The Interview - 3. My brain is mush…

Chapter 3: My brain is mush…

My brain is mush, like how a losing boxer must feel after twelve rounds. My mouth is a desert, tasting of day-after alcohol and vomit. I glance at the alarm clock and the digital display shows 10:36 in bold red numbers. In the apartment above me someone is exercising, the loud whir of an old exercise bike not doing any favours for my pounding head. I consider throwing the pillow over my head and trying to get back to sleep but my bladder is insistent that I need to get out of bed.

            I stagger to my feet, and the pounding in my brain intensifies. Groaning I stumble out of the room, past the mostly empty bourbon bottle on the floor, through the kitchen and into the toilet cubicle. The extent of my dehydration is even more apparent from the dark yellow colour of my urine as I piss into the toilet. Finished, I head into the bathroom and give my hands a quick rinse and then drink from the tap. The water is cool and refreshing, though my stomach threatens to repel it, no longer trusting of anything I put into it. I stand by the sink, breathing heavily, as my mouth begins to salivate. I run into the cubicle again and spend the next few minutes throwing up the contents of my stomach into the bowl. It is not pleasant, but I figure it is probably best out than in at this stage.

When the heaving subsides, I splash my face and try a little more water. My stomach accepts it this time and I feel a little better. I wander out of the bathroom through the kitchen intent on returning to bed, when I notice the flashing light on my phone that signals a message. I unplug the phone from its charge cable and look at the screen. There is a text message, a missed call from a private number and a voice mail message accompanying it.

I check the text message first and find it is from Mel.

Dan, you know that book is very special to me. I know you have it. I'm begging you, please give it back to me.

This is not the first message she has sent about the book, as the conversation history above the latest text on screen attests. I smirk and don't respond, flicking over to the voice mail instead. Given I don't recognise the number, I theorize that it could it be a publisher with some interest in my book! My hopes rise and I dial the number to tap into the voice mail messages. The recorded message indicates that I have one voice mail, received at 11:45pm the night before. I frown at the late time, suddenly doubtful of the likelihood of it being a publisher calling at that time. The message begins and I listen:

            '...know you don't think it's a good idea; you've made that abundantly clear. But it's time – the church is in crisis, atheism, science and economics are the new Christianity, extremists have pissed away Muslim reputation for most of the world and I need to try something different.' The tone of the voice is smooth and deep, though sounds a little stressed.

            'But you don't need this writer, if you can even call him that!' a second, female voice objected. The voice sounded distressed, yet had an unearthly melodic quality to it that left me thinking of a heavenly choir. 'I am far better qualified at getting out your message to humanity.'

            'I know, Gabe, but maybe the writer will give us a point of difference.'

            A third voice spoke, harder to hear, on account of the owner sounding further away from the phone, and having a deeper gruffer voice than the first. 'Actions speak louder than words. Give me leave, and I will lead a holy war that will fix all our problems.'

            I raise an eyebrow, becoming increasingly puzzled over the message, which continues.

            'How many times do I have to tell you “no”, Michael,' the original voice responded, a slightly sharp note in his reply. 'A holy war is the last thing we need. We are still dealing with fallout from the crusades, and the last ones were close to eight hundred years ago! Now, stop arguing and tell me how I use this contraption?'

            'I've already dialled,' the melodic woman's voice replied. 'Has it rung? Is anyone on the other end?'

            'Hello? Hello? There's no answer, is it broken?'

            'Not broken, it's just gone to voice mail. If you are absolutely adamant about doing this, leave a message. The writer will get it.'

            'Oh, Okay. Um, hi. This is God here. I got your letter and agree to do an interview. I will arrive at eleven  O'clock tomorrow morning, March 10th. I look forward to meeting you.'

            The phone cuts off and the message ends, leaving me perplexed. I listen to the message again and slowly recall the letter I wrote yesterday, just before I completely wiped myself out with the bourbon. I walk over to the makeshift coffee table and find my notepad there, but the top page is blank. Crumpled pages still cover the floor, and I get down on my hands and knees, opening them to try and find the letter I wrote addressed to God. It is not there and I eventually sit back on my heels and think.

            It has to be a prank or something. Maybe Mrs. Linton broke into my apartment, found the note and decided to have some fun at my expense? Or perhaps I am still asleep, and this whole thing is just a strange, drunken dream. My phone is still in hand so I dial Mel's number. The phone rings, once, twice, before I suddenly end the call. What will I say to her? That I need her to tell me what is real and what isn't? She already thinks I'm a loser, I don't want to add crazy to the list.

            I walk into my bedroom and look at the clock. 10:56. The man on the message said he'd be here at eleven, so I only have a few minutes. I start to hurry back into the living area to do a bit of a clean up, but stop myself. This is all some weird joke, no one is really coming so why bother cleaning? I decide I do need to get dressed, as I'm still in the clothes I wore yesterday and there are several vomit-coloured smears on the white shirt.

            I grab a casual shirt from the floor, smell it and discard it. The next one I pick, a blue Quicksilver t-shirt smells a little better so I pull it on. A pair of black jean shorts catch my eye and I slip into them. The collared shirt and pants I had been wearing join the other clothes on the floor. I look over at the clock and see it tick over to 11:00am. I pause, listening for a knock at the door. There is nothing, only the sound of the exercise bike whirring away in the apartment above and the faint accompanying sound of some daytime TV talk show that its rider must be watching.

            I shake my head, and stoop to pick up the unfinished bourbon bottle from its spot on the floor when I hear a loud rapping at the door.