Kirby Troper's Best Good Day

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Kirby Troper, a bitter and jaded young man finally has a good day.

Nobody's first thought of the day should ever be, "Oh, God. Not again."

As I opened my eyes, I felt around on my bedside table for my alarm clock. Bloody thing seems to get further and further away every morning. Why the hell did I wake up in the mornings? Why didn’t I ever just die in my sleep? I rubbed the gunk out of my eye and saw that it was only 6:25, too bloody early. I looked over to see my roommate, Jesse Barton, silhouetted against the window. The early bird had already pulled open the blinds. He was a thin man, an overly tall beanpole who had barely filled out with blond hair and a rather feminine face. Almost like an anime character. He had curly blonde hair that looked like a bird's nest in the mornings and big grey eyes that could give great death glares. Though he rarely did. Most of the time he smiled and stupid, annoyingly happy grin as if nothing could ever bring him down. I'd often wondered if he was on drugs, but Jesse Barton was too clean cut. Mostly. I sort of perved on him as he got dressed. Come on, don't give me that look, he's attractive! Besides, you would have done the same. Much to my disappointment, he pulled on his football gear and ran from the room. He was going to wake up Siloh MacTavish, his best friend, for football practice.

“Whatever," said my brain as I got out of bed shivering. Why did England always have to be so bloody cold? I'm pretty sure the Arctic has warmer days sometimes. I quickly got dressed into my white shirt and threw on my 'I hate statement t-shirts' t-shirt and my black trench coat over the top. I sighed as I looked at myself in the mirror. My black ringlets were all over the place and and my gold brown eyes were squinting as they were without their usual glasses. Something’s missing. Pants. Forgot the bloody pants. I didn't want to wear pants. What else could I wear? If I hadn't gone mudsliding yesterday I'd be fine, but oh well. Worth it. I looked down at the floor and tutted. Jesse left his pants on the floor. Again. i was always telling him to clean up. A thought struck me and before I knew what I was doing, I was admiring myself wearing Jesse's pants. The legs were a bit long so I rolled them up, wedged my feet into my sneakers and made my way down to the dining hall with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder.

I'm a writer, so I was thinking about the story I was going to type up when I got down there. It's called Butterfly's Effect. I've actually based it off Jesse's diary entries. Ok, so I read his diary. So fucking what? If he was really worried about it getting read, he wouldn't leave it lying around in his top drawer, would he? Anyway, I was going through a bit of Writer's Block and decided that the best way to be inspired is read, read, read and I'd already checked out about nine books at the library. It was just bad luck for Jesse Barton that the only book lying around was his diary. So I was reading it and I found out 1) he's bi-curious and is seriously considering asking me out if things with Pandora fall through and 2) he slept with his sister (That’s Pandora) and she's about five months pregnant. Shock horror, right? Well, actually, I’m a little indifferent. I don’t know, maybe I’m nuts but I just found myself a little shocked but otherwise, not giving a shit. Jesse’s worried as hell, though. He’s falling in love with Pandora but he’s doesn’t think she’s as into it as he is. Plus the baby could have all kinds of genetic diseases, apparently. The thing that kills me, though, is that it’s such a major thing but Jesse never stops smiling. He doesn’t tell anyone, he can’t tell anyone, only helping out everyone else and just putting on a brave face. If it were me, I’d whinge and moan and complain and demand sympathy until everyone just wanted to murder me. I hate people who hide everything and act as if everything’s completely normal and it’s alright. It’s like consistently lying to everyone. Bastards.

As I sat at the table in the dining hall, I saw somebody plop down across from me. I looked over the top of my laptop and glared at your average, all American guy in England. Kind of like my dad. He had tanned skin the same colour of sand and dark brown hair, combed back carefully, like he’s spent at least ten minutes in front of the mirror. Great. A dandy.

“Yes?”  I asked in a bored monotone.

“Nothin’,” he said in his Chicago accent. I know. I grew up there.

