The Jerk Manifesto

Intermission - Midnight Rain

*** Another intermission this week; I'm hoping to get some more Manifesto done towards the end of the week, assessments permitting.  Until then, this is a piece I've been reworking for a while now.  I think it's finally finished.  I hope you all enjoy it. - Jake ***

Jonah opened his eyes and the darkness gave way to an explosion of light and neon.  From up here he was aware of the sickly dome of light encapsulating the city, like some covetous unseen guardian.  Within its domain the stars in the sky were enshrouded from view, something that went largely unnoticed by the teeming masses. Not that they missed it, he thought to himself.  Nobody ever looked up anyway.  

A gust of breeze ran groping fingers through his unkempt hair, punctuated momentarily by a drop of rain on his forehead.  He frowned, brought out of his reverie and back to reality.  A second frigid drop landed on the back of his neck, prompting him to consider the indoors a prudent next move.  He swallowed the last remnants of scotch in his glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ice, and surrendered his position on the balcony to the midnight rain.

 

The ground looked so far below.  The urban sprawl seemed endless, motes of glittering lights stretching out from horizon to horizon.  Headlights were persistent specks, slowly pulsing and coursing through the congested arteries of a bloated metropolis.  Everything ran, night and day, in an endless cycle for which nothing was of any real consequence.  The city grew obese, the result of decades of sporadic and directionless development.  Millions of lives flared in and out of existence, swallowed and consumed in the concrete bowels of this diseased juggernaut. 

Soaring above it all, there was no need for a sense of self.  It was easy to become lost amongst the endless expanse of stars, stretching into eternity.  The wind caressed him like a child, held him aloft, bore him through the cool night air.  The moon hung overhead, gazing approvingly over the cloud banks.  Its light clung to the shifting tendrils of mist and cloud, bathing them in its luminous splendor.   

Up here there was escape.  Release from the endlessly grinding machine below him, the meaningless pantomime existence of its inhabitants, and the deeper knowledge that their charades mirrored his own.  

When it all became too heavy for his mind to bear, he flung himself into the night sky.  To lose himself in the depths of eternity was bliss, was freedom.  Here he knew nothing more than the stars above, the ground below, and the wind that ghosted through his soul.  Here was where he belonged.

The thought flittered through his mind for an instant, the words suddenly filled his being, becoming as heavy as lead in his veins.  It wasn’t like falling.  It was like drowning.  The words filled his lungs, and he was gasping for air...

 

The walls of the cubicle were a nondescript shade of grey.  They loomed tall and oppressive above his workspace, defining clearly his small piece of corporate captivity.  They were packed and ordered with precision, a bastion of uniformity in which drones hurried about their tasks.  They were slaves, all of them, to the faceless corporation.  The rigid enforcer of conformity that offered them the currency to indulge whatever vices gave them imagined relief from their mediocrity.  All that it asked in return was their hopes and dreams; a mental abortion of all the aspirations that had carried them from adolescence into reality. 

Jonah tapped away at the keyboard on his computer absently, having forgotten what it was he was meant to be working on.  His mind was elsewhere, grasping at tendrils of a dream almost forgotten.  He was never able to relive the feeling during his waking hours, but longed for it every moment of every day.  Only when he slept did he know how it felt to be alive.  
He suddenly became aware that he was being spoken at by his manager. 

“Jonah, are you listening to me?”” 

“Of course, sir.”” 

Jonah watched his manager’s lips forming the words which spilled from his mouth, an auditory quagmire that simply refused to become intelligible in his mind.  The man’s complexion had developed a blotchy red tone, as if his capillaries were struggling to emancipate themselves from his face.  Jonah vaguely understood that the man was irritated, seemingly intent on venting his frustrations on him.  The greasy office patriarch had been taking exception to Jonah’s increasing detachment in regards to his corporate obligations.  Jonah was behind on deadlines, his commitment less than admirable. 

Jonah was finding it difficult to concentrate on his superior’s wheezing drone.  His focus was drawn to an adventurous piece of spittle that had launched itself from the man’s thin lips and was now clinging for dear life to an immaculate, yet malnourished looking goatee.  It lent a ridiculous air to whatever it was that the idiot was harping on about, Jonah thought.  He found himself beginning to imagine what the man would look like were he a goat, being molested by other goats.  He felt the smile forming at the edges of his mouth but by the time he tried to cover his amusement it was too late.  

