That One Time I...

… Had A (Fictional) Meetup To Discuss A New Writing Project, Part I

NOTE: The following is a work of semi autobiographical fiction. -- Robzilla.

I was more than a bit nervous as I took my seat at a circular table shrouded in violet mist. It’s been three decades since I’ve walked into one of these establishments, and I immediately feel out of place amongst the men and women young enough to be my kids. As Ratt’s “I Want A Woman” thunders in my soul, I turn my attention not to the exotic dancer soliciting lap dances at a nearby table but the pair of familiar men positioned at my ten and two. The three of us resemble the spokes on a steering wheel, which is fitting since we’re one and the same despite the age differences.

“Don’t be shocked if it’s flat,” the younger, fitter of the pair growls as he slides a beer mug in front of me. I let his greeting slide since I know this version of me is deeply wounded. He’s 25 and already jaded by a failed engagement and an unfulfilled dream. I don’t feel an ounce of pity for him, though. He oozes self confidence. His shoulder length hair and diamond stud earrings give off that bad boy vibe. He’s an honorable man but he’s not interested in being tied down to anyone. He’s also the main reason why my cheeks flush with crimson when I’m asked about my body count. Despite being celibate for a long time, that infamous Slate article from a decade ago makes me feel like I’m a retired sex worker compared to most men my age.

“Ah, don’t mind him,” the somewhat paunchy gent between us says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’s just pissed off because you’re preventing him from chatting up one of the dancers.” This version of me is 30 and a grown man compared to our younger selves. He’s also deeply wounded for other reasons. The unfastened top two buttons of his dress shirt signal the work day is over, yet I know he’s on a break from the first of a handful of jobs that promised riches but delivered despair in eight hour increments five times a week. Throw in the fact he’s disillusioned with dating and I can clearly understand why my weight gain began in earnest with him not long afterward.

“I’m glad both of you made it here on such short notice,” I tell them as I gulp my beer. In an instant, I feel my eyes and mouth squish towards the center of my face in agony. This brew could generously be described as the end result after consuming a few of our city’s legendary craft beers two hours earlier. Don’t ask me if it’s Pabst Blue Ribbon, Coors Light or chilled piss because I'm not willing to taste it the second time down.

“What did you want to discuss with us?” 25 year old me asks before he checks his watch. I’m assuming he’s worried about running late for his delivery job, one that pays for college tuition and provided us a memorable encounter that’s too hot to be a deleted scene from Patrick Dempsey’s “Loverboy” flick. I suck in a deep breath to still my nerves and then I speak my mind.

“I’m writing another book next month,” I explain with hand gestures that convinces people I’m Italian when I’m not. “But I’m not sure if it will be a novella or novel length. I also don’t know if I have enough source material for it.” I then gaze at 25 year old me and realize that’s the worst lie I’ve told since I held Torrie in my arms and told her everything would be fine just before she was euthanized.

To be continued…