I opened another bottle and sat down at the keys.
I nod. I have started now.
I am in a single room on the third floor. Magnolia walls. Magnolia carpet. A small bathroom. A single bed. A desk. And this chair.
From the hallway, I hear female laughter and the passing click-clack-click-clack of their stiletto heels. Up on the fifth floor, the ‘Social Bar Club’ must have now closed for the night. It must have. I cannot hear that dwarf’s voice on the microphone.
I am being serious. He was there when I was at the club earlier. Sat in my own booth. Two small green leather sofas. I played dice with a lady named Lucky. That’s right. A very bad name. I didn’t stand a chance. I was up against a pro. And I was drunk inside of thirty minutes. Cracking up at the savage state of me, Lucky slapped her hand on my upper thigh.
“Look at you, brother,” she laughed, “You’d think you’d never played dice before. Always losing. Very bad. Always lying. Terrible.” She laughed, “I can see why you are sitting here on your own.”
“Really?” I nodded – raising an eyebrow in her direction – unsure of how much Lucky knew about my situation. “What do you mean by that?”
Lucky stroked me on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, brother. It’s alright. Me and the other girls, we all know you from the TV. And we all know that this is all very unfair on you…”
She looked at me but I am not there now.
Cut to my dim lit single room.
The sound of a drunken argument in the room above me.
The woman is furious. She doesn’t like where her husband’s been. And she hates the state he’s in. It’s happening too often. She wants him to shower. But he tells her – in no uncertain terms – that he doesn’t want to. He is a dragon. He is a – something-or-other – I don’t know every word – And he is also something else – but I cannot find the word for that either.
“Fuck off…”
I pick up my cigarettes and shake my head. The argument grows louder.
Yes. That’s right. I could go out. But it is 3 AM. And I don’t feel like eating any barbecue. Not with the cameras on me. Not now I have become an unwanted celebrity. Can’t forget that “brother”.
No. I can’t forget yesterday morning. It will not leave my thoughts.
6 AM. The fuckers.
Nearly smashed up half the empty bottles lying on the floor. Not that they cared, of course. The local media with their big ass cameras and their bloody smart phones. Shoving them in my face and throwing questions at me. The moment I was stupid enough to open the door to my room.
“Brother, when you met her, did you know she was married?”
“Brother, do you have any comment?”
No. I do not. I have three packets of cigarettes. An ashtray. Two litres of cheap vodka. And in the drawer beneath the keys, I now have a one-way ticket to the country next door. I don’t know how I’m going to use it though. Her husband is a high-ranked member of the local military. So it would be safer to assume that he has contacts at the airport.
That’s why an explanation is not important now.
Plans and decisions need to be made. And that is why – blah blah blah – I cannot concentrate on anything. And that is why I keep on giving out excuses.
My apologies.
I didn’t even tell you about the dwarf and his gold-lamé suit.
I’m sorry.
Maybe next time.
Right now – I hear shouting in the corridor
J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas. Website: acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com