What about kismet? - 1. It’s Your Life: It’s never too late.

Chapter 1:

It’s Your Life: It’s never too late.

“It’s never easy to make mistakes, let alone the greatest one that affects your own happiness. But to everything else that makes it harder - screw it!”

It is not something I do on a regular basis that I acted out on my erratic behavior and watched a Will & Grace re-runs til 12 pm. But, since my good for nothing hag-fag friend Allana, was not on the best of her graces to have accompanied me last night on our weekly DVD movie line-up, instead of going to bed and having wasted a good night, I then decided to watch something that was being shown on the television. I was glad of what the fairy homo - landia of all comedy shows magically prompted in the screen.

While I scanned through the channels, a Will & Grace Television marathon appeared on the telly. Sensing that the “hag” had plans of ditching me, I rung her up. After a few minutes where all I got was a series of dial tones, I consoled myself that she would not be coming. Therefore, I had accustomed myself to the idea that the night would be another one of my usual nights, alone and me watching some television re-runs.

Rarely does it I happen that I waste a good evening. What I did on my own free time usually depends on my mood or how I had spent delegating activities through the course of the succeeding days. There are those nights, however, when I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs for having had a miserable day that I would listen to the music of some of the great composers that had ever walked the earth.

Just to name a few: Wagner, Rachmanninov, Haydn, Stravinsky or Ravel, are the type of music that tickles my eardrums. Or on some occasions when I felt the need to clear my head, for no apparent reason; I would nourish my auditory senses with Debussy’s Claire De Lune or Lizst’ Liebesträume no 3. Music really help soothe my nerves or at least I trained myself to find a convenient avenue of making sure that the world did not bother me – even for at least five minutes - while I was strapped comfortably in that little bubble of maybes.

It was around 8 pm, when my stomach started growling that I prepped some ready-to-cook popcorn in the microwave, and laughed away the pathetic attempts to instil some normalcy around my life. I took the bowl of the bland tasting salt and butter flavored popcorn, and then cushioned myself in my oh-so-comfortable $450 love seat that I got from the Salvation Army months ago. After hours of relentless laughing and gagging while I tried to endure the soporific effects of being alone, I checked my wall clock and saw it was past midnight. So I stood up, turned off the lights and went to the bathroom to do my nightly customs.

Such routine involved brushing my teeth, embalming myself with intoxicating body lotions that I think helps in the ageing process (or so I assumed), and putting my nightly cream for those incessant wrinkles that might appear without any notice.

I hopped on my bed, slid off my slippers, rubbed my feet, grabbed my blankets and positioned myself on the bed as my legs crossed against my long pillow, then said “Thank you God.”

Albeit my lack of religious pleasantries and anything sacrilegious that my mother have instilled all throughout these years that had waned through time, the only religious thing left in me was to at least thank God of what had happened to my day, even if nothing eventful did happen. I turned off my bed lights and closed my eyes.

After nearly having caught up on my sleep, I heard my phone ringing. I placated the vibrating object on my bedside table, immediately pressed it on my ears, clicked the green glowing button, and said, “What bitch! I’m already asleep.” I glided my eyes towards my alarm clock and saw 2:28 am, blinking on a white neon light.

“You have the nerve to call me, you slut! You did not even send me a text message informing if you are still alive.”

“Excuse me? This is *coughs* Michael. Have you finished the article on the Stayans red panda? I need it by Monday Luke.”

“Ohh... yeesss sir, I will drop it later. I only managed to get the first draft done.”

“What! You told me you’re finished with it. What the fuck Luke, we already have two articles still not fucking finished. Just give me the final drafts will you.”

“Do not worry sir; I will have it done by next week Monda...”

Before I had time to explain myself to my editor, he cut our conversation short before I had even finished my sentence.“That asshole, that article is not due till next week Friday. What gives...?” I said to myself as I tried getting back to sleep.

I thought for a moment about the urgency that I had to get the article done as to get Michael off my back for the rest of the month. I am not implying that I disliked my job or my boss that I consciously preferred not finishing my articles on time.

