The Interview - 2. On the couch, in my apartment
Chapter 2: On the couch, in my apartment
On the couch, in my apartment the storm continues. I'm surrounded by a sea of crumpled papers, almost half a notepad worth. It is a waste, and I know I shouldn't be doing it, but I can't stop myself, I am so incensed. The glass of bourbon on the coffee table and now half-empty bottle beside it probably doesn't help. Nor does the fact that the coffee table on which they sit is not a real coffee table, but an old wooden cupboard door, propped up on four stacks of books. Or more specifically, propped up on copies of my book.
I scribble another name down on the blank page of my pad. The Mayor. I stare at it, and a moment later it has joined its predecessors on the floor of my apartment, nestling neatly between Justin Bieber, the Pope, and The U.S. President, and surrounded by a host of more mundane and ultimately boring options. At least the paper is filling the otherwise sparsely furnished lounge room of my apartment. Asides from my shabby black cloth couch and makeshift coffee table, the only other furniture in the room is an old crate with a TV on top. The TV is a decent, forty-inch-wide screen and the only real thing of any value in the one bedroom apartment, apart from my laptop which sits closed on the coffee table. The only other furniture in the house is a small round table with four spindly chairs in the kitchen, and my double bed and single, doorless wardrobe in the bedroom.
'How the hell am I going to get an interview with the Mayor?' I proclaim to the empty room, as if Editor in Chief John Holmes is standing there listening. 'I don't know the first thing about the Mayor, including his or her gender or name. I have no interviewing experience, no journalistic credentials; her office would be mad to put me through! And even if they did, what then? I don't have a clue about what she does, about community issues or city problems. I'm not interested in that shit! I just want to write!'
I scoop up my glass and take another big gulp of the amber liquid. I don't really care if the neighbours hear me talking to myself. Maybe they’ll assume I have visitors and are not a loser with barely any social life, sitting at home talking to himself. My throat burns as the liquor passes through, and a new wave of warmth spreads out from my chest. I slam the glass back down, sloshing some of the alcohol out. I am feeling the full effects of the booze, as I don't drink that often and not generally this heavily. I haven’t eaten either so the booze is going straight to my head. I try to focus on the latest blank page on the pad in my lap, considering who might make a good interview.
‘I’ve got it!’ I exclaim, my words slurred. ‘I can interview God! He’s an interesting member of the community. And he’ll have to do it, because he’s God. He won’t be able to say no to a poor, desperate loser like me. He loves spending time with social outcasts. Besides, I went to church every Sunday for the first fifteen years of my life; he owes me!’
I take up my pen and begin to write carefully on the pad.
To: God
PO Box 888
Heaven
Dear God,
I would be obliged if you could spare ten minutes in your busy schedule for an interview with me, which will be published in the illustrious Herald. I think the interview could be of mutual benefit to both of us. For me, it would:
Provide a subject far more interesting than others of “public interest”;
Enable me to earn enough money to pay my rent and buy food;
Avoid my life becoming an even greater pile of shit than it already is;
Stop me ending up on the street;
Maybe go some way towards winning Mel back.
For you, it would;
Give you an opportunity to reconnect with the wider community;
Give you the chance to address some of the burning issues around the conduct of the catholic church directly;
In the tradition of the old gods, provide a break from the tedium of life in paradise, basically slumming it with us mere mortals;
Provide a chance to perform one of the miracles you are always preaching about, by saving me from my current predicament, as summarized above.
My schedule is completely open tomorrow, so if you can confirm availability and a convenient time, that would be greatly appreciated. You can reach me on 0498 666 001.
Yours faithfully,
Daniel D. Myers
P.S. Apologies on the phone number. It is not an attempt to take the piss or because I have an allegiance with the devil. I thought it was funny when I first got it, but now realize the error of my ways. However, changing it would be a very big hassle, having to send it to all my contacts, update my details across numerous different organisations and subscriptions, etc. You understand.
I finish writing and stare at the page blankly while I take another sip of bourbon, the mock letter having done little to alleviate my foul mood. I’m about to tear it out and send it to the floor with the others when I hear a knock at the door which causes me to fall quiet. After a pause, the knock sounds again, this time more insistent.
‘Dan! Daniel is that you?’ The voice is gravelly and nasal, as if the owner has sucked back far too many cigarettes in her life, which she probably has. It belongs to Mrs Linton, the snoopy old landlady who owns the block of flats I’m renting in. I should have considered her when I was talking to myself earlier! I stay quiet, hoping she’ll go away.
‘Dan, I know you are in there. You owe me rent for the last three weeks. No more games Daniel. If you don’t cough up the money, I’ll be calling the police to throw you out. I’ll give you three more days, then that's it.’
Receding footsteps on the stairs indicate she has gone, but her visit has done nothing for my mood. I discard the pen and pad on the coffee table, climb unsteadily to my feet and stagger into the kitchen. Opening the pantry, I reach up to the back shelf and find the stack of money there. I count through the notes, dropping a fifty and then two twenties, losing my place as I retrieve them and having to start again. Eventually I count out $1,530, pretty much all the money I have left. Rent is three hundred a week, so I have enough to pay her. Instead, I place the money back in the pantry and close the door.
Next to the pantry, my mobile is plugged into the wall, charging. I see I have a missed call and there's a message. I check it and see the missed call is from Mum. I guess the message will be from her as well and know it will say something like You never call us. When are you going to drop by? Are you eating right? I delete the message without listening to it, and stumble over to the fridge. Inside it is bare; a quarter block of cheese, a tomato with spots of mold on the side, the two crust pieces of a loaf of bread and a half-empty bottle of water. My stomach grumbles in complaint at the meager pickings, and I move back over to my phone, intent on ordering some pizza. I thumb the screen and accidentally push the photo icon rather than the internet browser, and the phone opens up my photo album. The photo it lands on is one of me and Mel, my ex. I remember the shot; a selfie she took when we were on the train out to dinner one night. It was taken a couple of months into our relationship and we both look happy. She is so beautiful, her cheek pressed against mine, her straight, auburn hair framing her face, her lips generous and painted a pale pink. I look healthier, a little more colour in my cheeks and lips, and a little more meat on my frame. It was taken before things started turning toxic in our relationship, before she gave up on me and left.
‘Bitch!’ I say to no-one in particular, slamming the phone down on the bench and retreating towards my bedroom, my hunger forgotten. I leave my notepad on the coffee table as I walk past, but swipe the bottle of bourbon and take a long swig from it on my way into the room.