really, i want to be helpful. so far all i had really accomplished for my poor roommate was taking him away from his deadline for 2 solid days and he'd probably have to throw up for hours to purge all the junk food fat he had taken on.
a break is a break and i was hopeful that even a self destructive respite had purpose. or maybe this is what a truly evil person would say?
brad was rooting around a gummy worm bag to try and see if there were any scraps to divine from the depths of it.
"i've never eaten this much in so little time before..." dismayed that there was nothing left he puffed out some air and laid back down on the floor to stretch out. i was waiting for him to remark, "how do you do this all the time?!" but he didn't. possibly too whacked out on sugar to insult me properly? or maybe he wasn't a hateful little shit like i assumed he was.
keeping him stoned on weed they give cancer patients licked in opium he hadn't strayed too far. I suppose that's a little scummy, but my soul rests easy knowing i was going to smoke it anyway, his choice to sit and hit it with me.
we had done little conversing. it was more me listening to him unleash all his anxiety. the twinky back stabbers. the novel that never would be complete. the errant idea that he would get back together with a guy he was with and it'd solve pretty much everything.
on and on and it didn't bother me. i had an irritating super power that did little good for humanity but still amazed me. my mutant ability was causing people to open up to me after only a few conversations. it was nothing coached, it just fell out of their mouths and into my lecherous ears. an ex described me as a natural cold reader who baited the eager with leading questions and slowly pulled the bow loose on their secret box. i mean, i heard myself saying this shit, but it was nothing active. it wasn't like i dug in there to pull out the dark shit, it just found a little hole to leak out of and i wound up breaking the whole damn open.
brad had been in the apartment for what? 2? 3 months? we had shared nothing than a few conversations about the rent and some few and far between times when i clattered in drunk and started yapping. all that time with no interest in making contact and only wanting it to be a room he could hide in. maybe that's it? it insulted my psychotic vanity that someone wouldn't want to get to know me and it's been pushing me up to this instance where he'd be tied to me indefinitely. you don't just open up with that sort of info and walk away clean. especially when your confessor hasn't said a fucking thing other than "how does that make you feel?" kind of prodding questions.
people come to after and turn sour. too much told and nary any interest in seeing the face who took it all in. that hurts, man. it hurts but i've gotten my head out of my ass about it and just kept rolling. 15 year old me would have sat in the bathroom for hours cutting myself in a hidden place. wailing softly and cursing the pain of getting into someones mind and being evicted when they woke up in the morning and had some buyers remorse. hurt hurt hurt and hell bent on never doing it again. but it always happened again. and again. and it got deeper. did i just attract more fucked up people? or did i get better at yanking out the scary shit? was this the one craft i could excel at instead of being a jackass of all trades? what a rip off. i can't believe being a psychopath is the one thing i get a fucking gold medal in!
but again it happened. and again i fell right into that warm pool of Bad Stories and paddled around. doughy white legs frog stroking around in that hidden shit. it felt good and where i was supposed to be.
brad looked up at the ceiling and sighed. i immediately assumed he was going to panic but he collected his thoughts and closed his eyes.
"i have no idea what you even do for a living... you know that? we've been in this apartment for days and not one word about you."
i think i just came. hot nutty load of egomania spurting out of my cock and making me black out from the throngs of awesome. oh yes oh yes oh FUCK. you have to tell him where you work now.
no you don't.
just give him The Family Reunion Stock Response!
"i'm an account manager. selling ad space and looking after clients who are long term customers. nothing fancy."
"you're in ad sales and you walk out the door every day in jeans, skate shoes and Mapplethorpe tshirts?"
"hey! i have a blazer at work i leave on the back of my chair. shit man, who says i need a fucking tie to make my quota!?"
he was smiling and chuckling quietly.
"bullshit. i call bullshit."
mouthing a thick cloud of smoke i sucked it back and then expelled it out under my command.
"you're so goddamned smart aren't you?" i passed the spliff down to him and he took it like a champ.
"yes, you're pretty smart. well I AM and account manager and I DO sell ad space. i just don't see clients face to face. i don't need to look like some twat prick to talk to customers on the phone."
passing it back he sat up to lean against the wall. his blond hair was greasy but i cursed how his layers always hung properly no matter the situation.