To further enunciate on that matter, I will impose a prepositional phrase “because of...” and state that my editor does not like me; simply for such reason which I have deciphered from his former statements.

He said that I should be writing articles like the irreversible impact of what the fashion industry has done to making everything ugly these days, or the inexpiable trend of how anything fugly is expensive, instead of being a research writer in a magazine that displayed nut-cases articles of endangered animal species.

However, since he knew of how dedicated I am to my work – even without his underlying prejudice against gay people, and his iconic mindset of gay people wearing pink all the time - he pressures me whenever he wants to get something done, much like what he did, by calling me even if my eyes were shut close.

He reckoned I should have worked in a fashion magazine. He thought gay people are creative and that we have a knack for anything fashionable - or as he said it - I was more suitable to that kind of work environment.

Notably seeing how his balding head and horrendous flannel shirt seemed to fashionably thwart his anger – pun intended, whenever something pissed him off such as articles not meeting their deadlines, or let me just say, something had not quelled his temper, made him the perfect example of people who needed anger management and some group counselling from Tom Ford.

I doubt working in a fashion magazine would have made any difference. I would have had another loud-mouthed queen of a boss, who pestered me like hell. He convinced me enough that he was the straight version of “the boss from hell” and the lesser annoying of “the drama king”; however, I still preferred to stay despite having been offered a work at “Chickaholic”.

Based on what I have heard from fashion desperate tweens and young adults out there who wastes their time reading nonsensical inputs of how a bluish pink cashmere shirt, that looked like cookie monster spat on it, was the greatest invention of Roberto Jergenio, as would be to humanity.

The demographics had predicted that Chickaholic magazine was to be the latest fashion magazine to have been released in the next quarter, that would have competed with the leading magazine tycoons such as Vague magazine, Elle’s Bizarre, Vanity Me & Cleot.

Roberto Jergenio was some hotshot designer who made “The Yellow Turtleneck”, from his latest spring collection. It was considered the newest and latest trend that had hit the shelves since flip-flops were born. He was very known to make such wacky apparels that even the Sesame Street gang would be appalled from all its color clothing combinations.

To think I had splurged $257 on that yellow turtleneck long-sleeved shirt, as a way to celebrate my first paycheck, as a gift for myself, was a decision that I would regret much later but happened sooner. The only form of self-gratification I received was some red patches on my neck.

The shirt that I had newly bought contained this yellow imprinted vinyl within its lining, inside the part of the fabric that had stretched across the neck. Who in their right minds puts faux-leather in a long-sleeved shirt? Oh wait, Robert Jergenio does it! That nutcase who made me regret that anything stamped as a signature brand would kill me. I am not saying I am allergic to vinyl, but sporting some leather contraption on your neck all day would deliberately spell some allergic reaction.

Call me a hypocrite with all my indifference to the fashion world, despite having bought their merchandise. On the contrary, anyone who upholstered people as part of what they wore was indeed a crime, based on my experience. Talk about buyer’s remorse drama.

When news had spread like wildfire about a new fashion magazine pirating new people all across magazine agencies within New York, my name suddenly came up on their “whose to pirate list”. They had set up a meeting and told me about the pay raise blah blah and about the autonomy and control I would have had on my job; if I worked as a resident columnist. They also told me of how my creativity and fashion background were to be put to good use.

The moment I realized the phrase ‘fashion background’ was an allusion to my family background, my ears tingled and declined the amiable offer.

Michael knew that some magazine had been trying to recruit me and have me on their team, but he kept quiet. When everyone found out at the office that I rejected the offer, he gave me a skeptical look. He told me I must really be hooked with writing stories about nearly extinct animals. So as not to have confused him, I explicated that I preferred knowing people who had a rational say to their area of interests, rather than spend a whole day talking to people who pretended to know the difference of what is fuchsia and what is hot pink.

On a positive note, I made it clear to him that I was there to stay, despite my lack of necessary educational background to whatever I was researching, which proved to be helpful at times in rejecting weird research articles like “Purple Squirrel” or “Hellish Sea Monster Cast Ashore”.