“Do you think this is funny, Jonah?  Your job is on the line, and all you can do is laugh about it?”  If looks could kill, Jonah’s ancestors would have keeled over retroactively.

“No sir, I don’t.”  Jonah realized he had forgotten this man’s name.  Had he ever known it?  It was a distracting notion.

“I don’t think it is amusing in the slightest, Jonah.  This last month you…”…”  

The words sounded muffled in Jonah’s ears.  He could not comprehend what was happening again; the sound of his manager’s voice was humming like some mosquito on the edge of his mental periphery.  His gaze settled on the little dictator’s eyes, saw malicious satisfaction in those darting orbs.  It occurred to Jonah that this was exactly what the goat-man loved about his job.  He would have been right at home organizing some great medieval slave cartel, brandishing a cruel and bloodied whip.  Here and now, however, this was the best he could hope for;  a paper crown in a rat’s nest of corporate slaves, brandishing imaginary power over those too timid to call his bluff.

Jonah stood abruptly, stopping the little man mid tirade.  The manager whose name he couldn’t remember flinched and Jonah saw panic flash across those sunken eyes.  He met the goat-man’s gaze and held it defiantly, noticing the tiniest beads of perspiration on his oppressor’s brow.  The manager’s mouth was flapping like some fish that suddenly found itself on dry land, gasping for words that refused to be conjured.

Jonah left the man gaping as he stalked off down the corridor that separated the cubicle cells of his fellow inmates.  He felt a savage sense of triumph knowing that he would never return.   

 

He opened the door of his apartment, kicking it with contempt.  It yielded, colliding with the adjacent wall furiously as if to sympathize with his mood.  Jonah almost tripped over the bag that was packed and waiting in the hallway, cursing loudly as he dropped his own belongings.  They thudded against the cold ceramic tiles, sliding away like some startled creature interrupted in the night.  

“Oh my god. I didn’t realize you were coming home early, Jonah.”  Charlotte stepped out of the bedroom, a pair of jeans dangling from her hands.

“What’s going on?”  Jonah gestured at the luggage that had caused him to stumble.  The words hung between them momentarily; Jonah felt as if he had just knocked a glass off some table and was watching it fall in slow motion, waiting for it to shatter when it hit the tiles.  Charlotte looked somewhat taken aback, but gathered her composure quickly.

“I’m leaving, Jonah.”  She shifted uncomfortably, like some cornered animal that had suddenly found itself no way out.  She was waiting to see how he reacted.  

Jonah felt his will drain away from him, his shoulders slumping as the weight bore down on him.  His mouth seemed like a desert, his tongue like sand.  His mind had already detached itself from the unfolding scene as his feet bore him to the couch.  His head was reeling as if some vengeful goliath had dealt him a hammering blow.  He was barely aware of Charlotte’s voice through the klaxon of thoughts assaulting him.  The world was spinning out of control with colossal centrifugal force, and he was powerless to stop it.

She was standing in front of him, her mouth moving.  Her voice slowly came into focus once again, and she appeared to be furious at his lack of response.  

“Doesn’t this mean anything to you?  Don’t I mean anything?”  She was screaming at him.  Feeling a headache growing in his peripheral vision, he lifted his eyes wearily to meet her accusations.  He held her wounded stare for just a moment, deciding not to give her any satisfaction.

“Does it matter?  You’ve made up your mind already.  Just go,” he sighed.  

She shot him a look filled with hurt and fury, then spun on her heel to where her bags lay packed and waiting.  She swooped upon them both, collecting one in each hand, and without another word stormed through the front door.

His head was pounding.  Thoughts roared through his consciousness, tearing apart his reality with explosive force.  He felt himself trembling, his hands shaking uncontrollably.  What was it that he felt?  He wasn’t even sure.  There were so many conflicting emotions battling for dominance, resonating in his head like a swarm of furious wasps.  It was all too much.