"ok well you got me on that one. still don't think you're telling me everything tho..."
give that boy the evil eye. adjust and sit up real nice. one leg crossing the other like an evil queen of the fucking universe.
"child, you don't need to know what daddy does for a living."
"now you have to tell me... is it illegal?"
"if it was illegal would i be living in this place?"
"fair... it has to be something for the governm..." he trailed off thinking about how i wouldn't pass a drug test in 20 years if i quit today.
"dead end. are you... are you...?" he looked away and tried to glean something from my room. i am an unstable clutter freak so it would take a team of ten to rip my room apart for any consistent clues.
"no hints." i shucked back in more smoke and felt awash in a toasty film. put too much opium in that one.
"i..i'm at a loss. nothing. two days and i have no clue about who this guy is."
"mmhmm, international man of mystery. listen, it pains me to see you pouting. let me show you." pushing off on my chair with a thin plume of smoke running behind me i slammed into my desk. shake a shake the mouse and hope there's nothing fucked up on my desktop.
pulling up a fresh browser window i tapped in where my paycheque comes from.
"porn? you work for a porno site?"
"don't cheapen it! it's the biggest site in canada that's canadian owned. you know QweerVu? we do that site. same with C0ck-a-Do-Me."
"no way! that's all the same site?"
he crawled on hands and knees over to the desk and removed the joint from my fingers.
"huh, that's impressive."
"not morally opposed?"
"god no... do you enjoy it? er well... i mean...."
"go on. ask it. everyone always does."
"do you ever get sick of it?"
"Not in the slightest. it's always fascinated me so i don't feel like i can ever get sick of it."
his eyes folded tighter in contemplation. "so do you actually sell ad space?"
"for sure! ad space is one of the things around the office i can be called on to do. i also work with recruiting and new hires."
"somehow i feel like those things mean something totally different in your industry..."
"ah that's why you're the smart one, skippy." he frowned. like i give a shit about offending a beta gay when i have seniority?
"i'm definitely a point person for bringing in agents with potential new talent. i'm further down the line after the casting couch tho. i just integrate the new talent and help them when they lose a contact lens on set or make sure they get to photo shoots. you know, the usual when you're wrangling whores."
"whores? that's a little harsh."
"you're right. i should really be respectful of clients and their best interests. sure they take money for sex acts. and sure they get a train ran on them by 30 guys at a time for a gang bang scene... but definitely harsh to call them whores."
"so what is this? legit disdain or acting butch to distance yourself from them?"
twinge. the boy was good. the boy might be another secret susser. i tread carefully and make note of his prowess.
"it's like training dogs for the blind. you have all these puppies running around in your life and you just can't get attached to all of them before you ship them out into the world to work."
"that has to be the most horrifying metaphor you've ever said to me."
"ha! grand ain't it?"
"i guess this business explains your seemingly endless and non-descript business trips then huh?"
"oh yeah, these whip handles stuffed up an ass shirts don't grow on trees."
"do.... you like it?"
"i'm good at it. i don't really feel as though i'm capable of liking anything really. they're people, i interact with those people and i get paid."
"you sure you're not autistic?"
"no no, i told you i'm a psychopath."
"psychopaths aren't so caring about helping people."
"ah yes, but a psycho would help just to deceive people into thinking he had a soul and was capable of caring."
"match point." he tried to make a grab for the smouldering end of the joint but i smacked his hand enough for it to sting.
"roll another one, i've made the commitment to seeing this to the end."
pouting after being put into his place he scratched his side absently and looked at the monitor.
"i've never met someone who's been in a porno."
"that you know of."
"oh no i can't see any of my friends doing that. a lot of them don't even like porn."
"or are they just giving in to the collective will and saying that so they don't look like perverts?"
"oh i don't know!" he stood up and tottered around for a moment. he looked like he had some Big Words to share but i'm sure his brain was careening around too much to focus.
the friends are still a sore point. in my mind i imagined scamming through his facebook to look at their faces. see if one of them set me off on a memory of them jerking off for some quick cash. maybe a couples tape that got leaked in a break up? how terrible that the only noble gesture i can come up with is this kind of sleuth work.