by AnonYMous
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LUISA
The fact that MANG094’s picture was fuzzy would normally have served as a warning but I had nothing better to do that Sunday evening after returning from Cannes and meeting her for a coffee would kill an hour or two before dinner. On the way there I found myself walking behind a small girl with an outrageous little ass. I remember being concerned about turning up late if I didn’t overtake her but I couldn’t bear to leave that ass behind. I looked ahead to the Ann Frank Huis where we had arranged to meet but apart from the ever-present carefully-curated queue of tourists I saw no one. The little girl in front of me stopped abruptly and took out her cell phone. I could see now that her face was pitted and pocked and not at all attractive and certainly not as young as I had first assumed. My phone rang and when she heard it she looked up and smiled.
“Hi, I’m Luisa.“
She was from Brazil. They value an ass down there. I guessed she was in her early forties but she might have been older. She never told me her age and she seemed to delight in the idea that I couldn’t guess. She did something indecipherable for an IT company in Amsterdam and as she explained exactly what this entailed I pretended to understand completely. She referred to her daily gym-visits as ass-maintenance. She was out of the country more than she was in it and when she returned she always had a new set of lingerie to model for me. She took almost as much pleasure in the beauty of her body as I did. She was addicted to the effect she had on me.
I was a full-length mirror with an erection.
Her pockmarks blurred together when we kissed and refocused hideously when I pulled back. This drew me closer to her like an exhausted boxer hugging an opponent.
She was so compact and toy-like I could fuck her and fold her away afterwards. She made frequent references to a breed of monkey called the Bobo who apparently gave each other blowjobs. I couldn’t tell if it was a remnant from a prior relationship or whether it was just a cute affectation but she would actually use the term Bobo to describe a blowjob. Knelt there in front of me her with face so firmly attached to my midriff she looked like she had a beard of balls.
Afterwards we sat naked looking out on the canals from the window of her apartment.We could see right up the Reguliersgracht. A pretty sight on a clear night.
We ate strawberries and Ben and Jerries and museli. It was the perfect relationship for me. Her body was amazing and her face was a built-in get-out clause.
“My doctor thinks it’s a mess.”
She looked directly at me, making sure I understood. What was a mess? Her face? Her health? What kind of a doctor would describe a patient’s health in this way? The Dutch weren’t exactly renowned for their charm but this sounded a little too harsh.
“So it’s a mess.” I said and smiled as if this was the cutest thing in the world. It was a weird moment because by now she was sitting astride me grinning and grinding herself down on me and I was seconds away from a re-ignited hardon. She seemed relieved somehow. Younger-looking. I smiled up at her and then hid in her hair as she began shoving herself back and forth on me. On my way home, as the effects of two successive orgasms wore off I realised I’d misheard her.“He thinks it’s M.S.” Multiple Scerosis. Luisa was worried I’d stop seeing her. She was right.
*****
The next day it was announced in a group email that Silvestro was leaving. He had accepted a job as editor of Passione magazine in Rome. The email made it sound like he would be immediately replaced but it was just a smokescreen to keep the Falfaux clients from panicking. In fact, the New York office was already dealing with the logistics of closing the place down. And though there was no love lost between Silvestro and the New York office he didn’t want to be sued for leaving them in the lurch so publishing my book would at least ensure my continued presence until the agency closed.
The files were already with the printers when he announced he was leaving. It occurred to me that in his new capacity as editor-in-chief of an internationally renowned magazine, a quote from him would lend some much-needed authenticity to my soon-to-be published book. I settled on a typographic style that mimicked what a real publisher might do and even I could see it was beginning to approach the coast of something that might not get laughed at in a bookshop. It was Pamela’s suggestion to apply for a barcode and again I had only agreed because I thought it would make the book more convincing.
I opened the manila envelope that Johnathan had handed me the week before. Amongst the glossy enticements to work with the cream of New York’s photographersdirectors and stylists was a plain looking envelope with a government eagle embossed in the right hand corner. My green card was approved.
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Open on a shot of me reading a book. I’m looking rather smug. Panning around the apartment we see unopened cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly. They look like they’ve just been delivered and in one opened box we see copies of the same book I’m reading so intently. Diary Of An Oxygen Thief by Anonymous. Suddenly I’m distracted by muffled snippets of a flagrant argument coming from upstairs. Cut to the arguing couple upstairs. The fact that they are speaking Dutch adds to the aggression of the situation. Subtitles appear on the screen beneath them.
“What time do you call this? It’s our anniversary’ the girl says.
“I didn’t forget I just bumped into Bob.” says the man defensively.
“Bob? Nobody’s called Bob any more.”
“Bob…you know Bob, he asked after you.”
“I don’t care if Robert DeNiro asked after me” She smashes a vase.
Cut back to me downstairs as I take out my cell phone.
“Yes I think maybe you probably can help.” I say.
Cut back upstairs. The girl is shouting now.
“What I’d like to know is where you’ve been for the last four hours?”
“Three, actually.’
