Don’t believe what they tell you about him.
It’s true, but don’t believe it. It’s more fun not to believe. More fun to imagine he really was a nice guy, that he really did love his wife, that he really was a good father to his son. A good person, in general. But he wasn’t and I could tell the moment he caught my gaze. Still, I chose not to believe the truth.
Truth be told, I was never a real fan of it.
Truth, that is. I’ve always preferred a slippery lie–even a clunky one–to the the dead weight of truth. Lies are fun; little tales crafted straight out of the most insane corners of my mind. All play aside, lies make my job a helluva lot more enjoyable and doesn’t everyone deserve a little solace in their nine-to-five? Not that mine can really be filed under the ‘nine-to-five’ category, alas. And no, I am not a prostitute, you fuck.
Let’s get back to him, shall we?
Back to the the night it happened. Back before all the noise and rumours began to fly, filling the newspapers with filth and irreverence. Even if he did deserved all of that, let’s not fixate on the boring bits because this story gets a lot more interesting when you allow the truth to blur a touch.
Sam Cooke was wailing overhead and I was living for it.
Sipping my dirty martini and hollering along like a freak. It was when I started snapping my fingers that he looked up at me. I knew snapping would be the handshake I needed, I did my homework because I am a good girl and the satisfaction of being right was not lost on me. I drained my glass and let the rest fall into place.
He slithered up within a heartbeat.
As I knew he would. He was an easy one, but that didn’t stop me from having an absolute fucking blast with it. My second martini arrived as Mr. Sinatra began to howl, reminding the room, ‘that’s life’. Our fast friend didn’t catch the irony, not that he should have at that point. He prattled on about his job, his bank account, his boat–forgot to mention his family and his every increasing cholesterol which he really should have, considering what was about to come.
I was supposed to stop at two martini’s.
But I was never very good at following the rules; I was enjoying his lies too much. Watching the broken capillaries squirm and brighten across his face as he pounded scotch. The funny thing about these fellas, these good-time boys, is that they love to drink, love to talk, love to fuck–the prospect of it, at least–but never once do they ask how the little lady, they were gearing up to stick their pecker in, is doing. Never asking her about her history or if she has anything to contribute to the one-sided conversation.
What they forget to ask is what we do, what brought us here?
Their fatal mistake in being so Goddamn full of themselves, is failing to ask a simple question that, I suppose, could save their lives. So when he crashed to the floor, gripping his chest, looking up at me with the stark answer to that unasked question suddenly in clear view for him, all I could do was smile. And feign shock and horror, obviously. I mean, this guy I barely knew was having a heart attack! Gosh, what a tragedy. That part is always such a clusterfuck, which helps me plant what I need to in his pockets and whatnot. By the time, the ambulance leaves–lights off–I’ve slipped back into obscurity, snapping my fingers.
That great Same Cooke tune still stuck in my head.
It’s a great job really, getting to futz with the truth, burning legacies to the ground. Bending the truth in such an–I don’t want to say unfair–way, but yeah maybe it’s a little one-sided. Kinda like my encounters with them. Oh well. So, like I said, don’t believe what they tell you about him and all the horrific things he did. that just wouldn’t be any fun.