Jonah walked purposefully to the cupboard where he kept his liquor.  He gripped the bottle of scotch almost tenderly, lifting it from its perch and placing it on the counter.  He dropped a handful of ice cubes into a whiskey glass, and began to pour.  The ice cracked softly as it began to swirl in viscous amber.  The fiery malt etched trails of heat as it went down his throat, his trembling hands began to calm themselves almost immediately.  He took another sip as he shuffled to his balcony door, sliding it open and stepping outside.  

The events of the day unfurled in his mind, competing for attention, hammering against his senses.  He drank, allowing it to soothe his troubles momentarily, and closed his eyes to listen to the sounds of the city.  They echoed in his head, bringing to mind an image of gears turning in some colossal machine, a hideous bloated construction designed to imprison its inhabitants in their own designs.

Jonah opened his eyes and the darkness gave way to an explosion of light and neon.  From up here he was aware of the sickly dome of light encapsulating the city, like some covetous unseen guardian.  Within its domain the stars in the sky were enshrouded from view, something that went largely unnoticed by the teeming masses. Not that they missed it, he thought to himself.  Nobody ever looked up anyway. 

A gust of breeze ran groping fingers through his unkempt hair, punctuated momentarily by a drop of rain on his forehead.  He frowned, brought out of his reverie and back to reality.  It was a reality he never wanted, a reality he never asked for.  He stared out into the gloom, straining to see the stars that were his salvation in his dreams.  He strived to remember the feeling of freedom they afforded him, the feeling that eluded his every waking moment.

A second frigid drop landed on his neck.  He swallowed the last remnants of scotch in his glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ice, and placed it on the ground.  Another drop, then another.  The sky opened, showering him in the sum of a city’s regrets. 

Jonah breathed deep, tasting the rain on the air, and stepped onto the ledge.  His mind seemed clearer now for the rain.  It would one day be the salvation of this city, he thought.  One day it will fall, heavy and thick, and wash away the many sins of its inhabitants.  One day.  He thought to himself for a moment, and realized that one day may well be too long to wait.

Jonah closed his eyes, breathed a prayer, and flung himself into the night sky.

 

 

 

 

 

The Jerk Manifesto - Chapter 2 (Part 1)

My life has generally been a series of disasters, one after another, brought about either by my own stupidity or that of my friends.  You eventually get used to living in a permanent state of damage control.  When you get tired of the effort it takes to constantly repair whatever you’ve done this time, most people start trying to live better lives.  Stop drinking, get a career, find a nice girl, settle down, have some kids, get a mortgage, take up drinking again and become an abusive alcoholic.  The circle of life.  It’s a rational, sane decision for rational, sane people. 

When it came time for me to make that choice, I can only assume I was hideously drunk.  I probably mistook the fork in the road for a urinal, pausing long enough to relieve myself before enthusiastically stumbling down the much less viable “if it doesn’t repair itself, it’s not worth repairing” school of thought.  The result is a retarded trail of devastation, like a bull in a china shop if the bull was epileptic and had Down’s syndrome.  Sure, there’s gonna be destruction, but if you bring a camcorder it makes for some fantastic YouTube uploads.

If you travel through life in an inebriated state, wearing your underwear on the outside and hurling abuse at children, you can probably expect to end up as a cautionary tale of some description.  That’s where my irrational fear of hobos comes from, at any rate.  Still, every trainwreck has that point of no return, somewhere between missing all the warning signals to derailing completely.  My story is no different. 

To the best of my knowledge, the first link in this disastrous chain of events was a completely innocent misunderstanding, almost a week earlier. When I say innocent, I mostly mean unintentional.  Sort of.  In any case, I couldn’t have anticipated it ending with as many beatings as it did.  Seriously, it was a phenomenal amount of beatings in a short space of time. I’m amazed I came out of it with functioning kidneys. 

Like every questionable decision I’ve made in my adult life, this one starts with being drunk.  It was a Sunday evening in the Valley, and Vintage, Lex, the Birdman and I had been getting our drink on since ten in the morning.  In the interests of preserving what tiny shred of dignity I might still have in your eyes, I should point out that this level of public alcoholism wasn’t a regular occurrence.  That’s the sort of thing you would usually do at home, so you don’t have the embarrassment of forgetting how a cab door works in front of hundreds of women.

