Romantic Lifestyle

“He was alone. His girlfriend left him and his friend abandoned him. There was nothing. Just an empty space and tones of alcohol that he could drink in the pub.” I finished reading.

Jack was not impressed.

“And after that, he killed himself. Like in all good stories.” I added quickly.

Jack seemed to be even less impressed. He was an old journalist, who I asked to review my novel.

“What’s wrong?” I said. I wanted him to approve my work, not to make some ridiculous comments.

“Well… Don’t you think it’s a bit…” he paused looking for the right word “too much?”

“Why?”

“I mean… things like this usually don’t happen in real life.”

“Come on!” I tensed up “These aren’t your reports. That’s art. It must be emphasised! It’s not some factual notes scratching.”

I’ve said that definitely too fast and too loud.

“You wanted to know my opinion – that’s it. You don’t have to shout” his voice was like ice. Having said that, he left without any goodbye.

I still think that he misunderstood my idea. If you want to make mighty literature you have to write about serious stuff in a sad way. Life is generally terribly depressing. “I’ll explain it to Jack when I’ll see him,” I said to myself.

I’d probably complain more about that, but my phone rang. It was my girlfriend. Her laptop was broken and she wanted me to fix it, but I was not in a mood to do so. Unfortunately, she was not in a good mood either.

“What does it mean that you can’t help me?” she yelled at me when I refused. “My whole work depends on it!”

“Honey, imagine Beckett running all over his friends and fixing their belongings. That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?.”

“But you are not Beckett. You are just…”

“You don’t have to tell who am I. Anyway, I won’t help you.”

As a reply, she made some noise that sounded like a combination of a howling wolf and a dying duck. Then I said something impolite about her, she said something back and we broke up. Just like that. Over the phone.

I was alone. My girlfriend left me and my friend abandoned me. There was nothing…

Suddenly, I realised that this is what I’ve been waiting for. That now I have a chance to follow my dream. To be a real poet. I knew what I should do. I took my wallet and, having googled the worst pub in the town, I went there to get drunk and to kill myself.

The pub was better than I expected. It wasn’t gloomy or depressing. In fact, it was rather a cosy place – warm carpets and wooden walls. All the furniture was cheap but clean and well-cared. Surprisingly, that made me feel better.

I ordered a beer, sat in the corner and once I was done with celebrating my loneliness, I started my poetic drinking.

When I was ordering my fourth pint, I saw my old friend Tom. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, so I felt we have a lot to catch up.

“Please don't get up. I'm only passing through.” He welcomed me with his favourite line “So how come did you end up drinking here?”

So I ordered my next pint and told him the story.

“And it all happened because I wanted to follow the idea of mighty literature” I summed it up.

“Well, that’s bad.” He seemed not interested. “But you know what? I have a solution. I’m throwing a party tonight and you ought to join us. You need an old fashion lady ‘n’ whiskey”.

“If you’re throwing the party…” my tipsy mind was trying to connect the dots “then why are you here?”

“Just warming up. What’s funny is that Jack told me he’ll join me here.”

No! I was definitely not ready to meet that insensitive journalist again. I made my mind quickly. I tried to escape but somehow missed the timing, as I accidentally bumped into him. I had no choice. I was ready to defend my mighty literature view, yet I surprised myself by saying:

“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Maybe I was too drunk or too happy to argue. Or maybe it was a combination of both. But his face told me that he didn’t really care.

“My editor told me…” He said. His voice was even colder than the last time. “…to write a report on some village in Africa. Their government decided to build a dam on their river so the whole village will be sunk.”

“But why? It doesn’t make any sense!” I couldn’t figure out anything more clever than that.

“Because of money, because of corruption, because of west white-collar investors that don’t give a fuck about anything that isn’t profitable.”

I had no idea what to answer, so I just handed him a beer.

“So let me forget about the problems of literature” he added with

a clouded smile.

We came back to our table trying to have fun, but there was no way we could stop thinking about those poor people somewhere far away in Africa. At least till Tom announced:

“Enough of sadness for today. I think we should turn tonight’s party into a nice orgy.”

Jack agreed, but I couldn’t. I was still in love with her and cheating is something very not only immoral but first of all, it was really unromantic.

“Come on!” Tom waved with his hands in some theatrical gesture “Love won’t make you a good blowjob.” And that was a good point.

I woke up in Tom’s bed, in Tom’s house. Some beautiful woman was lying next to me. “Even nicer than my ex,” I noticed proudly. Outside the window, birds were singing.

“You lucky buster!” Tom giggled when I went to the kitchen. “I had no heart to kick you out last night. She’s a nice lady, isn’t she?”

I ignored him, but he still blathered. My head was splitting so much that I had trouble focusing even on the water in the cup, not to say his speech. To be honest I could barely figure out what is going on. And what happened last night was a real mystery. One thing was sure – it was neither a mighty nor a poetic story.

But it was fun.