Freinds But For A Moment

Friends, But For a Moment
By
Sheldon Doyle



Still groggy after the third ring, I rolled over and squinted at the clock until the numbers materialized.
3:30AM.
Who the hell could be calling me at this ungodly hour?
On the fourth ring, I fumbled for the receiver, missed, and instead knocked the clock off the stand. As it clanged and banged against the hardwood floor, I took great pleasure in knowing this particular annoyance was in the process of coming undone, thanks to someone bothering my sleep. You see; I hate clocks. They are the albatross of society. They infest our lives, clinging to our world as tiny workaholics relentlessly telling us we’re either late, early or behind schedule. I for one would like to see them abolished, rubbed out like some unwanted pestilence, but that is another narrative for another time. You don’t really want to know how much I hate time. Like me, you’re interested in who the hell is calling.
Lifting the receiver, I mumbled hello, … at least I think I did.
A soft voice, low and choked, mumbled “its me.”
The sniffle that followed triggered a synapses in my brain that identified a call-me-anytime-promise I had made, and this allusion during one of my forays had granted its benefactor the right to interfere with my sleep whenever necessary. Whoever it was needed a shoulder to cry on, namely mine.
But before I get into what will happen to my sobbing friend, I must admit that I am not a professional; schooled in counseling broken hearts. I am not a doctor, a psychologist, a psychiatrist or even a friendly gigolo for that matter. I’ve never hung a shingle above any door, advertised in a newspaper or other periodical—although the thought is intriguing—nor openly solicited those suffering maladies of the heart. My clientele come from nightclubs, corner bars and the alleys of adjoining streets, from the smoky rooms of drab dance halls or the back row seats of lonely heart theaters where they watch sad song movies till dawn. These are the people I cater to, society’s castaways, the woebegones, the losers who have stumbled and fallen on hard times. Occasionally I’ve met nicer people trying to drown their sorrows in a bottle of booze and those have been fun. I can’t say how many I’ve helped over the years, for those kinds of statistics are just like clocks; I hate them. The numbers are not important, only the results. So I guess that makes me a perfectionist as much as an idealist. But to them, I’m just an ordinary guy when I approach them, a Mr. Nine to Five in a business suit, a friendly man willing to listen if they want to talk.
But to be honest with you, this is all a sham. I’m really a con, motivated by my own indulgences. I’ve spent a lifetime learning how to be in the right place at the right time, when to talk and when to listen, who to pick and who to avoid, for no other reason than to find the next one. Cautiously, inspired by malicious intent, I tenderly manipulate the hearts of my victims until they trust me. And even though our chance encounters may be brief, every one of them feels loved when I leave.
They all know this, that’s why some of them make the fatal mistake of calling me. They can’t escape the attraction, the wonder of the seeds I’ve planted in their heads. It’s like a moth being drawn to a bright light. I’ve touched their souls and bared it to them. Those that can’t resist want more.
They know I’ll listen quietly, which is a big hit with the women. I guess finding a man who listens is a rare commodity. Rarer still is finding one who offers seemingly sound advice. But the rarest, is finding one willing to talk at 3:30 in the morning. In most cases, he’s viewed as a godsend.
Struggling through the bedcovers until sitting on the edge of my bed, I pulled the flower printed sheets around my midriff while I waited for her sobbing to end. I was having a hard time concentrating on how I would get her alone. I had several options, but her labored breaths sounded husky and warm, tantalizingly sweet. Her distress was having a profound affect on my body and I found myself fantasizing about her while I waited.
Let’s be honest. We are, by our very nature as human beings, gregarious creatures. We are born with an innate drive to be near each other more than we like to admit. And when we hurt, we have a tendency to search for a sympathetic ear until we find one willing to listen. If not our mate or friend, then someone we find trustworthy.
I’ve worked hard at developing my skills. I’m just a friendly guy with an easy smile, trying to get along in the world.
When she sniffed, I sensed she had come to a decision, one that had a lot to do with why she was calling me.
“Are you feeling better now?”
“ No.”
“Want to talk?”
“No.”
I won’t say that I regretted asking her to meet again. Even after she had regained her composure her voice still contained that husky quality that had intoxicated me so thoroughly. I pitied her husband. If he had only taken the time to listen he would have heard what I did. But he didn’t and his loss would be my gain. I could almost feel the heat of her breath on my ear as I listened to her recite the name of the bar.
“In an hour,” she said.
“I’ll see you then.”
I’ve got about ten minutes before she arrives. The parking lot is abandoned. Only two dull streetlights glow in the darkness, illuminating the sea of asphalt. I won’t need to be as careful as before. She’s eager. This one should go easily. The bar is closed, but then again, I guess we both knew that. I hope she’s wearing the same clothes she wore the last time. They looked good on her. I’ll look good on her.
A set of headlights turn in, then flick off as the car drives slowly towards me. She’s early.