Lex was getting another round of drinks, while Vintage was on the dance floor, apparently trying to seduce several women at once.  The Birdman and I sat at a table overlooking the floor, making jokes at Vintage’s expense.  I’m not really the ‘dancing’ type; trying to coordinate my limbs to music has the very real potential for bodily harm to those around me.  The Birdman, on the other hand, once had actual paramedics called to the scene after people assumed he was having a seizure. 

“See that guy over there?” the Birdman asked, waving vaguely at some peacock looking guy putting his best moves out there.  Right out there.

“Yeah?”

“What.. what is he doing?  Why is he doing that?”

“I think he’s trying to do the Robot.”

“He looks like he’s trying to build a cabinet inside of himself.” 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever... wow.  Wow.  He actually does.”

The Birdman nodded, satisfied.  “That’s why I don’t dance.”

“No,” I said, raising an eyebrow.  “You don’t dance because emergency services threatened to press charges if you ever waste their time again.”

“Hey, what do you reckon?  If a robot dances the Robot, is it still called the Robot, or just called dancing?”

“Ah,” said Lex, returning with a fresh round.  “Hard at work solving the mysteries of life again, are we?”

I set the glasses down on the table and started pouring from the jug.  “That’s us, mate.  Taking philosophy by the balls, one mystery at a time.”

“I’ll take your face by the balls!” the Birdman shouted triumphantly. 

“Oh my God, I hate you.” I glared at him as long as I could before laughing. 

“It’s much more off-putting when it makes no sense,” he shrugged.

“See, this is why we can’t have nice things,” said Lex, shaking his head.  “Like girlfriends.”

“Your face is why we can’t have nice things!”

“Much better,” I concurred, becoming distracted by a spectacular set of legs across the room.  They were attached to an equally spectacular torso and waist.  Also hips.  It was a woman is what I’m trying to get at.  I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a fan of disembodied limbs or anything. 

She was wearing stiletto heels and a bold red mirco-dress, dark hair pulled up in an oriental bun with chopsticks.  Standing at the bar, she carried herself with a look of authority and ownership.  And... right on cue.  Vintage had ditched the girls he was moments ago wooing, making a beeline straight to the mystery woman.

“So Mannon,” Lex began, trying not to let the Birdman gloat.  “What’s going on with that guy from work?”

“Hmm?”  I hadn’t heard a single word Lex had said.

“Who’s that guy you hate from work?”

“Fuckin’ Jeremy,” I swore.  Even mentioning his name made me want to punch the stupid clean off his face.  “Fuck that guy!”

“What’s the latest?”

“Oh, only that he’s apparently been writing my phone number in public toilets around the city.”

The Birdman nearly spat his beer.  “Seriously?”

“I know, right?  What kind of shit is that?”

Lex was laughing with disbelief.  “Oh wow, that’s rich!”

“You wouldn’t believe some of the calls I’ve been getting.  I’ve heard things that can never be unheard.”

“It’s probably karma,” the Birdman chuckled.

“For what?”

“For the time you anonymously ‘tipped’ the police that Jeremy was making meth out of his basement.”

Lex had tears coming out of his eyes.  “You seriously did that?  I thought you were joking when you came up with that one!”

“I was with him when he made the call.”  The Birdman gestured in my direction.  “Not only that, he made sure to warn them that Jeremy always hides a satchel inside his person.”

“Wait, wait... inside his person?”

The Birdman nodded slowly, smirking. 

“In my defence,” I responded, “the meth up the arse was the Birdman’s idea.”

We were all in stitches laughing now at the thought of it.  I had to admit, the Birdman really did come through with some masterful plans occasionally.  Then again, with as much free time as he had on his hands one would hope he was at least doing something productive.  There’s only so much pornography a guy can watch in a day.

“So he’s plastering your number all over the public bathrooms eh?” the Birdman asked, bringing his mirth back under control.

“You know,” Lex interrupted, “that reminds me of Sex Man.”

“Well that instantly took a turn for the worse.”  The Birdman’s eyes narrowed.