The salary is not that great if you ask me, but at least I got to practice my writing even if it involved furry red spotted endangered species of pandas who would probably outlive the human race - sensing the rate of our own evolution we are going these days.

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I turned on my bed light and with my sleep intermittently disrupted; I browsed my phone’s inbox and see five unopened messages that came from Allana. The first message sent at around 1:20 am stating:

“Beeyotch, I kner ur alredy asleep. But I’m at his hawwtie’s pad. He’s smoking hawt, BRB, gona get laid.”

Then I opened the second message at 1:56 am that says, “He’s at the shower, freshening up. My god, his bodeh is amuuhzing. Cud lick it all the wai to kingdom cum. Laterz”,

And the third message at 2:12 am which says, “That fucking turd, he asked me to put a dildo on his ass. WTF! Another queer, I curse the day you’ve been born u hoe. Love yah, XOX.”

I realized that the fourth message is going be as stupid as the first three messages I just opened. I did not bother opening the last one and instead called her. She was not answering any of my calls so I decided to go to her place at around 2:45 am to see what that bitch has been doing.

I assumed she is on her bed making vodka kool-aids or passed out drunk with vomit pressed on her cheeks. I stood up, grabbed my comb and brushed my hair, and shook my head to shake off that still-sleepy feeling.

I opened my closet to put on a wool jacket then reached for my slippers and went out of the bedroom to get a glass of water. I grabbed my keys, locked the doors, and walked five paces from my unit to the left. I took out a key from the set of keys I was dangling all across the hallway.

I then opened the door and saw Allana dozed off with her head crouched on her coffee table while her left hand gripped tightly on a mug half-filled with vodka and lemon flavored kool-aid, and her phone lying flat a few inches from her right hand.

Noticing that it had been a great time to amuse the dormant cow, I screamed in a bellowing tone “DILDO!’. She scrambled to her senses and flipped the mug of vodka directly on her face, which made me laugh. I took out my phone and clicked a snapshot of her, binge drinking to one of her usual episodes.

“Wakey wakey you hag. You’ve fallen asleep again. What is with this frivolous outrage of childish ménage-trois and unadulterated sex schemes? And what’s up with your text messages?”

“Why do you care?” she emphasized while struggling to manage her bearings.

“I care, cause I’m the one cleaning this mess you’ve made you silly hag.”

She slowly regained her consciousness as she wiped the liquid froth of dried-up saliva forming on her mouth.

“Well, I went out with my firm tonight. We had a meeting at this classy new resto-bar. The food was bleh, but the guys were hot and mostly single, available corporate men.”

I moved myself and sat beside her as I flickered through her hair while she babbled away from her drunken stupor. I then said to her “And what happened?”, as I waited to hear her amazing story of why she had the nerves to have ditched me.

“I told my colleagues I was meeting a friend. After they were all gone, this gorgeous looking guy sat beside me at the bar. He was so nice, annnnddd (burps) he’s a doctor, or some physical therapist or something like that. We had a chat, and he invited me to his place. I thought he would be the one since he seemed really nice. And he turned out to be a fucking homo. You homo!”

I listened to her babble while stroking her hair as my means of comforting the hag who seemed to prefer a hotter gay guy than her already gay best friend. I wanted to say “I told you so” but I opted to shut my mouth and let her do the talking and explaining.

“You always think every guy you meet is THE ONE! Obviously, he’s not gay dear, pretty gay for a fact. He must have thought you’re some tranny, seeing that dreadful appalling suit you’re wearing.”

“I know right! What? How dare you...” She spoke as she regurgitated and swallowed her own vomit. “...this is Dolce & Gabbana you skank, the one you gave me remember.”

“Oh yeah, no wonder it’s atrocious, mom gave you that not me.”

“And by the way, how dare you say that he thinks I’m a tranny...fag. He saw me naked you aberrant kumquat or... I think he did! Why are all hot men either gay or straight married men? I hate your kind!”

