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Me:This is awful news. Trying to comprehend. Thank you for sharing.
Deacon:Of course. He seemed clean cut the few times we met. Didn’t take him for a user.
Me:Neither did I.
Deacon:Hmm. Odd, no?
What did he mean by that? Plenty of people succumbed to addiction at all stages of life. My phone rang as I started to type a response to Deacon.
SIMON MAIER
“Oh, god,” I said out loud and took a swig from my drink before answering. My agent. “Simon. Hey, man.”
“Clarke, you sonofabitch, how’s it hangin’, brother?”
“Pretty good, pretty good.”
“Hey, I heard about an audition yesterday. That prick Isaac reach out to you out of the blue? He’s gotta go through me, man, you know that.”
Another swig, this one more. “Yep,” I said and sucked air through my teeth to soften the burn down my throat. “He was just trying to do a solid. Nothing panned out.”
“Did he feed you that ‘apology’ line BS? Guy has no clue.”
“Yeah.”
“So, listen. There’s another audition tomorrow. It’s an open casting call, but worth a shot. It’s a guest starring role inSaint Laurent Street.”
I scoffed. “The soap opera? As aguest star?”
“Yeah, man. Listen, there’s a great opportunity here. People who watch that showlovea macho, jacked fucker with dark hair. You’re perfect! It’s at—”
“Hey, listen, Simon, I’m actually back home right now.” I paused and could hear him breathing. Knowing him, he probably just blew a line of coke. “It’s my mother. She’s sick. Had to head out unexpectedly. Not sure when I can get back.”
“Sick, hmm…” I couldhearthe greasy wheels spinning in his head like a hamster with a jolt of caffeine. Or cocaine. “That’s actually an opportunity. I’ll talk to PR about this. Maybe we can use this? Shit. Yeah, I think we can. Snap a selfie with your mother. Right? Yeah. Hear me out. Post something on Insta, some sob description that nobody would read. The hashtags are critical, though. Like, ‘sick mom’ or ‘one day at a time’ or some shit that—”
“Gofuckyourself, Simon.”
And then I hung up.
Thatsurprised me. I had never spoken to my agent like that. Ever.
Damn, did that feel good. I took a sip of my martini. Hell, I took two. Leaned back in my bed and dropped my phone next to me. Took a third sip. I’d need more vodka and olive brine at this rate. The pantry was stocked, and I could go all night with this shit. Maybe I should shoot Simon a text about how I really felt? Maybe the whole PR team.
Hi everyone. Winnie fucked me up the ass and then you followed up with your lube-less dicking. Why don’t you go pound sand?
Confidence flooded my system. I glanced around my bedroom with newfound clarity. My old desktop computer was gone, but I still remembered my late-night chats with Bennett on an instant messenger program. The zing of excitement I would feel when I saw an incoming message from BENNETTBOY88. Out loud, I cackled. My screen name had been CLARKE_KENT. I thought it was so clever.
I slammed back the rest of my martini, picked up my phone, and blew out air with puffed cheeks. I found a certain someone’s contact information, started a new text thread.
Here we go. One last shot. That’s it. Just one more try.
Me:Hey.
Me:Wanted to give a quick update. My mother is doing fine. We had a good chat about the state of things.
Me:Thought I’d share.
Shit—was three texts in a row like that too much? I put the phone down immediately. Clicked off the screen. I would walk away from this and not stare obsessively. I left the room and forced a casualness in my steps, as if I had an audience watching. Like I needed them to know I didn’t care, that I didn’t need to stare wide-eyed at a screen for three little dots to bounce so I could jump like a monkey about to get a banana.