“Four, you went out to get a pint of milk.”
“I got the milk.” he holds up pint of milk.
“But I’ve been cooking all day, it’s our anniversary….”
Just then we hear the sound of a doorbell.
“Oh, that might be Bob for you now” she says sarcastically.
On opening the door the girl is met by a huge bunch of flowers handed to her by a courier. Assuming her boyfriend ordered them for their anniversary she throws herself into his arms. Tears of rage become tears of joy as the boyfriend accepts her sensuous kiss of gratitude. Cut back to me downstairs. My smug expression has returned as I settle back into my chair. I am about to resume reading when I hear the loud annoying creak of bedsprings as my upstairs neighbors make love. My plan worked too well. Tulip Express. Flower Delivery. Amsterdam 1800 345 7686
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And so, it turned out that on that last Friday in February, I alone, was summoned to the couches downstairs where Ted Lichtenheld waited for me; half-stood, half-sat, inhaling only when absolutely necessary the surrounding atmosphere of what was already in his mind, a quarantined building.
He presented me with a beautifully printed crisp memo announcing the closure of company that same day. I marvelled at the quality of the paper and the opacity of the ink. This hadn’t come from our printer. An hour later my entry-card to the building was cancelled. Orchestrating a remote electronic lock-out from five thousand miles away was easy while the printer upstairs hadn’t worked since I’d arrived. It no longer mattered. It was all over. The satellite had embarrassed the mothership by doing too well. It wasn’t meant to win awards. Our little office was only intended as an outpost. We had exceeded our brief. The Lions had been captured and tamed and were already on show in reception area of New York office. We were told they’d been held up at French customs. Johnathan was offered a position in the new office they were setting up in London and he jumped at the opportunity to return home to Blighty. But within two weeks of selling his place in Amsterdam and
moving his family back to London, he was let go. They needed to get him out of his employee-friendly Dutch contract. But it wasn’t all bad news. I received a hundred thousand Euros in severance pay.
JANE
“Has Sean Killallon taken out a contract on you yet?” Jane Duncan, Editor-in-Chief of London’s media magazine AdVent had finished reading my newly minted book. A positive mention in her editorial section would be even more impressive than Silvestro’s quote. But how did she know it was about Killallon? She knew better than anyone what went on in the ad game but even so, why was she so confident?
“Is it that obvious?”
“Frankly, yes, see page 109.”
I ripped open a box, grabbed a copy and opened it at that page.
“…had done Killallon a lot of favors.”
It was nightmarish. It was the one word that shouldn’t appear anywhere in the and yet there it was. I tried to let it settle into me; the horror of it. Fighting the feelings would only make them stronger. I had to accept it quickly and then deal with it. How could I have been such an amateur? It was bad enough having typos all the way through but this was unforgivable. A law-suit would generate publicity but not enough make up for the worry and stress. I had an overwhelming urge to run. Just run. But where?
I was beginning see what people meant when they said the book was courageous. I didn’t like hearing that because courageous meant risky. I suddenly felt like a boring client who didn’t have the balls to run a cool ad campaign.
Letting that word through was suicide. I kept returning to the moment I found out like a slow-mo replay of an own goal. Somehow it got through and it was now in all ten thousand copies. A glum inevitability descended on me like ash. I accepted my fate and assumed it into my character. It seemed logical to let the feeling of abject defeat settle inside me since it would obviously be around for some time. What would prison be like? Would I be expected to suck cocks? I had better get used to the idea. I looked at bananas anew. Would I be expected to swallow?
Yes I would.
I consulted porn for pointers. If my survival rested on sucking cocks I would take pride in it. It couldn’t really be that bad. I mean at least I’d still be alive. Sort of. And I could always write about it. If my cellmate let me. I heard about a prisoner who had avoided being raped because he was funny. In prison humour is as valuable as cigarettes. And everybody knew that a repeatedly raped prisoner didn’t tell jokes.
Talk about motivation to come up with new material.
Maybe it was a clever attempt by Pamela to undermine me? Could she have been so devilishly clever? It was just a matter of removing the space between the words so that Killallon was rendered invisible to my endless wordsearches. I had checked and double checked so many times it was surreal to see it there in the finished book. But why would they sue me? For not liking them? Meanwhile, that tasty blonde girl from the Athenaeum Boekhandel, one of Amsterdam’s most popular independant bookshops, called and left a voice message.
“It’s selling well, we’ll take another batch if you have them”
Oh fuck.
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Open on a dizzying over-the-shoulder shot of me standing out on the ledge of a high-rise office building. I look distraught and dishevelled. The voiceover sounds like my own thoughts; “This is where I’m supposed to remind you of all the wonderful things you have to live for, but since it’s little late for that, here’s a question for you instead. Are you up high enough? If you jump from this height you might actually survive, and we don’t want that now do we? Yes, you could always come back and take the disabled elevator to the roof and roll yourself off but wouldn’t it be better to get it right the first time? I think you need a few more floors between the pavement and the possibility of people saying the fucking idiot couldn’t even kill himself properly. Come on, the stairs are through here”
This actually makes sense to me and as I begin to edge back towards the open window I realise the voice I heard wasn’t inner monologue, it was a real person speaking to me from just inside the window. And as he helps me inside I can see that he is a calmer more handsome, healthier version of myself. He wears exactly the same clothes as I do but on him they look tailor-made. He is my better self. As I stand there still staring at him I am suddenly surrounded by carers and paramedics and wrapped in a blanket before being helped into an elevator.
