The cold raindrops hit my leather jacket as I walk out of Alan’s house. They feel harsher than they sounded on the window in his studio. While avoiding the large drops, I walk quickly to my black mustang and climb in. Alan watches from his window, a smile stretched across his face as I climb into the driver’s seat.Sometimes he is a creepy bastard.His white curtains somehow align with everything in his properly cleaned house. I don’t think I had ever seen a speck of dust or even a small stain on their light coloredcarpet in their large home. Nothing is out of place. Not even a fucking dish in the sink when they have company. Everything is a muted color of gray, white, or tan. His furniture in their living room almost blends with the mix of the lack of color. His office, however, is the exception.
Alan’s office and our studio match his obsession with serial killers. He’s got articles, art, and memorabilia from a bunch of fucking creeps. He has all of his collectables in specific categories and pristine condition. I think Alan would have a panic attack if he noticed one of his laminated prints of the fucking serial killer clown wasn’t lined up just the right way. He has a fascination for lunatics, that’s for sure, but who am I to judge? We all have our passions. Mine just happens to be liquor.
As I turn the key in the ignition, the lights on my dashboard glow blue. My Mustang roars to life, that perfectpurringsound filling my ears–God, I love that.The leather steering wheel molds to my hands, and a sense of freedom is attached to it as the car rumbles. The vibration against my hands almost makes me hard in my black jeans. She never gets old.
I start to leave the little suburb Alan lives in, and I pass by every house, even in the rain; they all look the same.Creepy.The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can leave Stepford.
The rain continues to fall harder on my windshield. My wipers squeak with each fall, making my vision clearer with each swipe. I manage to leave the Cleavers just in time. The lights of the city in the far distance are coming into view. Almost home.
New York City is my sanctuary. I love the nightlife. It’s the only place where I can get a piece of pizza and a beer at three A.M. Tonight is the exception. As tempting as it is to go out, myleather couch and a bottle of bourbon are calling my name.Alan may have the right idea.
Like an automated reflex, I turn my car into the parking garage behind my apartment. I live in one of the tallest buildings in the East Village. Some would say that I’m pretty lucky, but I would say that I worked my ass off and I deserve it. My inheritance didn’t hurt either. The rhythm of the rain continues to fall heavily on the roof of the garage when I turn in and park in my designated spot.
My car locking echoes loudly in the parking garage. The uncomfortable feeling of being the only person here never really goes away. The garage is cold and damp from the weather. It would be a perfect scene from one of those horror movies. You know the ones where the creepy fucking guy stalks the hot girl, and she ends up being the only one that’s left alive. What do they call them, final girls? The thought makes me pick up the pace and head for the lobby across the street.
“Mr. Reynolds.” The doorman greets me as he opens the see-through glass doors. I have no idea what the fuck his name is, so I nod and give him one of those generic smiles I give everyone. The ones you use when you see someone in public, maybe you knew them in high school, and now you just really don’t give a fuck about how they are doing these days. You sure as hell don’t want to talk to them.
I walk past him, bringing my shoulders up to my ears with the collar of my jacket standing straight up. My cheerful mood doesn’t change when I make a beeline for the elevators. Thank fuck, they’re empty. I’m not really in the mood to socialize with any other rich pricks in the building. I say “other” because I guess you could sayI, myself, would be in the “prick” category. I wouldn’t personallyclassify myself as the biggest asshole of the city, but I know some broads that sure would think differently. Don’t get me wrong, I can turn on the charm when I need to. Iama salesman after all. I could sell a ketchup-flavored popsicle to a woman with white gloves. Frankly, I’d rather show you my true colors than paint you a pretty picture of bullshit.
My hand fishes my keys out of the pocket of my jacket to unlock the door, and the key slides smoothly into the lock. There is something so satisfying about sliding in your key and feeling the lock turn. I still get a feeling of accomplishment when I walk into my large apartment. Casually, I hang my keys on the black metal hook that’s nailed next to the door frame. Man, it’s good to be home.
While walking in the front door, I hang my jacket on the black metal coat rack next to the door, removing my phone from my pocket beforehand.Where would I be without this addictive device?There is one missed text from Alan. I don’t even have to read what he sent to know what the message is about. I truly don’t think this guy knows how to relax. Blindly, I type the message:
Lee:
Put your phone away, Jackass and go fuck your wife.