“Story time.”  I shrugged at the Birdman, raising an eyebrow at Lex. 

Lex adjusted his seat, positioning himself in the traditional ‘Story time’ pose, and cleared himself enough space at the table to allow for an expressive use of his arms.

“Alright,” he began, rubbing his hands.  “So, back when me and Jake were in high school, right?  Grade ten, maybe, sound about right?”

I nodded, and Lex continued.

“Ok, so we’ve just come out from a movie.  Or was it at the beach?”

“I think it was down near the Jetty, actually,” I corrected.

“The Jetty, cool.  Anyways, we’re walking along and we go past this public phone.  Mannon here decides to look for change or something, and notices a phone number written right next to the phone in permanent marker.”

“Ohtwosixfivesixeightonetwosixnine,” I quoted from memory.

“Holy shit, you still remember it?” the Birdman laughed, amazed.  “That might be the most useless thing ever!”

“It gets better,” Lex assured.  “You remember with the old public phones, I don’t know if they still do it, but you used to be able to make a call with no money, and when somebody picked up you had about a second of connection before the line dropped out.”

The Birdman nodded.

“So, we’re bored right?  Jake decides it might be a bit of fun to call the number, and when the guy picks up Jake just yells into the phone until it cuts out.”

“What did you yell?”  asked the Birdman.

“Oh, nothing,” I shrugged.  “No words or anything, just noise.”

Lex smirked.  “So I think that’s actually pretty funny, and decide I’ll also give it a go.  So there we are, standing at this public phone, calling this number and just yelling every time the guy picks up.  Thing is, we’ve called like fifteen times in a row now, one after the other, and this guy keeps answering the phone! 

“So anyways, we look at each other and we both know what we have to do.  We’re gonna keep calling until he stops answering.  So we do; we keep dialling the number, we keep yelling into the phone, and this guy... he just keeps answering!”

The Birdman’s mouth was hanging open.  “The fuck?  How long did it take him to stop answering the phone?”

I laughed.  “We were there for something close to an hour and a half.”

“Oh my god!  So you’re telling me that because somebody wrote a number in a phone booth, you wasted an hour and a half just to ruin somebody else’s day?”

“That’s not even the best bit,” Lex chuckled.  “After an hour and a half of dialling, this phone number is pretty much seared into our memory, right?  From then on, any time either of us walks past a public phone we just have to do it.  We call the number and yell into the phone.  Five, ten, fifteen times in a row, whatever tickles our fancy.”

“Just for a quick laugh,” I agree.

“Then one day we’re with some people and we walk past a phone,” Lex elaborated.  “So of course we stop to make a couple of calls.  Naturally, everybody’s wondering what the hell we’re doing, so we explain the story to them.  Everybody thinks it’s hilarious and they all want to know the number so they can join the fun.”

“It ended up spreading like wildfire,” I nodded.

Lex nodded.  “Soon, there’s like twenty or thirty people in on it, calling this guy, just calling him and yelling into the phone.  Every time they walk past a public phone.”

“How long did this go on for?” the Birdman asked, incredulous.

I shrugged.  “I don’t know about anyone else, but I kept it up for a couple of years at least.”

“Same,” Lex nodded.

“Holy shit.”  The Birdman burst into peals of laughter, nearly falling off his seat.  “That’s one of the most batshit insane things I’ve ever heard!  So just because somebody left a number written in a phone booth, some poor guy you’ve never met has his peace destroyed for years to come?  Without ever knowing why?  Sweet Jesus, that’s one of the most fucked up, hilarious things that’s ever happened.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory.  I don’t know if I should have felt proud or scared that we were getting up to shit like that well before we were getting into booze.  I guess growing up in a small town conditions kids for a lifetime of alcoholism; crushing boredom forcing them to amuse themselves in ways that they’ll have mastered by the time they become drunks or mentally ill.

The Birdman was winding down, still with tears in his eyes.  “So... Hang on.  You called this guy Sex Man?”

I cracked a grin.  “Yeah.”

The Birdman spread his hands quizzically.  “Why?”

“His phone number.  Last two digits were sixty-nine.”

“Well that’s pretty juvenile.”

