Curmudgeon

Curmudgeon



Howard Zeft sits on the bar stool, his back hunched, a beer mug wrapped in his fist. Behind him the party goes on, his office mates sharing stories, laughing and carrying on. This was his second beer, and he figures he’ll have one more and then call it a night. None of his office mates needed him to keep the party going.

“Hey, you’re missing some good stories.” Sheila Brown works in accounting. Early thirties, thin, and naturally beautiful.

“I’ve heard them all before.” Howard mumbles, then takes a long pull from his beer.

“You okay? I thought you would be happy to be leaving.” She takes a small sip from her margarita, then sits herself next to him at the bar. “I mean Jesus Christ Howie, you’re a writer now. I can’t believe it.”

“I’m happy, just a little anxious I guess. I’ve never had to not go to work, staying home and writing all morning is going to take some getting used to.” He finishes his beer and points a finger at the bartender, then to his empty mug. The young guy walks causally over, stares a long moment at Sheila then turns to fill the glass.

“You’re going to be rich and famous.”

“I doubt that, very few writers are rich, comfortable maybe, but not rich.”

“So when does your book come out?” She takes another sip, then looks up at him. For a second he finds himself lost in her hazel eyes.

“It’s slotted for November. They’re going to fly me out to New York in a few weeks. Talk about the release, and the deadline for my next one.” The bartender drops off the beer, taking a long look at Sheila again, this time mostly her chest.

“Are you going to give me a signed copy?” She leans in playfully, the hazel eyes again capturing him, as he fights himself to pull away.

“Of course. I’ll mail you one.”

“Oh come on, you won’t come to the office to drop it off?”

“No, I never want to go in that place again.” He takes a sip from his beer, staring into the gold emptiness.

“Is it really that bad?”

“Yes.” He says, taking another long pull, what he wants to say sitting heavy and full on his chest. The words he’s wanted to release for two years that have eaten him away just inches from his tongue.

“Come on, I’m there, it couldn’t of been that bad.”

He looks up at her, the freckles, the face attractive enough not to need make-up at all, and then to the bartender. If he’s going to let this out, he’s going to need something stronger.

“Can I get a double shot of Jameson, and a few ice cubes please.” The bartender nods then goes to work, not bothering with a glance at Sheila this time. He’s working on one at the end of the bar, and doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Hitting the hard stuff?”

“For this, I need it.”

“What’s wrong?” She leans in a little more, and her perfume hits him, mixed with one of Andy’s cigarettes.

“I’m going to tell you what’s so bad about that place, and why it’s been my personal hell for two years.” The bartender drops off the drink and moves hastily back to the girl at the end of the bar, who is clearly dressed to get laid.

“Howie-” He takes a sip of the whiskey, letting it’s sweet tang hit his tongue, then the warmth flow down his chest.

“For two years I’ve wanted you, thought of you, thought about what it must be like to be loved by you. For two years I’ve wished you could want me, wished you could be interested in me.” He takes another long pull of the whiskey. “For two years I’ve watched, watched you date Ken, that ass hole VP. Watched you flirt with Ted, in Accounting, watched you use him as your personal lap dog, as he blindly follows you around hoping someday you’ll want him. I’ve listened to you talk about this new guy, Garret, and how excited you are about him, how you two are planning to move in together, all this time I’ve wasted. All this time spent in that hell doing mind numbing work, and wanting the unattainable, that sounds like a pretty good description of hell to me.”

“How-”

“Don’t say anything. You don’t have to. I know the score. I’ve accepted it. I’m telling you this can move on. So I can write my little stories and maybe meet someone who is…Attainable.”

He finishes the whiskey, letting the glass slam on the bar, then raises the beer mug, and finishes it too, then stands taking one final good look at her.

“Why do you have to be so damned smart and beautiful,” He shakes his head. “I’ll send you the book. I hope everything works out well for you.” He pulls a two twenties from his pocket, throws them on the bar and walks to the door giving his office mates a little wave, but leaving before they can protest.

He stands on the corner pulling his cell phone from his pocket, working his clumsy fingers over the pad to find the cab companies number. He wouldn’t give them this address, he wanted to be far from here. Perhaps she would tell them, sit down with her fruity drink, and spill the beans.

“So Howie just spilled his guts to me, told me how he’s in love with me, can you believe it?” And they would all laugh, and toast old stupid pathetic Howard who would probably get one out of his three novel contracted published before they shoved him out the door. Poor, poor Howard.”

“Howard.” She was behind him, her arms folded, hands on her biceps. It was October now, and winter is defiantly in the air.

“I don’t have anything more to say.” He tucks his phone in his pocket and turns to her.

“I’m sorry.” She looks at him, those hazel eyes again. Pulling him in, a tractor beam into his soul. “Have a good night.” She turns walking back into entryway then stops, and turns back around. “I do like you, and if anything changes, with Garret, I’ll call you, okay?”

“Kay.” He almost whispers with a nod, knowing this is the exact opposite of what he needs. Hope is a dangerous thing, and it can eat you. Hope only continues his plight, only continues the nights sitting up, wishing and wanting. Hope often leads to a long slow death.

She turns and enters the bar, and he watches her through the glass a moment before walking down the sidewalk to the gas station where he finds a cab fueling up. Once home, he drinks himself to sleep and starts his second novel in the morning.

__________



A week and half later she called, and he took her to New York with him. They enjoyed each others company. They stayed together through the release of his novel, but then she started to get bored, and had an affair, they split up. Howard Zeft’s second novel, The Slow Death March Song, was up for the Pulitzer, but lost. He dedicated it to her. Before the release of his third novel Empty Jacket, he shot himself. Empty Jacket was cited as his best work to date, but did not with the Pulitzer.

Sheila Brown is now Sheila Brown-Kiltz, she has two children, and has been happily married for four years.