He just sat there and stared at me. What was this guy’s problem? I remembered Jesse Barton doing the same thing. But that was different. When I was picking someone to dorm with, I made applicants submit letters. He explained that he didn’t talk much, and preferred to talk to the deaf through sign language. When he was waiting for my ok, he just tailed me around and stared at me. It wasn’t until I gave an exasperated sigh and said, “Alright,” that he smiled and walked off. But this guy, I didn’t even know him.

Reluctantly, I looked up and fell into beautiful, sea green eyes that glittered as they darted around the room and settled on me. He was actually rather attractive. For a dandy. I suddenly felt rather self-conscious of my scruffiness then. I really should’ve shaved. “Can I help you?” I asked rudely, instantly regretting it. I didn’t know the guy. Maybe he was half-decent.


“No, no,” he said with a smirk. “I was just testing to see how long it took for you to look up. I’m Dave,” he said, offering his hand. I shot him down with a death glare and returned to my typing. Amused, I watched as he I watched as he withdrew his handshake but continued to annoy me, anyway.

"Not a real big talker, huh?" he tried to joke. I simply looked up and raised an eyebrow then returned to my typing. He tried to peer at my screen and asked, "You a writer?"

Annoyed, I slammed my laptop shut and Dave sat bolt upright, like I'd scared him. Good. "Look, douchebag, the only reason people start conversations with others is because they want something. Skip all the crap that I don't have time to care about and just tell me what you want," I growled.

Slightly shocked looking, he yet again wasted my time by asking, "Woah. Not a morning person, huh?"

I got up to leave. What was this guy's problem? I didn't want to talk!

"Wait!" he said, desperately reaching across the table and taking my arm. His hypnotising eyes convinced me to give him another shot. I looked down at his hand and shook it off before slowly sitting down.

"Now, one more time, who are you and what do you want?" I asked.

Dave looked a lot calmer now. "I'm Dave Griffin. Two things, one, are you gay?"

I nodded. "You?"

He smiled. "Two, are you single?"

I felt heat creep across my cheeks. Stupid heart. Slow down, it's not as if we're on a treadmill, I chided. "Yes."

"Will you go out with me?" he asked.

I pretended to think about it. Then, I said, "No."

Dave Griffin scoffed. "Bu-why not?"

I stood up to leave and gave him a bitter smile. "That was three. You're wasting my time."

 

At my History of Literature lecture, I got bored and started staring at my phone. Something had to be more entertaining than Professor McAdam's lecture. Don't get me started on how boring that guy is. I don't even know why I took his class. He never gets to the point. An old man with a slight appearance of a mole with a small, thin neck and a small button nose that held up enormous round glasses, magnifying his tiny, beaded eyes. He'll use metaphors for everything and never just say anything outright. Do you know how much better things would be if people just got to the bare facts? Most movies would be over in about 30 seconds. Most people think I'm rude, but I don't particularly give a fuck. I gave up on people a long, long time ago. Everybody is exactly the same. There’s not one person in this world who is exactly themselves. Everybody is a copy of somebody. Well not me. I’m my own person, and if that means everyone hates me, I’m totally ok with that even if it does get me locked up in a mental institution and I wind up dying alone and-

“Mr Troper, could you repeat what I just said?” asked Professor McAdam.

“Mr Troper, could you repeat what I just said?” I replied. The lecture theatre giggled.

Professor McAdam sighed. “Class dismissed,” he said. I stood up to leave. “Not you, Troper,” he said. Professor McAdam motioned for me to come down. I ran down the stairs two at a time and stopped dead in front of him. The professor sighed and leant on his desk. He fiddled around with a few things while he waited for the last students to escape the theatre. Why didn’t he just tell me now? It’s not as if any of them were listening. Or caring. “What am I going to do with you, Mr Troper?” he asked rhetorically.

“Hopefully, you’ll pretend to care about my future tell me that you want me to stop being a smartass, that I’m brilliant but I’m lazy, tell me to pull my socks up, then let me go and wonder what you’re having for lunch, yes?” I asked in a monotone.

Professor McAdam looked baffled. “No, wherever would you get such an idea?”

