Chapter 2
A/N: No one's been reading this, really, but I'm writing it for my own enjoyment and to get these ideas out of my head. It's gettin on my nerves having them in there.
I've decided to write this in present tense, as Eric Garcia writes his book. See what I can do with it.
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Roy sits in his recliner, staring absently out the window. His house still isn't as furnished as it used to be. Roy doesn't see the need for so much furniture. No one had been in the house in ages.
The bookstore is closed today. Sunday. Roy's a bit upset about this, as while he's off work, he does nothing but sit in his recliner and think. Boring. Nothing to do. Takes a sip from the water glass in his hand. Stares at the ceiling, head back on the top of the back of the chair. He thinks about calling Randy, the man he had met the day before in the diner after work. Digs in his bathrobe and pulls out the small cream colored business card. The golden letters shine back at him as he tilts it gently in his fingertips. 'RANDALL JENKINS; DEALER OF FINE ANTIQUES Woodland Hills, California.' Roy sits up in his chair. Decides to call the guy. To at least meet up with him and see his other techniques. See what games he knows, his style. Who knows? Maybe he might get back into the whole mess. Roy sits back again. No. That's what it is, a mess. A big mess that he has already cleaned up and doesn't wish to clean up over again. He doesn't like messes. They make him uncomfortable. Make him nauseous. Especially messes that keep on getting messy, or messes that don't want to be cleaned up. Stains. Roy instinctively looks at his carpet. Frowns. What is he kidding himself? There's nothing there. There's not going to be anything there. He keeps his house spotless. He looks at the ceiling again. What if he just called to talk? He didn't know that Roy never called anyone. Didn't know he didn't have any close friends or family. He reaches for the cordless and dials the number on the card. Two rings and a pickup.
"Hello?"
"Hi, uh, Randy, this is Roy." Roy looks out the window again. A bird takes a dive. Poops on his driveway. He grimaces. Stands.
"Oh, hey Roy. Whadja call for?" Roy thinks. He really did call just to chat. Honestly. Truely. Maybe. But grown men don't usually call each other to talk. Or do they? Roy doesn't know many grown men.
"Do you want to come over say...Saturday? Discuss...things?" Randy, back at his house, smiles. He might just have a partner now. No more doing things on his own. Relying on too much chance. Chance is bad. Everything has to be planned. Perfect. Flawless.
"Sure."
"Actually, you know what, don't come here, you don't want to come here," says Roy. Puts on his slippers, unlocks all of the locks. Releases the dead bolt. Goes into the kitchen.
"Okay, where do you want to meet?" Randy places a cigarette between his lips and inhales.
"It's a book store on Vera. Meet me there on Saturday at two o'clock." Roy grabs a paper towel. Grabs another one. And another one. Goes to the door.
"McCarthy's? Yeah, I know that place."
"Yeah, McCarthy's. Meet me there." Locks the door up again. Unlocks it.
"How much are we gonna be able to talk, though? Not exactly the noisiest of places, you know? People will listen, readin' them books." Randy toys with his cigarette, spins around in his chair.
"No one at McCarthy's will listen. When someone reads a book, they usually don't pay attention to their surroundings. Fat man standin' there with a goatee waitin' in line, two seconds later it seems, they look up, and some tiny woman's there. Look at their watch, it's been ten minutes. The corner where all the books on accordions is safe. No one's ever standing around there. I'll move a table over there. No one'll sense a thing." Locks it. Unlocks it. Opens the door. Sun pours in, attacking his eyes and face like a hot iron. It must be over 100 degrees out. Or the air conditioning is too high and it's only 70.
"Sounds good. See you at two."
"See you at two." Randy hangs up. Roy hangs up. Slips the phone into the pocket of his bathrobe, and steps out onto the stoop. Onto the walkway, and then onto the pavement. Paper towels are ready, and at hand. The pavement is hot. Scorching the bottoms of Roy's feet, even through the rubber of his bedroom slippers. He can feel the ultraviolet rays hitting his face. Soaking through the openings in his cheeks, nose, forehead. Damaging cells, killing them. Better make this fast. He bends down, puts the paper towel over the bird poop and wipes it up, making a face. Bile rising in his throat. His hands are touching it. Touching it through the paper towel. Germs are seeping through the material, worming into his skin. Roy wipes the bits up. Vision blurring. He runs up the walk, bile still rising, making him cough. Jumps in his house, locks the door. Unlocks it. Locks it. Unlocks it. Locks it. Runs to the bathroom. Slams the door.
A/N: More to come. REVIEW. PLEASE.
REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 1:
Liz: I wrote more...and no, Justin isn't sexy. Please get over it.