“There there, you’re overgeneralizing dear; you keep on forgetting about Ryan. Don’t worry, that’s the vodka talking.”

“Really? That was vodka; I thought that was kool-aid.”

“Okay, you’re drunk. Better get you to bed. At least you’ll have a few hours of sleep compared to me. We’ll talk when you wake up dear. Let me help you get to bed.”

“You’re so nice to me. Are you like, you know, the one? Like Mr. Right or Mr. Fag?”

“Could be, but you said that to me ten years ago and I turned out to be gay. So I better get you to bed before you tell me I’m the tooth fairy and I turn out to be a fucking hetero.”

I escorted her as she lifted herself while she stumbled through to get to her room. She collapsed in the bed while she managed to get away from her clothes. I searched for any dry cloth in her laundry basket, then steadily went to the bathroom sink and dabbed it in tap water. As I smeared her face with the wet cloth, from the filth of her own vomit, she mumbled the word “Bitch” and a glint of smile appeared on her cheeks.

She then grabbed her pillows as I took off her remaining clothes that would show any signs of a night gone astray. I rummaged her closet and took a few clean sleeping clothes I could manage to fit her.

Then I patted her forehead and kissed her cheeks as she surreptitiously said a thank you. I moved on to clean the filth and mess in her living room and kitchen; picked up the scattered magazines, washed her dishes, fluffed out her pillows and did a 3 am room service cleaning spree - free of charge.

Sometimes I wonder if my neighbor was from some ancient cockroach civilization disguised in the body of a 5 foot 9 blonde girl who works at an ad agency, to spread perhaps some rancid vile disease called laziness - only because her living quarters was plain nasty. Her apartment unit was worse than my college roommate who smelled like dried-up feta cheese, and that man had room-cleaning issues.

After I had cleaned the remains of Allana the human pigsty, I checked my watch and saw that it was already 4:47 am and had an afterthought of going back to sleep or thought of taking a bath from the mess of cleaning my neighbour slash best friend’s incidental guy-fiasco.

I went back to sleep at around 5 am and had an hour and a half of uninterrupted nap time, which was supposedly only to be an hour. I woke my disgruntled self from my phone’s annoying ringing, in the tune of Britney Spear’s Hit Me Baby One More Time, as a backup alarm in case my real alarm clock did not purposefully live up to its use. I counted thirty seconds, then saw myself panic from having slept a little more than I intended.

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“I wonder who this Joe person is...”

I slide out of my unit to get the flash drive I accidentally have left inside my desk drawer that I hope will to deliver my ass to salvation, and shut up my editor’s morning complains. I lock the main door then trudge the pathway leading to the stairs with an afterthought that keeps on bothering me.

The notion of the mysterious business card is giving me a debilitating effect on my composite thinking and is making me fret as to whom, out of all the plausible candidates I have in mind, could he be. I think that maybe the card is from something important, as I second-guess the situation. However, I doubt that I will get someone’s business card and not remember anything unless it is of no significance at all.

I then check the information written on the card, and it seems as though it came from some hotel establishment, in reference to its wellness and fitness center.

I place my sling bag in the trunk, shut it close and open the door to the driver’s seat. I sit there for a couple of minutes, pondering on whom that mysterious person’s identity is. Maybe it is one of those pesky people putting things on my mail as an advertisement tactic to add junk and have it clogged for weeks.

“No, probably not” I whisper.

“Then who?” asking myself for the second time as I express my grief.

My eyes snap as the image of the mysterious person comes rushing in my train of thoughts - “Oh him!” I look in my front mirror and turn my head as I maneuvered the car out of the driveway while my entire body feels fluster and is in a great state of awe.

“So that’s what he meant when he said about that so called something...” I mumble to myself.

I look both ways in the driveway and try to calm myself from the possible onslaught I am thinking of doing to that person, if I happen to bump into him again. Despite my curiosity, stupefaction and temperament towards that man, it is interesting enough for me to think about it for that whole Friday morning, and think of him for the rest of the day.