“Well, yeah.  Teenagers, remember?”  He had to admit, I had a point.

Lex turned to me and asked, “So anyways, are you going to have to change your number thanks to Jeremy?”

“I don’t really want to,” I sighed.  “I got to choose this number, I don’t want to give it up already.”

Things were starting to get a little blurry.  We’d drunk a heroic amount of beer already and I was beginning to think my liver was going to protest shortly.  I shook my head, trying to clear my vision a little.

“You know what you should do,” said the Birdman, pointing at me. 

The Birdman came up with most of his best plans while apocalyptically drunk.  This was also the spawning ground of the worst ideas history has ever known.  The problem was that good and bad Birdman schemes were generally as batshit mental as each other.  This made it difficult to know which you were involved in until you were balls deep in the consequences.  Or they were balls deep in you, depending on how badly the plan had misfired.

“What should I do, Birdman?” I asked, inebriation overriding the fight-or-flight response that should have kicked in well before asking the Birdman for advice.

“From now on, every time you get one of those creepy fuckers calling about your toilet advertisements... you should organise to meet them.”

“Oh, good.  Gay joke.  Should have seen that one coming.”

“No no no, you didn’t let me finish.”  The Birdman took a sip of his drink before continuing.  “Organise to meet them, right?  Then give them Jeremy’s address.  Make sure to tell ‘em you’ll leave the back door unlocked.”

I stared at the Birdman in disbelief.  It took me a moment to remember how to use my mouth.

“Ricardo Birdman Dondor,” I managed, “you are an absolute fucking genius!”

The Jerk Manifesto - Chapter 2 (Part 2)

“Hey guys!”  Vintage had sauntered over, grin spread across his features.  “What are we doing?”

“Well,” the Birdman began, looking a little worse for wear.  The merciless fingers of the alcohol weren’t just gripping me, it seemed.  “We were just..”

“Shut up and listen to me.  Did you see that bird in the red dress before?”

“The one with the legs?”  I asked, suddenly realising that she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“As opposed to what?” the Birdman snorted.  “The torso wheeling herself about on a skateboard?”

“What, where?”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

“I said shut up!” yelled Vintage, attempting to regain control of the conversation.  “There was a smoking hot woman in a tiny red dress that I was chatting up earlier.”

I nodded.  “Yeah, I saw her.  Dark hair, legs that went on forever.  Where’d she go?”

“What happened?” asked Lex.  “Did you accidentally insult her heritage?”

“Or insinuate that she wasn’t a classy lady?” asked the Birdman.

“It was the Rape Eye, wasn’t it,” I inquired, arching an eyebrow.  “You gave her the Rape Eye and she called the cops.”

“That one’s the worst,” the Birdman agreed, getting out of his seat.  “Happens every time.  We should probably get out of here before they arrive.”

Vintage stared at us in disbelief before shaking his head and bringing himself back to reality.  “Wow.  I think I just got stupider for having spoken to you guys.  Seriously?  The cops?  You talk to women and the first thing they do is call the police?”

“The Birdman’s got a reputation to uphold,” I shrugged. 

“I don’t know if I want to live in a world where any of that makes sense to me.  Whatever.  Point is, there’s some sort of VIP shindig happening upstairs, invite only sort of thing, and we’ve been invited.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” the Birdman remarked suspiciously.  I had to agree with him; people like us don’t normally get ‘invited’ to things that aren’t court hearings. 

“Well, when I say ‘we’re’ invited, I mean that she invited me up, and I told her I was going to bring a couple of friends.  Though I’m starting to think I should have just gone up without you.”

“Yeah,” Lex agreed.  “The Birdman will make you regret your decision every time.”

“Well fuck you then, I don’t want to come to your stupid party!” the Birdman yelled,  loud enough to get the attention of the closest bouncer who started walking our way.  “You can eat a soggy bag of dicks, for all I care.  Put ‘em all in and around your mouth until you can’t fit any more!”

“Everything alright over here, lads?”  From the look on his face, the bouncer had already decided that everything was, in fact, not alright.  The Birdman seemed intent on reinforcing that opinion.

