#Exposition Draft ShitWriting CreativeWriting

[talesfromacaffeinatedpen]

Conversation - 1

We stop the car near our old lookout spot. It’s in that deadly pothole some people call “highway”. It connects Chiluca from the rest of the city and it has never seen better days. So many years since Tom-tom and Beto talked. It was going to be awkward.

The double burgers exuding inside the plastic bags, the pitaya drinks near frozen point. It’s like they never parted ways so many years ago. Still, whatever ideal concept of friendship they were taught proved to be as useless as all that Catholic indoctrination they went through at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.

“Man, this feels like one of my dates”- said Tom.

“That explains why Nadia and you didn’t last.” Beto took away the bitterness of his words with a gulp of Pitaya.

Tom sighed. Desperation and relief. “At least he got it out of the way”, he thought, taking out one of the burgers. No jalapeños, extra pineapple. The way it should be.

“So, for real, how are you doing after the whole Sonia thing?” Beto never was much for idle chit chat. That’s what extra onions in your burger will do to you.

“Work, work, work. That’s all. Keeps you sane. Maybe y’all try it one day?”

“You don’t sound sane, brother.”

“Who are you to judge, Beto?”

“King of the asylum. I can smell my own brethren. Long may I live.”

Tom scoffs and drinks, wishing they added a little something to fortify their drinks. This is why you don’t reunite with old friends when you both hold PhDs on holding grudges.

“Speaking of living, how are Guppy and Caleb?”

“Guppy is still fine, six feet under, as he’s been since he was 22. You know he fought depression and depression won. Caleb, I dunno, wasn’t he working in the same building as you?”

“Yeah, but he’s been a little odd. I mean, he still works and he is the best one in his floor, but he’s socially odd. Sometimes he has this little sinister smile, sometimes he’s just his old goofy self.”

“Well, wary of the man with the two faces, because you never know the one he’ll great you with when you need him the most.”

“Good words to live by, Beto. Wish I could remind myself of them when the time comes.”

“Do what I do: repeat them when you look at your worst enemy, still sleepy faced on the other side of the mirror.”

“Maybe we should just talk shop.”

“Yeah, sure. You okay with me stealing that book from the library?”

“Aye, fuck ‘em.”

The book. That book. Beto used to be such a normal dude. I mean, normal in the human sense that we all accumulate scars that never felt a wound and emotional baggage over the years. But that fucking book, back in 1999, tore him apart. He swore that book was going to cause the apocalypse. He was sure three cults were after it. Heck, Guppy’s suicide was caused by that book. It sounds so outrageous it could be true.

But then again, so was the whole affair in Mazatlan. The one Tom never speaks about. No one will ever know what truly went down and how that blood will never wash off from Tom’s hands.

“Okay, psycho-boy Tom? Earth to Brint...”

“Yeah, yeah, this isn’t an orange mocha frapuccino, but it’ll do the trick.”

“Mazatlan, right?”

“I’m that predictable, huh?”

“It’s that or Sonia. Look man, I know I’m not the best one to talk about. I’m still reeling over She who shan’t be named.”

Tom nodded and started to eat his burger in silence. Beto fiddled with the radio. Queensryche’s Silent Lucidity was on. A gentle tap turned the radio off as they both agreed with a slight tip of their heads.

The sky was clear and the stars were able to shine through the usual night pollution.

“You ever thought about this being it?”

“Huh?” Beto was usually the one with vague questions, not Tom.

“When we were kids, Beto, when they said ‘well, he’s very bright, he’ll do great in life’ and you sort of have that goal and you end up not being ‘great in life’. Teachers, they see you doing well in one course or another, and then you sort of believe in that hype and you end up married with kids, frittering your days away in a job. Or maybe end up working too much, never actually getting married and just fading away like everyone else. Those dreams and hopes you get as a kid, fading like photographs.”

“Tom, stop.”

“Why?”

“Because you channelling Guppy before he killed himself.”

They kept drinking while the radio played shit Country music.

#Exposition Draft ShitWriting CreativeWriting