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oh look, i really AM alive! this semester has been pretty hellish on me. no writing, for the most part. sadness to the extreme. but, i needed something to keep me up all night, and this popped up. that, and i happened to see a commercial for some sort of phone dating service chat...thing. it came on while i was waiting for the conclusion of Animal House. that's National Lampoon, for all of you dicks who don't know. if you DON'T know, don't continue to be a dick! that's bad! it will make me feel guilty for insulting you, so watch it sometime!
um. did i mention i'm staying up? that means no sleep. disregard strange comments, for i must be 'up' in an hour.
also not beta'd, a fact i will surely regret later. again, i needed something to do right NOW, and i didn't feel like waiting. yeah...i think i even wrote this within an hour. go me.
mild slash. who knew?
sunday, 9 december, 2007. 4:31 am.
3:59 am. Subject has fallen into an infomercial slump upon the conclusion of anything viably decent to watch upon the digital cable movie channels. All twenty one of them. He watches something featuring Chuck Norris’ stamp of approval. The weight-lifting thing.
4:32 am. Subject yawns just as a phone dating service commercial comes on. A ridiculous idea is spawned in the span of just four seconds.
The kitchen was on the way to the phone. Well, rather, the fridge just happened to be a convenient side-stop on the way to the phone. And in the fridge, a can of Diet Dr. Pepper called my name in the hallelujah chorus line of a holy chapel somewhere. The one that sings for every can of icy soda that manages to quench your raging thirst just right. That one.
I chugged, winced, swallowed air, burped, and felt better.
And then I found the phone, my photographic memory recalling the flashed number from the television screen. Yes, I said it. Photographic memory. Everyone has the capability, but not everyone comes equipped with the film…or USB port, perhaps. Do keep up with technology, it will take you places.
Walking back to the living room with a dialing tone in my ear, I heard the standard greeting come on for the dating service. Leave a message, the first quick-date session is free if you get any calls, money is charged for every session afterwards. Simple, simple, simple money scam. What the hell, I got my financial aide in just last week. The beep sounded, and I yawned, uncaring that it was recorded.
“Yah, name’s Charlie, I’m a college loser with insomnia. And-”
I stubbed my toe on the stupid bookcase made from old eighties heavy plastic milk crates. Obscenities fell forth, cursing my fagoting broken toe (maybe, maybe it’s broken and specially embroidered, yah) and the bookshelf and the whole life issue in general. It was only after the toe proved fine and sore (wiggle that baby, wiggle and scowl) that I remembered the phone at all, and found that the message was recorded and snuggled up within their server or archives or whatever the p.c. term these days might be.
-
Lonesome Dove was showing on Starz.
I fell asleep somewhat haphazardly upon the lumpy couch, because who knows what’s between the cushions? So ends another blissful night of insomniac mind-fucking.
Class starts at nine. See you there.
Or not.
--- --- ---
Three days went by, and I couldn’t say that I forgot about it, because I didn’t. I don’t forget stuff that easily, but it can slide to the back of my mind, unimportant enough for me to consciously dwell upon.
A phone call came in at 12:14 am; I know, because I was changing the time setting on the microwave.
“Hello, Dan’s House of Yak.”
“Oh really? I was hoping to talk to Charlie.”
“That’s me.” Someone I don’t know is calling for me this early/late? And didn’t even seem bothered a bit by my phone etiquette.
“Hey, I’m Linus, and I happen to find college insomniacs to be rather sexy.”
I laughed. “You do realize I called a het phone service?”
“Yeah, but I heard the message and am now interested to see the renowned bookcase that supposedly broke your ‘effing’ foot. But you probably don’t remember me at all; we took Honors Chemistry together two semesters ago. I was the dork who wore purple every day.”
The first image to mind was a pair of purple high tops, and the rest of him was quick to follow; very lanky, very clumsy. Big hands. Wide smile. Lots of purple.
“Alright, Linus, you’ve called me. What do you now propose?”
“Well, I won’t be presumptuous here, and proposals are a bit quick in this endeavor…but what the hell, you know? You hungry? IHOP’s always nifty keen.”
“Sure, sure. Meet you at the one by the Target, ‘kay?”
“Actually, I bet the one over on Broadway is closer to both of us.”
“…Ok, weird stalker guy, we’ll meet there.”
I hung up and chuckled to myself, physically checking that I was indeed wearing cleanish underwear beneath my soft flannel Garfield pajama bottoms before I wandered off into the bedroom to search out a matching set of footwear. I ended up with one green Converse and a black and white cheap knockoff version, but they were similar enough for me to shrug and call them a set.