My phone slides smoothly into the back pocket of my jeans.I need another drink.I head towards the kitchen, flipping on the bright overhead light that doesn't blind my eyes too much as it bounces off my black cabinets.You see a pattern here? My house is the epitome of darkmasculinity.
Reaching for the liquor cabinet, I pull out my newly unopened bottle of bourbon. The empty glass in the sink shines under the overhead light fixture as I rinse it out. Perfect. The amber liquid fills the glass until it stops just below the rim. My mouth begins to water.That’ll do it for the night.
My attention moves from the kitchen to my favorite spot in the house. Another Friday night in with a glass of bourbon in my empty living room. My black leather chair is calling my name.See, again, black. You’ll get used to it.I grab my phone out of my back pocket before I make my way to the large space and sit down in the recliner. Nothing like scrolling on your phone with a glass of bourbon by your side, while taking a look at our trusty Instagram page. Facebook isn’t doing it for me these days. Nothing is going on there except political bullshit and people you used to know back in the day. I’m not really into all of that nonsense.
Sometimes I like to see how our publicity is growing. I check to see if we have gained any new followers, maybe some new listeners. It looks like we're growing, and honestly, it makes me feel proud. We’ve grown a lot in the past year. Maybe more people want to hear about the psychos of the Big Apple. It looks like my being a producer is paying off.
I’m riding the high of my achievements when something catches my attention.
Hold on, what’s this?I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Let’s see who you are, or who you want us to believe you are. Public profile, that’s not too safe.Thalia Smith, who are you?My eyes stare at the screen. She posts pictures of herself the way everyone else poses these days.You, your friends, coworkers and the places you’ve beenin the big city. Just generic Instagram bullshit everyone shows off these days.
Next picture, this must be you. You’re a redhead. Nice. You know what they say about redheads. Not natural, of course. No one’s hair is the same shade as a fucking fire truck.
Thalia’s waves are strategically placed around the curve of her tits in her tight black shirt. She’s leaning against her elbows on a dark marbled bartop in front of what seems to be a drink she made herself. Her colorful tattoos on her arms are a nice contrast against the black surface.If you’re posing like that, no one gives a fuck about your drink.Let’s see here.You tagged where you work? It’s like you don’t even listen to our podcast. Any crazy person can find you. You’re lucky, this time it’s only me.
Pour Decisions
The rain is holding off today. It’s a beautiful crisp October afternoon with the falling leaves finally turning different shades of reds, oranges and yellows. The shops and restaurants have begun to decorate their windows with nostalgic and comforting fall decor. It feels just like those classic family Halloween movies that you watch when you’re a kid. The ones where the witches, ghosts, and goblins are the good guys. The memory of being a kid, sitting in front of the TV in my witch Halloween costume, brings a smile to my face.
Busy people in oversized sweaters and dark boots walk past me on the sidewalk in the overcrowded city. I quickly move through the sea of people. My eyes are still glued to my phone. I continue scrolling through the playlist, and I walk in and out of many other people, distracted by technology. The music moves through my earbuds like the perfect distraction, and it is as I keep up with the traffic of my fellow walkers.
I’ve made it to The Neon Rose with a clear plastic cup filled with my favorite pumpkin coffee order in hand. It’s an iced pumpkin chailatte with oat milk and pumpkin cold foam. Everyone deserves to be basic once in a while. The plastic coffee cup looks aesthetically pleasing as I wrap it in my tattooed fingers and black nail polish.What a good opportunity for an Instagram story.While standing in front of The Neon Rose, I snap a quick picture of my dark ink gripping the sweating plastic cup of iced coffee.
A couple of plastic grocery bags hang loosely on the other wrist.I’m sure Janice wouldn’t mind if I stored my groceries in the fridge until my shift is over.
The closer I get to work, Jace’s silhouette shows through the tinted glass doors, prepping the bar by chopping lemons diligently and storing them in a metal container.Such a good little worker he is.
“Why the hell am I always here before you?” He takes a break from his lemons and looks up at me as I come in through the front.
“Because you’re such an overachiever.” My bright red lips turn into a smirk.