Later, from inside an ambulance, I see my twin once again this time as he gets in on the passenger side of a champagne-coloured Falfaux parked nearby. Beside him in the driver’s seat is a beautiful dark-haired blue-eyed girl. They kiss hello. A wide generous smile spreads across her face when she notices the resemblance between myself and my twin and I can’t help feeling we’ve met somewhere before, or that we will meet soon. This notion has a calming effect until something occurs to me. I look upwards. The camera follows my eyes and we realise the car is parked directly beneath the window ledge where I threatened to jump. Falfaux.Saving Lives.
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BRIDGIT (Part Two)
An apartment in the East Village for nine-hundred a month? It was too good to be true. There had to be a catch. Surely she was setting me up for some terrible revenge. Had I hurt her more than I realised? Poor thing. I had broken her heart and this was her long-awaited opportunity to avenge herself. She‘d stand by as I gave up my place in Amsterdam. She’d even help with my transatlantic move until at last on the same day I arrived in New York with as many boxes of my newly published book as the luggage-limit allowed, I’d be told there was no apartment. I’d stand there ridiculous, caught between countries, apartments and cartons of my self-published semi-fictionalised memoir. It would serve me right for not marrying her.When I finally met her to pick up the keys she had a baby with her in a huge carriage. I was not expecting this.
“I didn’t mention I was married?”
So much for my image of her pining for me in curtained rooms. I peered into the carriage and from under all manner of expensive-looking blankets and toys emerged a tiny fist like a parody of rebellion and attached to it was what I could only describe as a bald blue-eyed miniature version of myself.
Why was she watching my reaction so carefully? Was this in fact my baby? Had she gotten pregnant and never told me? I tried to do the math as I smiled and wiggled my fingers in front of …
“What’s his name?” I was looking for clues.
“Tarquin.” she said enjoying my embarrassment.
“Tarquin. And how old is he now?”
It had been two years since we broke up. Nine months to incubate and.. .oh jesus, had she arranged to get me an apartment in her building virtually opposite her own apartment so I could take up my responsibility in parenting our child?
“He’s ten months.”
Ten months? Ten months earlier I was banging Rebecca.It couldn’t be mine then. But maybe she froze some of my sperm. Was that even possible? But she was married. Or so she said. The baby didn’t look too happy about the situation. Like father like son?
“Oh my god he looks just like you, congratulations.”
This from the waitress looking at me and Tarquin like we were biological tennis. I had been lured back to New York with the promise of a cheap east village apartment and now she was about to ambush me with a paternity suit. She was a lawyer she knew all about these things. She knew I had enough money to warrant the effort because she had already all my bank account details. She was laughing at me.
“Oh my god no. I see what you mean, but no, he’s just a friend.”
The waitress retreated. I exhaled. The truth as always, was less flattering. As an unemployed writer I fulfilled the requirement that all tenants in her building be of low-income status and preferably connected to the arts. Of the six apartments in the building only two of the occupants met these requirements and one of them was so old he was expected to vacate not just the apartment but his mortal frame at any moment. My addition to
the roster would help reclaim some credibility for the co-op and with my recently banked severance money there would be no worries about me keeping up with the rent. In fact, if anything, I was doing Bridgit a favour. Within weeks I was back in New York under my latest guise. A writer living in the East Village.
3
PRUDENCE
“Are you Brent?’ it was a women’s nasal voice.
I looked up from my double-toasted bagel and shook my head.
“No, sorry.”
“Oh, sorry.” She said smiling weakly as she sat down at the adjacent table all the time glaring at me like I had just lied to her. Should I double check? Was I in fact Brent? If she had been gorgeous I might have been less certain. Her face was a conspiracy of cosmetics and I could see how her online profile might attract some emails but day-lit and sitting across from me she looked like an effigy of a young girl. The door to the café opened behind her and the shaved head of man about my height poked inside. His eyes ricocheted crazily but the rest of him remained outside. When he saw the woman he stopped and his eyes met mine for a split second. He could have been an older version of me. Retrieving his head he disappeared. At least he wasn’t fat. My phone rang and because I didn’t recognise the number I answered.
“Hello?
“Hello darling sweetie it’s Prudence”
It was the literary editor of the celebrated Prowess magazine and her little squeaky voice was even sexier now that she was alone in her apartment. She had already described herself as “the editor of a well-known magazine” in her profile so I knew after a only little research who she was before she called. Her voice was laced with sex from the moment I answered and within minutes she was describing her body to me.