“He’s a dickhead, officer!” Ricardo yelled, pointing at Vintage and swaying on his chair.  “He likes to eat dicks, and he is also made of dicks.  He’s got so many dicks in him that when he opens his mouth, dicks come shooting out!”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, sir.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough anything!”

“I think it’s time for you to leave.”  The bouncer had a grip on the back of the Birdman’s collar, and the other hand was reaching for his arm, which was flailing wildly with all the accusations.

“What are you, the fuckin’ dicks police?”  It didn’t make sense, but sometimes you’ve got to just run with what you’ve got. 

With that, the bouncer tightened his collar grip and yanked backwards with full force, launching the Birdman from his stool.  There was an almighty crash as the seat toppled, Ricardo’s flailing legs collecting the table as he was upended.  Glasses and beer went flying everywhere, with Lex and I nearly falling of our own seats from shock. 

The Birdman was now meekly lying on his back, all protest having been knocked out of him when he collided with the floor.  There was another security guard on the scene now, ready to assist his colleague.  Each bouncer grabbed an arm and lifted the Birdman to his feet, then began to escort him from the premises.  The first one motioned for the lot of us to follow. 

Lex walked after them, but Vintage stopped me after a step or two. 

“The two of us are going upstairs.  Now.”

“But we’re being kicked out!”

“No, we’re going upstairs.  Come on!”  As he pulled me along, I noticed that the second guard had been the bouncer watching the stairway entrance to the VIP party.  This was fortunate, as there would have been no way of talking our way in after the scene we’d just caused. 

“Now,” Vintage began, “I may have insinuated that we’re actually important people, so whatever you do, try to sound like you’re wealthy or influential or something.  If anybody asks, tell them you’re a guest of Anita.”

I looked down at my clothing; jeans, a t-shirt and skate shoes.  I was almost certain I was underdressed for this kind of chicanery.  As we reached the top of the stairs, my suspicions were confirmed.  Everybody was infinitely more well dressed than I was.  How do I keep getting myself into these situations?  I should write a book about the ridiculous situations I constantly find myself in, I thought.  Lord knows there’ve been enough of them to fill a novel.

“Apparently there’s a bar tab,” Vintage informed me.  “I’m thinking... hey!  Where are you going?”

“To the bar,” I responded.  “I’m not nearly drunk enough to pull this off yet.”

On reflection, that part might have been a lie.  It was entirely likely that I was already far too drunk to bullshit responsibly, but upon finding myself so far outside of my comfort zone once again, more booze was the only solution I could come up with on such short notice.  I’m not great under pressure.

The room was full of important looking people in suits and cocktail dresses, a far cry from the rabble downstairs.  The lighting was low, as was the volume of the music that drifted from the speakers.  My outrageously casual attire drew quite a few stares which I tried to ignore as I made my way across the room to the bar on the far side.  It had to be on the far side, didn’t it?  I decided I should do as little as possible to draw attention to myself. 

As if on cue, I missed the single stair rise to the dais that the bar was positioned on and fell face first into the carpet.  Embarrassed and completely out of my element, I picked myself up, trying hard not to meet anybody’s eye as I made the final steps towards the bar.

“Two Kirin beers, thanks.”  It was all I could manage.

The bartender eyed me suspiciously.  “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

What was it that Vintage had told me earlier?  “Um, yeah..  I’m a guest of Anita.”

That seemed to placate the bartender, as he nodded and went about getting my drinks.  Still blushing from nervousness, I absently wondered how many bars Anita’s name could get me drunk at. 

My drinks were ready before I could really think it through, and I took the opportunity to bashfully look around while knocking back the first of them.  It was a decent size room with a sunken floor in the middle, booths and seating arranged around the walls.  Guys in suits were mingling with women in figure hugging cocktail dresses, engaged in conversation.  On the far corner, sitting in a booth with Vintage and a few glasses of champagne, sat the woman I’d seen him talking to downstairs. 

Vintage caught my eye and waved for me to come over.  I nodded, finishing up my first drink and ordering another to go.  He had to find the furthest booth away, didn’t he? 

My limbs felt particularly heavy as I grabbed my drinks and started across the room once again.  I could feel eyes on me, my head spinning as I mustered all my concentration to avoid a repeat performance of my entrance.  If that last drink was a bad idea, the two I held in my hands weren’t about to help my situation at all. 

