His face showed on the screen—a giant red ballon of a head with a swollen nose and tight lips. After a second, he answered, “Hello.”
“Perkins,” I said, “can you see me?”
“Hunter,” he answered. He had one of those voices that makes you wonder if he gargled with whiskey both morning and night. “Where the fuck are you and why is your face on my screen?”
“Well, good morning to you, too. And happy Friday. I’m currently in Sacramento, watching Serendipity, and thinking about you.” I leaned over and picked up a few kernels of popcorn from off the floor and tossed them into my mouth.
“Hunter,” he said, sighing, “I hope to God you’re joking.”
The ironic part about that statement was that I usually am joking. I shook my head, though I didn’t vocalize the fact that I was as serious as a librarian in a middle school.
Perkins sighed. “You’re putting me in bad spot. You helped me out in a big way a few years back, and I haven’t forgotten that. But I have a business to run and a reputation to uphold. I can’t create a culture where absence is accepted.” He sighed again.
Despite Perkins sounding like he swallowed shattered glass for the hell of it, he could have been Santa Clauses’ twin brother. No, not for his girth—though, that wasn’t out of the question. Perkins had to be the nicest human being to ever live. So nice in fact, it would probably break his heart to fire me.
“Let me interrupt you, boss man. I quit. Listen, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity. You know me, I love breaking shit, and you allowed me to live that dream for five years. But I think it’s time for both of us to move on, to try something new, to grow as individuals. And, Tony, please, don’t blame yourself. This is about me and my shit. It has nothing to do with you. It’s never been about you.” Serendipity had really struck a romantic chord with me that morning. “Can we still be friends? Maybe… on those nights when we drink way too much and want to try something stupid… maybe we can be, I don’t know, special friends.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.
I swiped a few more kernels from off the floor and sucked the butter until they became soggy in my mouth. “I think the world will remember us as we were. Young and on fire. Not as we are now. Burnt by age and—”
He coughed, interrupting me. “Listen, Hunter, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I’ll pray for you. Like I said, you’re a good man and you helped me through an impossible time. I’ll always have a job for you.”
I choked on tears—not really, but for theatre. “You do love me. You really do. Oh, Tony, maybe we can rethink this. Maybe we can give us another shot. What do you say? Take me back.”
“I say find the help that you need. Learn how to process your emotions like a healthy adult.” With that, he disconnected the call and his chubby, beautiful face left my screen.
I cracked my neck. Seven years ago, my wife had died. Two nights ago, I had lost my house, all my freedoms as a citizen as law enforcement wanted my head, my magical powers, and my daughter was murdered. Now, I had lost my job.
Dropping my phone into my lap, I rubbed my eyes.
All I had left was one and a half beers, a spilled bowl of popcorn, and forty-five minutes of Serendipity.
I finished my sixth beer by the time the movie had ended. A few pieces of popcorn remained on the floor, out of reach, and unless I mustered the gumption to get up and restock my forget-everything juice, I wasn’t going to take the initiative to clean the floor.
The hardest decision presented itself as the credits to Serendipity rolled. Did I spend thirty-seven minutes deciding on my next movie, or did I replay the one I had just watched? Let me rephrase that. Did I want to watch another actress other than Kate Beckinsale? No. No I didn’t. I started the movie over.
Brace yourself, because the nightmare part of this beginning starts… now.
As the movie played and as the beers settled into my system, a grogginess enveloped me. I struggled to keep my eyes open and absorb the romanticism of chance encounters—I wanted to know for the third time that morning if John Cusack and my girl would ever find each other again. As he scribbled his phone number onto a dollar bill, and she used it to pay for mints, someone pounded on Xander’s door. Like a drowning victim swimming for air, I surfaced with intensity—sweating and panting—through the black ocean of sleep that had tried to suffocate me.
The knuckle-on-door assault continued. Picture frames trembled on the walls from the percussive force. The popcorn kernels that littered the ground bounced on the floor as if about to pop for a second time. Okay, maybe those descriptions are a little dramatic and untrue, but that’s what I believe happened.
I groaned and stood, adjusting my robe to cover myself—because, sometimes, I am decent. “Shut up! I’m coming!” I shuffled across the living room to the front door, taking my candy-ass time. No one, no matter how aggressively they knocked, hurried Joseph Labrador—especially after they had expelled me from the comfort of the couch and a romantic comedy.
Peeping through the peephole, I saw…
“What the fuck?” I whispered, backing up a step. I did one of things that people do in books and movies, but never in real life, where you rub your eyes and shake
