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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

‘Should I pop a boob to get me a shot?’ She slammed her glass again and
yelled at the bartender who had passed by us thrice without
acknowledging her menopaused glass.

Somebody half as good as I am is something. Yet,
I am shuttling between meat trains in hell to
find my feet. It hurts bad. Always the same isn’t it?
Devils coming out of my bum. Angels breathing
down his neck.

Last year, today, my friend committed suicide.
His neck had slept with a rope that hung from the ceiling.

The 4 fiction novels he wrote failed to see the Sun.
His business zeal in co-funding a restaurant in Goa was
circumcised like the population of the tourists in the
once popular travel hotspot. A woman who was engaged to
marry him left him for his friend.

When he asked me, ‘Do you think she left me for his Harley?’
I had no answer. To think of Harley Davidson as a fiancé stealer
would seem appropriate.  What’s more appropriate
would be in keeping mum.

The shit couldn’t taste better.

But it all changed when I bumped into his ex-fiancé at a
beer bar last night. She was not the same. She looked like
she had just been rescued from a bad flood. Harleys don’t
have pity. So I knew right then that she was alone.

‘What happened to you?’ I asked. The normal ‘how are you’
would be out of place here. It’d be like a Complan advertisement
for dwarfs.

‘Getting fucked.’ She said, shooting a dash of rum.

‘Really, what happened to you?’

‘Your friend died.’ She slammed the empty glass on the table mat.

What the hell!

‘I won’t be mincing words. But weren’t you also
responsible for his death?’

‘I was. Wasn’t I?’

‘I think, yes.’

‘Should I pop a boob to get me a shot?’ She slammed her glass again and
yelled at the bartender who had passed by us thrice without
acknowledging her menopaused glass.

‘Sorry, miss’ said the bartender and poured her the
quarter of her dark world.

‘Listen. I didn’t leave him.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that I didn’t leave him.’

‘You don’t make sense.’

‘His friend, the one everybody thinks I bent over for or
his Harley, well, I was not with him. I only made it
look like I did.’

‘Are you telling me that you did all that to make him jealous?’

‘Yes, and for more reasons.’

‘Well, you were wrong. He has moved on.’

‘Do you have any idea what kind of energy and
mental frame you need to have to be around
someone like that?’

‘Don’t talk as if he was mentally challenged.’

‘That’d have been better. Those people live like a tree.
Unaffected. Not your friend. He had lost it. He lived
like a cow who couldn’t give milk anymore.’

‘You are making all this up, so that you don’t look bad.
The fact is, everybody sees you as this bad bitch, who
left her man. Whether he had milk or not, you should have
given him your hay. Besides, getting away with a guy who
had a Harley assured you were a rotten harlot. A harlot
for a Harley. You played a sick game. A very sick game.’
I said it like it was.

‘Stop it, okay. Stop it. I loved him. More than anyone
can ever know. But I had to teach him a lesson.’

‘If that is the kind of teaching you do, maybe you should
shift your base to hell.’

With a possessed energy she slammed the glass on the floor.
We had to take our case outside.

We sat on the pavement. Outside the bar.

‘He was becoming unbearable.’ She sobbed. ‘Every day, every
night, the torture rate was picking up a higher tab.’

‘He was abusive?’

‘No. He was a perfect gentleman.’

I posed an eyebrow.

‘He was abusing himself. He was not able to arouse anything
he touched. The only one thing he truly knew was that writing
of his. If he wrote anything tonight, by the next morning
he’d expect an entire civil movement around his concepts.
He wrote to be written.’

‘Well, looks like he wrote himself off.’

‘You know what hurts the most?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘That he never actually tried.’

‘What’d you mean?’

‘He was afraid that no one would publish his books.
So none of his stories ever got to climb out of
his laptop.’

‘Seriously? I believe he was consistently in pursuit of
having them published.’

‘The only publishing he’d ever done was to tell people that
he’d had them sent out to the publishers and agents.’

‘Come what may, you guys still shouldn’t have been so hard on him.
The first few days, he was under the impression that since the
Fool’s day was around the corner, you guys were playing him. So,
he played along. The moment the Harley guy started to
ignore him and you . . . avoided his calls, he realised he’d
bit the glitterati in the butt.

‘We had to play our parts. In a way to make him believe that I was
really gone. With me gone, I thought he would build up
vengeance and do something for himself.’

‘He did do something for himself. But what he did,
did him more than what he could do to it.’

‘If he hadn’t burnt his laptop before he died, we could have
had his books published. When I was trying to make him realise his
self worth, I happened to meet a renowned agent, and he seemed to be
interested in one of his stories.’

‘That is bad.’


Patience is that girl in a poster on my wall. If I want my
dream girl to be there in my room holding my hands, etc. I must get a
good night’s sleep and ensure that I am there the following morning to
live my dream.



Submitted: March 27, 2015

© Copyright 2022 sundeepkp. All rights reserved.

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