, because I hated to see her hurt but judgmental face whenever I told her I wanted to do some writing instead. My daughter and I didn’t get along. People will always tell you that it’s different when it’s your own child, but I disagree. I never wanted children, I don’t understand them, heck, I don’t even like them. I think she felt it too, because she never came up for a cuddle or even to ask me to read her a story. Which ironically was the only thing I did want to do with her. Read her my own stories, so she would know what a great writer her dad was.
Because I never found the time to write, I called in sick on the days Carla worked and our girl was at daycare. I would grab my bottle of Jack and go up to my room, the room Carla wanted to convert into the nursery, but I fought tooth and nail for it. Eventually she gave in and gave up her own home office, which she did offer to share with me, I have to admit. But I needed my own room, my own sanctuary.
The calling in sick became just a little too frequent, according to my bosses and eventually they gave me the choice to either step up or step away. I choose the latter. Of course I didn’t tell Carla. On her days off, I’d go sit in coffeeshops to write or go to parks I knew she’d never visit with our daughter. In one of the cafes I frequented I met Sandrine, a cute red haired barista. She was a decade younger than I was, just started college. One day she asked me if she could read some of my work and I agreed. I gave her my greatest success, the story that was published in the literary magazine. When she finished it, she looked at me with an adoring look in her eyes and told me she was impressed by my skills. I felt flattered and tried to visit the coffeeshop every day that she worked. We would talk her entire shift and never seemed to run out of topics. I gave her my phone number so we could text when she was not working or on the days I was forced to spend time with my family. At first we texted a lot, then the occasional phone call snuck in. And then I would tell Carla I had to go to work, but went to see Sandrine in her apartment instead.
Everything they say about redheads is true. Sandrine was a wild animal in the sack. She was a lot younger than Carla, more flexible and had never pushed a baby out of her vagina, therefore she was tight as hell. I’ve had the best sex of my life with her and couldn’t get enough. My hunger for her pussy made me careless and it didn’t take Carla long to find out what was going on. She kicked me out and immediately filed for divorce and sole custody. I agreed quickly, but forgot to thoroughly read the agreement and missed the part about the alimony payments. I moved in with Sandrine and got a customer service job. It paid the bills and reinforced my idea that most people are dumb as fuck.
Living with Sandrine was great until it wasn’t. That moment came when she told me she was pregnant. She got really mad at me when I asked her if it was mine. Wasn’t this the most logical question a man could ask? We guys never know who else had been granted access to her cunt now do we? She got ever more mad, which I didn’t think was possible either, when I asked her when the abortion would take place. Why would she be mad when she knew I didn’t want to have another child. I never really wanted the other one in the first place either. She forced me to sleep on the couch for a couple of nights, but I was back in the bedroom very soon, because apparently hormones can make a pregnant woman horny as hell. Carla had been feeling sick for a long time and had been very irritable during hers, and because I could care less about pregnancies and never researched anything about them, I was pleasantly surprised by this side effect. I think I was addicted to sex with Sandrine, because I totally ignored the other side effect of pregnancy, namely the baby that would be coming at the end of it. Before I knew it, abortion was impossible and my son was born.
Very very soon I was in the same situation as before. Married with a child, in a small home with no time nor place for myself, a dead-end and mind-numbing job and this nagging bitch that never gave me a break. It didn’t take Sandrine long before she gave me the ultimatum. Better yourself or leave. I chose the latter. This time I did read the fine print in the divorce papers and tried to wiggle my way out of the alimony payments. She made more money than I did, but unfortunately that also meant she could get a better lawyer. And unfortunately for me, I was great as a customer service rep and got promoted to a supervisory position with better hours and a way better salary, which I couldn’t enjoy because most of it would go to those two whores and their brats.
That’s why I ended up in this dump, instead of a nice home that men with a similar paycheck would’ve been able to afford. Smarter men, men without women or children. Men without huge black egos and hungry dicks. Men who’ll use a step ladder and not a wonky chair when they need to change a light bulb and therefore won’t break their necks. Men who don’t have to soundproof their home to keep the noise from the street out but also keep the cries for help in. Men who don’t leave their phone on their bedside table, so they can call for help when they’re on the floor of their crappy apartment, unable to move. Men who’ll die peacefully in the arms of their loved ones and not all alone, missed by no-one.