I managed to reach the far corner without further incident, plonking myself heavily down into the booth opposite Vintage and the woman in the red dress.  Too hard; my vision was already fuzzy, and I was pretty sure I’d just kicked it into seeing double. 

I heard my name and looked about, willing myself to focus. 

“What?” I managed.

“I said Jake, this is Anita,” Vintage repeated.

“Pleased to meet you,” smiled Anita, offering her hand.  I stared at it momentarily, then went to shake it only to realise I was still holding a beer.  I placed it gingerly on the table between us and wiped my hand dry before taking her hand and shaking it.

“Yep,” I blurted.  “Sorry, there was like a thing, then fuckin’, I dunno man, you should get those stairs checked.”

“Okay,” she replied, smiling a little less and turning back to continue talking to Vintage. 

I’m just going to say this now.  If you ever find yourself in a social situation where you’re the most inebriated person in the room, it’s probably a good idea to find a corner somewhere out of the way until you’re capable of forming sentences before you start talking to people.  Continuing to drink risks putting yourself in a situation where a karaoke bar seems like a good idea, and indecent exposure a reasonable conversation filler.  We all know how the authorities feel about karaoke.

I lifted one of my beers to my lips and drank.  Hard.

The motion of tilting my head back caused everything to swim around my vision.  It was incredibly disorienting.  I closed my eyes, music and conversation a dull throb through my consciousness.  When I thought I had a handle on it, I opened my eyes again.  Vintage was gone, and Anita looked like she was talking to me.

“... so basically, that’s my problem.  Vintage tells me he specialises in transport.” 

I nodded, doing my best to catch up on a conversation I’d just discovered I was involved in. 

“He’s got that goin’ on.  You should see him, he’s like a pimp.”  I tried to wink, but from the way Anita’s eyebrows arched, I may have missed the mark with the gesture.

“So his customers are always satisfied?”

“You in the market?”

“You could say that I’m looking for some capable hands.”

“Vintage is your man, he’s got a bunch of ‘em.  Two actually, now that I think about it.  But they’ve got fingers so, you know, that’s his thing.”

“So what’s your game, Jake?”

“What’s that one, all the spots and shit?”

Anita looked puzzled.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Fucken, the thing with the pinwheel and spots.  Bunch of random colours.  That game is shit.  I played it one time, and there was this girl, right?  So she falls on her face, and she’s out.  There’s just me and this guy left, and he was all leaning on me and shit, and I was just praying that it was his phone in his pocket that I could feel rubbing against me, but I knew it wasn’t.”

“What are you..”

“Twister, that’s the one.  Fuck that game.”

“I... um, I was just asking what you do... for a living.”

“Oh, insurance.”

“What, like...”

“Yep.”

Anita gave me a calculating look before continuing.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you’re not a particularly tall or imposing man, Jake.”

“Happens,” I grunted.

“I’m just saying that insurance is a pretty dangerous game at the best of times.  You’ve got to make sure nothing goes wrong with a deal, and be merciless when they do.”

I wasn’t sure where she’d gotten her impressions of what goes on inside an office, but she made it sound sexy and dangerous so I wasn’t about to correct her.

“Yep,” I agreed.

“Interesting.”  She looked at me again, something on her mind.  “So I presume you and Vintage work together?”

“In a round-a-bout way of speaking, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, he makes the deals and I sort out the unpleasantness.”

“Makes sense, I suppose.  So, it sounds like we have a deal.”

“Anything for a pretty head, why not.”

Vintage was back, and all this concentration on talking was taking its toll on my drunken mind.  As he rejoined the conversation, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the booth.  This lady had some weird ideas about how the world worked.  Why the hell would being short have anything to do with my ability to do my job?  And dangerous?  The only danger was from boredom, and possibly my war with Jeremy.  Fucking Jeremy, I thought.  Fuck that guy!

Wait, what was that last thing she was saying?  My mind was like mud, and the effort required to continue to focus was too much.  I’d sort it out later, I figured.  Whatever it is, it can’t be too bad.