| |
I make the coffee and force down half a bowl of oatmeal. Oatmeal is good for you when you get to be middle-aged, or so my doctor told me. It not only cleans out your intestines, but it somehow cleans out your arteries. Anyway, I’m supposed to limit the amount of eggs and bacon I consume nowadays since that shit is full of cholesterol and will almost surely result in a heart attack. That’s why I run every day. Not to maintain my awesome physique, but to beat the devil. Or is the devil about to beat me regardless?
As if reading my mind, my cell phone vibrates and chimes. Glancing at the digital screen, I see that it’s a message from the devil herself. Jennifer. Carrying the coffee outside with me, I head to the studio where I unlock the door and let myself inside. Placing the coffee on the desk, I recall that I need more wood for the stove.
“Shit,” I quietly whisper. “I should have taken care of this last night.”
Exiting the studio, I go around the back of the small wood building, gather up a pile of dry wood in my arms, and carry it inside. Dumping the wood into the box, I then use the metal poker to open the stove door. I shove in three logs and punch them with the poker so that the still smoldering coals spark and come alive, glowing red/orange and smelling so good in the morning. Closing the stove door, I then head back to the desk and sweeten the coffee with a shot of Jameson. Taking a drink of the Coffee Royal, I set the cup back down, pick up my phone, and tap the text icon.
You were up very late last night my love. I hope you’re not too tired to write my book today. Don’t forget you will be dedicating it to me with love. I want to see some pages on Sunday. Do you understand me? I can’t go on with this waiting. I’m getting very, very, very, very, very, very fucking impatient Martin. All I have done is show my love for you and this is how you treat me. By staying up too late and drinking. By not answering my texts right away. By not giving me the love I deserve in return. Don’t make me want to do bad things to you Martin. I don’t want to have to punish you.
There it is. The text message I knew I would get sooner or later. I check the number from which it originated. It’s a new number that comes from yet another ghost or throw-away phone. It’s also got a New York City area code. My mouth is dry. I wonder if she’s parked outside my house watching me again. I feel for my pistol. It’s still stored in my holster because I never took it off when I face-planted the bed last night. Or should I say early this morning?
My phone chimes and vibrates again. I nearly jump through the roof.
Note to self: Calm...the fuck...down! Jennifer isn’t going to hurt you. Not yet, anyway.
I check my phone. The digital readout says Poughkeepsie Medical Center. Now my dreadful thoughts of Jennifer switch to dreadful thoughts of a tumor growing on my hypothalamus. Dreadful thoughts of imminent death also come to mind. Hell of a way to start a morning, isn’t it?
Reluctantly, I answer the call.
“Good morning, Mr. Jordan,” the happy-go-lucky annoying nurse says. “How are we this morning?”
“I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I have a hangover the size of the Titanic and a possible brain tumor just to make life even more grand.”
“Oh, there, there, Mr. Jordan,” she says in her happy voice. “We know we shouldn’t be drinking, naughty boy.”
“I would suggest you start drinking heavily right now,” I say. “Your fellow employees might thank you for it.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she merely pauses mid-conversation.
“Well, then,” she goes on. “We have your appointments for both the oncologist and neurosurgeon. It’s your lucky day since we were able to get them in the same office at the same time.”
“Yes, lucky me,” I say.
She gives me the time and day of the appointment and tells me not to forget my insurance card. I thank her and she hangs up. I should write the date of the appointment down on my calendar, but being that it’s a few days out, I know they will be calling me with a reminder. Instead, I go back to texts and once more read Jennifer’s latest, rather, threatening text.
By not giving me the love I deserve in return. Don’t make me want to do bad things to you Martin. I don’t want to have to punish you...
My dearest Jennifer, I text. I truly don’t know what got into me last night. All I know is that I now have a great story going for you. You will love it, and I can’t wait to dedicate it to you. That’s why I was up so late. I wasn’t just drinking. I was writing my love! Writing for you. Wait until you see my dedication. I can’t wait to see you on Sunday evening. I can’t wait to dig into the delicious meal you’re going to prepare for me. I can’t wait to make love to you.
Okay, so I hope I’m not pouring it on too much. I need to be believable. As a man of words and letters, I should be damned good by now by convincing anyone of anything with my words, even if those words are lies. Even if they are nothing more than fiction. When a reader sits down to read one of my books, I don’t just want them to be entertained. I want them to be transported to another place. I want them to live inside the story. Right now, to persuade Jennifer to show up and to show her face on Sunday, I need her to buy my words, hook, line, and fucking sinker.
I set the phone down and stare at the laptop screen. Placing my hands on the keyboard, I begin to write. I’m writing about these crazy texts I keep getting from what appears to be a deranged fan. It’s all happening in my head and in real time.
The phone chimes and vibrates again. Picking up the phone, I open the text from Jennifer.
I love you too Martin. Write well. Write for me. I’m counting the seconds until Sunday.
“So am I you crazy bitch,” I say aloud. “So...am...I.”