Jump to new as of March 22, 2002
Authors Note: This story contains homosexuality, innuendo, homophobia, and probably a bit of language. If any of the above offend you... this probably isn't your type of story. But I will keep it tasteful. And now, out feature presentation.
"Lisa... Li... pick up.
"Fine. I'm calling to say... God... what am I calling to say? I love you. I didn't mean to hurt you... You're everything I've ever wanted in a girl. In a person. I-- I'm s--"
Her answering machine "beeped" loudly, cutting off his apology.
Wes swore loudly and tossed the cordless phone towards the wall, which it hit with a loud crack.
He reached for his car keys, just as Bingley opened the door to his room.
"You're un-freakin'-believable, you know that?" Bingley said in a livid tone.
"If you hadn't freaked about me getting a girlfriend none of this would have ever happened," Wes said in a low, hard voice.
"TAKE SOME OF YOUR OWN DAMNRESPONSIBILITY FOR ONCE, WES," Bingley roared.
"Forget this. Just forget it," Wes replied as he walked out, keys in hand.
"Hello, there," said a smiley tone from the next table.
"Oh. Hello," replied Wes, standing up. He was clad in a black long sleeve tee-shirt, very dark blue, fitted, cuffed jeans and black combat boots. He had a messenger bad with a number of pins, one of which was a "Darc Arts" logo, as well as several bands. His black hair was spiked, and he wore glasses with trendy, thick black lenses.
The owner of the cheerful voice stood, and extended a hand towards him. She was about 5'6", approximately 8 inches smaller than Wes. Her hair was a dark blonde, and tied in a loose bun. She wore bootleg jeans, a pair of trendy-looking boots, and a three-quarter sleeve, button-down, white shirt. Her eyes had a friendly twinkle to them.
"I'm Lisa."
He didn't shake her hand, but rather looked at her with a great curiosity.
"I'm Wes. What do you write?" He said all this in a very, business-like, to the point way.
"Over Analysis."
She looked a bit taken aback.
"Oh. Thank you for the utterly senseless look into the female psyche."
"You write 'Slaughterhouse Manifesto'?"
"Yep."
"Your inker is phenomenal. Thank you for the never-ending philosophical blood bath. It's awe-inspiring really."
Wes half smiled.
Lisa nodded beyond him, "Customer, golden boy."
He blinked and turned back to face the table. A boy who looked about 15-years-old, with an unpleasant looking case of acne, and a very dark wardrobe stood before him with a book clutched in his hands.
"Would you sign it? To "Your Biggest Fan, Josh."
Wes scrawled his name on the cover, which he studied for a second. He then used the marker to draw the Bat Signal in the moon of the cover's night skyline. He handed the book back to Josh, who looked like he didn't quite know what to do.
"You know... I think your book is totally awesome. I mean... this guy even SWEARS... and... You put in ALL THE GOREY DETAILS. It's SO COOL."
"Hey, Josh, is it?"
"Yeah!"
"Lemme see your book again, Josh."
The boy handed it over. Lisa had a feeling she knew what was coming. She covered her eyes.
It was worse than she thought.
Wes pulled a cigarette lighter out of his bag, ignited it, and held the flame under the corner of the book. The smell of the burning ink matched the contorted face that had over taken Josh. When a third of the book had dissolved in flame, Wes dropped it into the pitcher of water that sat in the corner of the table.
"You're not old enough to read these. Try X-Men. There's ladies in spandex in that one."
For a moment, Josh stood in silence, his eyes wide in terror, his jaw dropped.
"You....you... JERK!" he cried in a strangled voice, and then stalked away.
Lisa coughed.
"Well, it was important that you got that out. That poor kid is probably traumatized."
"He doesn't read properly, plus I've generously given him a story to tell all of his little friends. They'll either think the book is even cooler because of it, or stop reading because I'm mean. It doesn't matter to me what they do as long as I don't hear about it from them.... They all probably read it wrong as well."
"You know something... I think Josh was right about you."
"That I'm the coolest?"
"That you're a jerk."
Wes grinned, "Want to hit the bar later?"
"Why not."
"So if you hate being misinterpreted so much, then why do you keep publishing the books?" Lisa asked with an absent swig from her beer bottle.
Wes thought for a second and then replied, "Well... If I didn't publish them, then no one at all would read them aside from Bingley and I. And I guess I just like knowing that we aren't the only ones who understand what we are talking about. Occasionally, we'll get letters from a fan who clearly reads in for something besides the excess of flying body parts. I'm in it for the potential kindreds."
She grinned, "And the check has nothing to do with it..."
"The check, too. Why haven't you invested in doing a color book? They sell a lot more... people have a thing for bring shiny colors."
"Because the ink smells horrible when it burns," Lisa smirked.
"Har, har," replied Wes.
"Seriously, they're more expensive, and they also don't have that film-noire, intellect required vibe to them. Besides, I think I'd probably have to hire an inker for it, and good ones are tough to find."
"I bet Bingley would do it."
"Bingley Charles inking my book. No, I doubt that."
"Why?"
"Um... I just do. Listen, it's been great talking to you. Give me your number and I'll give you a call, we can hang out again, if you want?"
"Oh," said Wes checking his watch.
It was ten after one. They'd been talking for hours while nursing the same two bottles of beer the whole night. It felt as though there was still at least a quarter of his left. He took a small reporters notebook out of his bag and scrawled a number down, handing it to her.
"Two, Zero, Three? That's a Connecticut number!"
"Yeah, I'm just outside of Danbury."
"You're in Southbury."
"Good guess."
"No. It wasn't. I lived in Middlebury... Weird. I haven't been back there in years. You have quite a drive back. I'll talk to you later this week."
"G'night. Talk to you soon." Wes said smiling.
She liked him. SHE liked HIM! He felt like Ben Affleck, at that moment. (A/N: Anyone who got that joke gets a cookie.)
When he finally returned to his apartment, Bingley was leaning over the drawing table, his eyes bloodshot, and the table's lamp the only light in the room.
"You look like hell."
"You look like you just got some," Bingley replied looking up.
"No such luck. But I met this girl, and she's completely into me."
"You met her in the City?"
Wes nodded.
Bingley laughed, "Good luck, buddy. Hope you got her number."
Heaving a giant sigh, Wes threw himself onto the couch.
"Well," he said in a muffled voice with his face over a pillow, "maybe she'll call me."
And with that, the phone rang.
Wes sat in his car, engine turned, radio playing softly, unable to go anywhere.
He'd gotten stuck just sitting there thinking about her. How much that one night did to his life. What it had opened up.
As he stared at the clock he realised that it was 3:07 am.
It was the exact moment that it had been when she first called him.