“Well, shit. She has all of that. Let’s go! We just finished an episode. I’m sure you need a break from all of the psycho research.” Lee grabs his black leather coat from the back of his seat, which is identical to mine. He swings it around so that his tattooed arms can slide right into the silk-lined sleeves.
“Maybe another night.” The sound of the rain getting heavier hits the roof just at the right moment.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Alan.” He tips his glass back, leaving it empty aside from a few drops.I'm looking forward to it.I give him a small, upturned smile that I know he can see right through.
Without another word, he walks out of my studio and makes his way to the front door through my large living room. With nothing else to keep him here, Lee lets the door shut loudly behind him.
A few seconds later, I watch him climb into his black Mustang. From the large window in my living room, my mind fills with a small twinge of envy, focusing on how the light reflects from the street lamps and the raindrops enhance its pristine condition.Lucky son of a bitch.
He lives the single life of a thirty-two-year-old man. The New York bachelor life, the mirrored image of the lifestyle of the hero you see in movies. The same one that all men say they dream of. He's a pretty good looking guy, business owner through his father’s inheritance, a ladies man by his account, and of course a co-owner of a podcast.
I shut my white curtains after I watch him—the feeling of covetousness worming its way into my chest—driving past a few houses.
My wife and I live in a suburb just outside the city. I’m sure it’s in Lee’s best interest to get out of here as quickly as possible. He’s more of a city person. The notion of spending time in gated communities makes him squirm. Although the mental image of him living in one of these houses makes me silently laugh to myself. After his first marriage, I don’t know if he will ever settle down and move into one of these cookie-cutter homes again.
With my back towards the front door, I watch my wife on our overstuffed gray couch. The lamp is still on, but it is the only light on in the room. I see Ashley’s ereader face down on her chest. She must have fallen asleep reading again.
The life of the thirty-four-year-old married couple.Is this what they say is the American Dream?
I wonder what social media told her to read tonight. She's mentioned to me about a few of her books in the past, but I can never get the titles or the characters straight. Frankly, I don’t care. I am happy she has found something to do while Lee and I do our Friday night recordings. I grab the white cashmere blanket from behind her on the back of the couch and lay it flat against her ashen colored lounge suit. Another wild night for the Joneses.
With my wife asleep on the couch and me wide awake, my studio calls my name. I flip on the lights and quietly shut the door. My chair slides out, allowing me to slouch back on the firm leather seat. The wheels slide back underneath the desk, and I reach for my laptop, opening itwith ease.
My background isn’t anything special. Just a generic, dark blue behind a column of icons. My move on my mouse begins by searching through our audio files for episode titles. I’m always looking over serial killers we have already discussed on our show. Kind of like how a coach reviews the film from a football team’s performance. There is always more room for improvement.
My eyes dart around my office for some inspiration. Letters from serial killers to pen pals sit framed on my wooden shelves. I’ve bought those from a few online auctions. Prints of John Wayne Gacy’s artwork hang on the white walls. Those weren’t too difficult to obtain. They were just prints after all.
I have newspaper clippings of various murderers and their victims laminated and tacked on a corkboard. There are a few missing persons posters printed out, pinned next to the one who took their lives. I don’t know, but something tells me that it’s not what the next episode needs.Much like the people who decorate my white canvas, something is missing.Time to do some research.
I double-click the Google Chrome icon andquickly typelocal murders in Manhattaninto the search bar. Let’s fix that. Backspace.Famous Murders in New York City.The search continues. Scrolling through all of the perspective choices, it seems repetitive and redundant.Damn, the links shown are highlighted in purple, which means we’ve already done these in previous episodes.Our available options are getting smaller. Maybe the listeners have some ideas. The laptop makes a small tapping sound as it shuts.
The quiet clicking sound of the office door shutting moves in the hallway. Doing my best to remain silent in my house, I join my sleeping wife on the couch. Her soft snores fill the quiet room as she sits at the opposite end. I begin examining andreading through the comments on my phone, scrolling through the different listening options. First, let’s check out our listeners on Spotify.
“Nice job, guys.” Followed by, “Loved it when you said…” and then “Your voice is so sexy.”I told Lee that the voice would get us more listeners. Making my tone just an octave lower helps bring in the female listeners.
Thank you, subscribers, but you aren’t helping. I was looking for the rare comments of suggestions. Another time, I guess. I wonder if Lee has any ideas.
Me:
Hey, got any ideas for the next episode?
I send a quick text. My impatience takes over. Giving in to the restlessness, I can’t help but look down after a minute of silence. So far, no response. No surprise there. It’s a Friday night in NewYork, and he’s a single guy. He’s most likely at a new club or bar somewhere downtown.
Time to mindlessly scroll through my phone. First up, Facebook. Nothing but people I used to know in high school. Maybe at one point, I would have called them friends. Now, they're all busy being parents and going through societal demands. In other words, growing up, becoming who we are supposed to be in our thirties, and taking pictures of it while doing so.Remember, it didn’t happen if you didn’t take a picture and tell everyone about it.
My wife continues her Friday night in her sleep. Her Kindle on her chest rises slowly each time she takes a breath. Gently and without waking Sleeping Beauty, I pick it up and place it on the end table right next to the arm of the chair. It’s already plugged into its charger, conveniently sitting under the wooden table.
With a snoozing wife, no ideas for the next episode, and no one to be entertained by on social media, only one thing left to do.Check the kitchen and hope for snacks.
The small trek to the kitchen is a slow one. The noise of my brown slippers across the floor becomes a loud tapping sound as they hit the tiles. The bright light from the refrigerator is the only source of illumination in the large space. The fridge is fairly full but contains nothing that looks appetizing at this time of night, and I can't find anything that piques my interest.
The freezer is my next conquest. Frozen meat, ice cubes, and a version of Mint Chocolate Chip, my wife has probably seen on TikTok or some other social media outlet. The kind where they try to convince you it’s healthy. Just another fad for the people to aid in capitalistic health schemes.Congratulations, it’s working. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
The white cabinets creak open enough for me to reach in and grab one of the slate bowls. The frozen desert is a struggle to dish out with the ice cream scooper, but I manage to keep quiet. The frozen dessert fits in the freezer in its rightful place after I add several scoops to the bowl. The freezer shuts quietly just before I walk back into the living room, once again lightly tapping the soles of my slippers against the cool surface. Ashley, still asleep, is now on her side, facing the left arm of the couch. Typical Friday night for us.
The cushion on my side of the couch is still warm. It’s a nice contrast from the cold bowl in my large hands. My spoon hits the side of the ceramic with one hand while I check my phone with the other. I left the screen face up on the matching ottomanin the middle of the big space. The screen flashes in my vision, showing one missed text message from Lee.
Lee:
