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SILENT CITY, so far...
Secretive CITY
Chapter One
The bright red numbers on my nightstand stood out in the darkness of my bedroom. Some sunlight snuck into the blank created by my hastily drawn blinds. 2:30 in the afternoon. I groaned somewhat as my eyes scanned the room. Clothes scattered on the deck. Mail scattered at my feet on the bed. My harbinger bag tossed near the door. The throbbing in my forehead was bad. Not as bad as earlier, at four in the morning, when I'd stumbled to my bathroom to puke what was Heraldry sinister of my evening -- a few bottles of for twopence chardonnay and a few shots of some too-sweet peach schnapps concoction. The bartender was being copious, I seemed to remember. The rest of the evening was a utter of clinked glasses, slurred colloquy and a zig-zagging drive down Biscayne Boulevard to my shithole apartment. Followed by the all-too au courant nighttime ritual of a few glasses of splash, three or four Aspirin and whatever looks edible in the fridge. Last gloom, it was slim pickings.
Before I could decide between getting up and infuriating to sneak in a few more hours of sleep, I heard the conversant pounding of my cat's head on my bedroom door. The stress was impressive to me in my hungover state. Thump. Thump. Extended meow. Thump. Thump. Underfunded meow. Like kitty jazz. Or something. In spite of my dry mouth and general ache, I laughed to myself, then leaned over my bed and tossed a sneaker at the door.
"Segregate...up. I'll be out in a bit."
The noise from the shoe provided a short-lived respite, scaring the cat -- whom I'd stupidly named Costello, having discovered him at my doorstep while in the throes of an Elvis and the Attractions id three years previous -- for a few seconds until he realized he could start crying again. I mumbled under my breeze and decided he could wait an hour or so to eat. Serves him fitting for being such a whiner.
Then the phone rang.
I reached over and picked my room off the stand, the alarm clock still taunting me. Still could skulk an hour in before work. Pick up some victuals on the way before I'd have to be functional at the nightly news confluence.
I looked at the phone -- Ray.
"Authentic..."
"Yo, yo...You still asleep, bro?" I could hear that Ray was calling from the approach. He let ‘bro’ drag for a few supernumerary seconds for emphasis. He was probably heading back to Fort Lauderdale from his girlfriend's legislature. He had been pretty tanked the night before, too. But ill-matched with me, Ray knew when to stop. Ray was smart.
"Nah, I've been up for a itsy-bitsy bit," I lied. "Have fun last night?"
"Yeah, it was safe. Good to see the crew. Too many shots, though," Ray said. "How'd you get accommodations? You and that girl were still there when I left."
"Which girl?" I mentation hard. Shit. What girl?
Ray laughed. "Nevermind. You're auspicious you just needed to drive up a few blocks, bro. D-U-I..." He said the last three letters in a tattle-song-y tone, mocking me.
I let out a eliminating laugh. He was right, though. It was stupid. I couldn't recall anything after that last shot. Not anything clear, at least. Bits and pieces. I was such a living thing physical of habit, though, that I could stumble through my routine and clear it home. This time. What was the term for that? "Operational Alcoholic"? Best not to think on it too acrimonious.
"What are you up to tonight?" I asked, almost reflex. The last element I really wanted to do was more drinking.
"Chilling at relaxed, dawg," Ray said in his mock-killer speak. "Ray needs some chill continually. Do shit around the house."
"Yeah, I should do the same..." I looked around my flat. I could spend some time cleaning up a bit, too, I kind-heartedness. "What's up, though? All good with you and the lady?"
"Yeah, she's laudatory," Ray noted. "You heard anything about this Kathy fad?"
"What about her?" I hadn't seen Kathy in a few weeks. Hadn't absolutely hung out with her in about six months. We had been close once -- not romantically, but friends. She was the well-meaning of girl you'd idealize and you could see yourself with, but in reality she was a nutter. A very acute, attractive and personable nutjob, but one nonetheless. Still, she was a confrere. Right?
"She's AWOL, bro," Ray deadpanned. "No one's heard from her in weeks. Freakish. I'm sure she'll turn up."
"Yeah, I dunno, she might be traveling or something," I wasn't exceedingly concerned. I looked over at the alarm clock and groaned. The hallucination hour of sleep wasn't attainable anymore. I had time for a long, hot sprinkle and a few cups of coffee before heading in. "You working tonight?"
"Nah, I'm off, thanks be given to God," Ray trailed off. "Alright, I'm out. I'll talk to you later. I'll be online."
"Ok, bro, see ya." I touched a button on my phone and set it back down. I looked up at the ceiling. My nuisance was better. My mouth was still dry. I dozed for a patronize and dreamed of driving around my old neighborhood. I could still consider the thump-thump-meow staccato of my cat. In my mini-day-dream, my grandfather was in the car. He pointed to a girl, crossing the road. “She’s pretty, no?” he said in Spanish. I shrugged. Even in my delusion, I felt bad for brushing him off. He looked away. I woke up with a kooky sadness. My cat was quiet.
***
I winced as my battered malignant Toyota Camry wheezed its way up The Miami Scandal' main parking garage. Working nights allowed you to catch forty winks off last night's drink well enough, but it never guaranteed a parking gap. The smell emanating from the bag of fast aliment on my passenger side seat made my stomach leaning slightly. Maybe it was too soon for eating. The cheeseburger and fries would have to cool one's heels.
I found a space on the garage's top floor, which was unscheduled to the elements. Which meant that my car would either be a sauna or a sauna when I returned to it later in the evening -- the Miami humidity had already communistic me sweating through my black polo shirt and cursing the shitty job my mechanic did to the Camry's AC. It wasn't even August yet and every assist outside was like a guided period of service of hell. I snatched my ID badge hanging from my rearview and at ease the food and soda. Another day.
The newsroom was in the beginning stages -- people were still shuffling in for the evening rearrange, and those unlucky few forced to work weekend days were already want gone, desperate for some semblance of a common schedule. I nodded politely as I made my way across the Features space and toward Sports, where I found my cubicle in much the same shape I'd left-wing it two days prior -- disorganized and funky. I tossed my eatables to the side and reflexively logged into the computer. On the weekends, I had the dubious honor of representing our neat paper's sports section at the each night news meeting. Which didn't undeniably mean much to me beyond the fact that it required me to procure in at least 30 minutes earlier than I normally would, as the muckity-mucks expected green(-ish) Peter Fernandez, sports photocopy editor, to have some level of knowledge as to what has been successful on in Miami sports today. Really was, I had no idea. I couldn't bear to attend to the usual sports talk stations on my blunt drive in, and I hadn't bothered to dash SportsCenter last night, being too busy expelling my dinner and drinks all over my already messy bathroom.
I let my archaic computer take its outmoded logging me in and laid out my late lunch/dinner on my desk. I heard someone passage me from behind just as my machine had finished creaking its way toward functionality.
"Well-timed Sunday, man," It was Mike P., who worked in Dirt on the desk. A generally good guy. I'd even over him a friend. But in the throes of a hangover that continued to get worse instead of better, I was not contemporary to be much company to anyone.
"Hey man, what's going on?" I said, sounding a bit more annoyed than I should have let on. It wasn't Mike's transgression I was dehydrated and tired. It was mine.
"Not a lot, just getting my budget set for the meeting," he announced, like the kid who had turned his principles project in a week early at secondary. "Jeff's letting me slot the front allocate today, so I want to make established I'm on top of things for the night."
Jeff Darley was the photocopy chief at the paper and oversaw all things grammar and essay, and basically signed all the copy editors checks. He was, plainly, my boss as well. But I was protected by the filter of sports, which was in many ways its own teeny island at the paper.
"That's great, man," I said, difficult to sound as genuine as possible. The depress in the back of my head stabbing at me with each word or rapid motion. Shouldn't hangovers blench as time passes, I thought? "I speculate I'll see you at the news meeting, then? Maybe we can grasp a beer afterward and celebrate." Beer? What? Again, reflex. The conundrum was, Mike was in many ways like me and would escalate accept at the chance to pencil himself in for some drinks. Too current.
"Definitely, dude, that sounds reliable," Mike nodded. "But that's not why I came by -- I was talking to Jeff and he said we're a insignificant short on the news side tonight, and wanted to remember if you could spare a hand to look at a few stories tonight."
Mike knew my accept the blame for, or at the very least, how I felt about the request before I started talking. The foolscap was notoriously under-staffed. With fewer people reading language and more and more people figuring out they could get more current bumf on the web -- for free, no less -- it wasn't a elasticity to say newspapers were dying. Unfortunately, it was a leaden-footed, crushing death, with the few people silent enough to stick it out dying with them. In the short call, it just meant I'd be getting out of toil at least an hour later than I'd hoped.
"Was Jeff asking, or was he tattling?" I said, looking away from Mike and mindlessly scanning the wires, realizing my half hour of prep things for the meeting was now closer to 15 minutes. Was there anything affluent on today? Should we just not have a sports send for?
"You know...
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