Weird day

Today has been a weird one, so far. First up was this pain in my neck when I woke up. I woke from a dream which seemed more like a prophecy than the random consequences of the brain rummaging through thousands of meaningless fleeting files in the vain hope of processing them in some meaningful way. In this dream, I was having coffee with another writer, Sue, who is also represented by Fred, our agent. She told me that the reason I haven’t heard from Fred for three months since sending him my latest manuscript was because he was dead. In my dream, I sprayed hot latte all over her face as she said this, as this had seemed such a ludicrous idea that I just had to laugh. She did not flinch, nor blink, nor yell at me, though, and continued staring at me with those narrow brown eyes, underscored by large, almond shaped dark circles which she no longer tried to hide with makeup. That was when I realized that Fred really might be dead. That was when I woke up.

And so, I woke up, and felt the pain in my neck. I stayed motionless in bed for a few more minutes before I went to the bathroom and scraped my tongue. I have a thing about tongues. I love tongue. Eating tongue, that is. I have about twenty ox tongues in my freezer right now, and every Sunday night I would cook one, and eat it for the rest of the week. Pig tongues are great too, and duck’s tongues are fabulous if you can get them. Goes down really well with sake.

Anyhow, I scraped my tongue. I like to have a pink tongue as much as I can. Nothing disgusts me more than the sight of someone’s yellow or grey or purple or blue tongue. I once met Will Smith at a literary event in New York, and he was taking to me – yes TO ME – we were actually chatting face-to-face standing no more than two feet apart from one another. He was every bit the charming fellow everyone imagined and described him to be – until you catch a glimpse of his tongue as he laughed a charming laugh. Man. It was a disgusting sight. I wish no one need to ever see that tongue and I was surprised no one alerted him to this highly off-putting aspect of his awesome self. I screwed up my face instinctively and had the good sense to pretend I was choking on the prawn toast I was holidng, after which I quickly excused myself.

I always scrap my tongue first thing in the morning. Then I have a wee, then I look out of the window. Today, it was way too bright and hot for my liking. I thought about my dream, and tried to note the details. I tried to recall what Sue was wearing, whether my latte was sweetened, and what time of day it was in my dream when our little exchange took place. I tend to mull over my dreams a bit more than I used to, these days. Helps me slow the day down.

Then I took out my camera and took a picture from my spot. I mulled over that for a while, as well, and thought about the picture I took yesterday. It was a hot day as well, not as bright, but hot.

Then the phone started ringing. It was Fred. Thank God he isn't dead.

"Hello."
"Hi Fred."
"Hey, yeah, listen, listen to this."
"Yeah. I'm listening."
"Don't say anything. Just listen to me."
"..."
"Listen. It is not there anymore. Okay? It is not there anymore."
"..."
"I'm going to hang up now. IT IS NOT THERE ANYMORE."

And he hung up.

I looked at the handset, as one does, and then I hung up too.

What the fuck was that?

I thought about ringing him back, in case he was going through some bizarre drug-induced paranoia that he needed waking up from. I thought about calling Sue, I thought about going over to Fred's place. Then I thought about what he said. IT IS NOT THERE ANYMORE.

What the fuck was that? What is not where anymore?

That was all a bit too much for me to take in that early in the morning. Yes it was early, I looked at my phone and it told me the time was 9:05am. Why on earth was he calling me so early? It was definitely him on the phone. His cigarette and alcohol wrecked voice, his non-descript accent, his caller-displayed phone number.

Like I said, it was all a bit too much for me. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a weak whisky soda with plenty of ice. Then I went to lie down on the couch with the drink my my hand. I took a sip of it and was very glad I had scraped my tongue.

Fred doesn't really have a drug problem, but he is prone to paranoia, as many successful people tend to be. Some of the biggest names in literary fiction in the 1990s were managed by him. He has a knack for spotting writers that sell bucket loads. Unfortunately, his streak ran out in around 2001, when one of his authors commited suicide and apparently left Fred a suicide note. Nobody but Fred knows what the note says, but that seemed to have changed everything. Since then, he hasn't represented any bestsellers. Which would explain why I am living in this shit hole trying to live off a part-time lecturer's salary teaching creative writing in a community college in the middle of nowhere.

Sue's predicament is different in many ways. First off, she is plenty loaded, so money is not an issue for her. Secondly, she loves Fred. I mean, she chooses to have Fred represent her. She is a fan. She is also clinically insane and yet unbelievably boring to talk to.

She has been institutionalized twice, during which she wrote a collection of poems which sold big in Finland and Sweden. And you would think that a nutcase would be interesting in some way, but not Sue. In fact, you would probably need some convincing to believe what I just told you about her.

And before I knew it, I had finished my drink. I don't have a drink problem, I just like to drink. I don't believe drinking before noon necessarily makes you an alcoholic. I hardly ever drink at night.

The phone started to ring again. I looked at the caller display, and it is Fred again. I hesitated about picking it up. If he sprang any more weird shit on me I might be incapacitated for the whole day. I am not very good at processing weird shit.

And so I just let it rang, and rang.

After a while the ringing died off, and two minutes later it started again. That carried on for about eighty minutes, during which time I had another three whisky sodas.

I decided to check in on Fred by calling his daughter. She works in an advertising agency in town. I dragged my ass to the study to locate her business card. I dialled the number.

"Hello. Can I speak to June please?"
"May I know who is calling?"
"This is Jack, Jack Stone."
"One moment please."


"Hello Jack?"
"Hi June. Morning."
"What's up?"
"Listen, have you spoken to Fred recently?"
"I saw him last night. Why."
"He called me this morning and said some weird shit. I was wondering if everything is okay with him."
"What do you mean? What weird shit?"
"...it's a bit hard to explain. Listen. Can you call him and check that he is okay? When he called me he forbade me to speak."

June roared out laughing.

"Is this part of a feasibility study of one of your plots?"
"No."
"You're fucking joking."
"Listen, just give the ugy a call. Okay? I'm just a tad worried."
"Have you been drinking? You sound slurred."
"Just call him, then call me back. Okay?"
"Jeez... I'm just about to go to a meeting..."
"Just call him."
"Okay. Jeez."

And she hung up.

Jeez. Indeed. I'm so glad I am childless.

I poured another drink and went back to my couch. I waited for half an hour, but June did not call back.

I waited till noon. Nothing.

I allowed myself to drift into sleep again, when I had another dream about Fred and Sue. In this dream, I was again having coffee with Sue, and again she told me that Fred was dead. Only this time, I did not react as if this was the biggest joke. I told her that I knew Fred was dead. She asked me, as if surprised, how I knew. I told her I knew because I was the one who killed him. My cell phone rang as I said this to her, and it was June. She asked if I could call Fred. As she was afraid something might have happened to him.

Then I woke up. Someone was frantically ringing my door bell, and my phone was ringing at the same time.