I shrugged. “The rest of the human race. May I go now?”

“No-!”

“Great!” I walked off leaving him to shout while I stuck my headphones in my ears. People annoy me.

 

In the library, I was in the history section, reading up on the Gay Teen Suicides. Reading about them as a teenager, turned my whole perspective of society around. When I got bullied myself in high school, it just woke me up to the truth that nothing’s changed in the last fifty years. Never has, never will. I was in the middle of reading about the suicide of Tyler Clementi. I’d read it about a billion times. It always made me so depressed, but it showed the startlingly ugly truth that humans are bastards. I sat on the shelf and felt a tear prick my eye as I read that he had complained several times but no-one took him seriously before finally jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

“Hey,” said a voice.

I hurriedly slammed the book shut and wiped my eye. I looked up to see Dave Griffin, again. Now I looked a mess and was an emotional wreck. Great timing, fate. “What do you want?” I asked in a voice, thick with upcoming tears. I cleared my throat, hoping to cover it.

“You ok?” he asked, with a look of true concern.

“Once again, you haven’t answered my question and you’re wasting my time,” I said, but I was too sad to put the acid into my voice.

“Fine,” he said. “I would like to take you on a date. Where you want to go is your choice, just, please?”

I smiled, this time, not bitterly. It felt strange. “Alright. How about the cinema?”

“Great,” he said, without thinking. I glared. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he sat on the shelf next to me. Really close, too. Our thighs were touching. I always hated it when people sat too close to me. Only creepy people do that.

“You ever notice how society is mad? Like completely and utterly insane?”

His mouth twitched. “Several times. Have you noticed that everyone else says you’re mad?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really talk to anyone.”

“Really?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. Dave Griffin just seemed so…genuine. I was amazed that someone like him even existed. Someone who wore their heart on their sleeve. I’d never met anyone quite like him. “People sure have a lot to say about you.”

“Oh?” I said, switching back to my bored voice and blank expression. “What did they say?”

“Oh,” he said, suddenly going shy, “y’know, just stuff.”

“Like?” Damn curiosity. Always got the better of me.

Dave gave a coy smile.

“Ah, so that’s how I shut you up. Bring up a topic you don’t like to talk about,” I said, my mouth curling upwards. “Don’t worry,” I told him, patting his leg, “I know what they say. he’s a madman, he’s an arsehole, he’s an arrogant little faggot who hates everyone for no good reason, yes?” I purposefully left my hand on his leg, just to make him a touch more uncomfortable. He gets to do it to me, I do it to him. I looked up at him, doing my best serial killer smile.

“Something along those lines,” he smiled, not looking the slightest bit freaked. Damn.

I was disappointed. Usually that scares people off. Unless this guy had a thing for psychopaths. That’d be new. “Well if they told you that, why’d you even bother?” I asked.

Dave Griffin shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve seen you walking around, just acting like a crazy person to everyone. Especially yesterday when you were just sliding around in the mud, with everyone just staring. It’s rather intriguing,” he said, blushing and looking down.

“Huh. Well, I suppose that’s the nicest way to put it. Most people generally classify me as loopy,” I said rather frankly. “And to be perfectly honest with you, I think they may be right for once.”

“I don’t,” he said.

I smiled again, properly, the second time in a very long while. “Well then you, sir, are possibly the strangest one of the lot.”

He leaned in closer to me and I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me, but then he pulled back and asked, “So, cinema, Thursday, 7:30?”

“Sure,” I grinned.

With that, Dave Griffin slid off the shelf and walked away, whistling an annoying tune.

 

For the rest of that day, I felt as if I were held up on a cloud. Above everyone, rather than a small minority. I smiled at everyone and there was a spring in my step. Everyone stared at me, more often than usual. Even Jesse Barton, who dealt with me every day, was taken off-guard by my happiness. But that day, for me, was a very good day. The best in a long time.


Submitted: July 09, 2011

© Copyright 2021 Boron Von Twiddle. All rights reserved.

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