--- --- ---
I found him already seated, his head resting on folded arms and his face appearing peaceful. A pair of purple-rimmed sunglasses were folded up near his elbow, but I would have known him without them. My sinking down into the booth startled him slightly upright, his face confused before he melted into a sheepish grin, unkinking his spine and arms as he moved to lean back against the seat.
Unable to help myself, I checked beneath the table, disappointed to see him wearing a pair of casual hiking boots.
“Not the high tops?”
His mouth spread into a grin even as a faint blush fell down his cheeks. “They’re my brother’s, actually. He stole them back from me.”
“Brother’s?”
He nodded, his large-boned hands fiddling with the roll of silverware before him; “Purple’s a bit of a runnin’ joke in my family. We all wear it. Easy to spot in crowds.”
I nodded sagely, glancing over as an approaching waitress encroached upon my peripheral vision. I knew what I wanted; chicken salad, Italian dressing, hold the cheese please.
During the interim of ordering and receiving our food, we caught ourselves up on what both of us have done since our shared classroom experience. He’d changed majors to accounting something or other, and was finding that finals were less of an ulcer if you happened to already like the course work. Figure, that.
Occasionally, as we talked and ate, his long legs would jab mine, for which he apologized profusely until I just kicked him, something that made him laugh.
“You should see all of my brothers or me sitting at a table, we’re always bumpin’ each other.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Mn, seven. I’m the fourth; smallest is just turning fourteen tomorrow, that’ll be a gas.”
“Tomorrow today, or tomorrow tomorrow?”
He paused; “Today. I think. I’ll have to fuddle that one a moment. …Today.”
Wide grin and another accidental jab in the shin.
--- --- ---
“The bookcase is made from orange plastic crates!”
His cry was one of sheer delight, his face beaming as he dropped onto his haunches, body folded up like some strange parody or imitation of a spider. It’s not often that I invite people back to my apartment, but he really wanted to see the bookcase after I so skillfully swore at it.
It was 3:46 am, and we sat on the lumpy couch to watch something on one of my movie channels, settling on the tail end of Pulp Fiction. I was starting to get antsy, because while he’s stalked me and everything, really truly stalkerish, there had been no other indication that he actually expected anything. Ignoring the movie, I looked at him until he finally looked at me, faint question on his face as he waited.
“Hey, Linus, how’d you know I was queer?”
His smirk was slyly teasing; “Woman’s intuition, scarily accurate gaydar, you’re as flaming as match in the gas tank. Oh, and you dated my cousin Sonny.”
“Large hands must run in the family.”
He laughed, “They do, actually.”
Since it was becoming more and more apparent that Linus wasn’t quite as random a match as he should have been, I didn’t feel bad at all about reaching over and pulling his face to mine, the kiss…nice. Yeah, nice; rather nice. Soft and warm and slightly above-friendly; nice. He pulled back and let out a nervous little laugh, a mere exhalation as his eyes roamed my gaze.
A large hand on the side of my face, touching, cradling, molding to my cheek and jaw, and I pulled him into another kiss. Warmer. Lips parting, tongues offered. Much warmer.
I pulled back; “I never put my number on that message.”
Face flaming, his lips twisted into a pathetic sort of smile. “I know. Sonny gave it to me when I first mentioned having you in chem. Always said you were more my sort than his. I did hear your message though.”
“…How? What were you doing listening to a het dating service?”
His mouth spread into the widest grin of all, “Insomnia.”
5:18 am. Subjects fall asleep on the lumpy couch, long arms and legs tangled up with a stockier sort. Two mugs of cold cocoa sat forgotten upon a cup-ring-scarred end table. I love Lucy played in the background.
A/N: i do not own Chuck Norris, nor the Bow-Flex thing. if only, right? Chuck Norris and his tastily perky man nipples. yes, indeed. i also don't own Dr. Pepper, Garfield, Target, IHOP, Converse, I Love Lucy, Pulp Fiction, dating services, or purple sunglasses at night.
whoot, i think it's coffee time.
oh oh oh! before i forget. i was thinking of this one fp story, slash...about this high school student who lives alone and must work to support himself, so he's always missing school. he works at a construction company. one of his coworkers puts an ad in the paper for him, labelling him bi, as a sort of a joke or ill-conceived notion of doing him a favor. and it turns out that his teacher is the one who answers the ad. WTF IS THE TITLE OF THIS STORY?! WHO WROTE IT?! inquiring minds must know. please.
