

### EVERYDAY PSYCHOPATHS

by

Jonas Eriksson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Jonas Eriksson on Smashwords

Everyday Psychopaths

Copyright © 2013 by Jonas Eriksson

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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EVERYDAY PSYCHOPATHS

EVERYDAY PSYCHOPATHS

A Short Story Collection

by Jonas Eriksson

Copyright © 2013 by Jonas Eriksson

All rights, reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Published by Jonas Eriksson http://www.jonaswrites.com

EVERYDAY PSYCHOPATHS

A Short Story Collection

***

Table of Contents:
  1. Foreword

  2. A Killer Date

  3. The Development Talk

  4. The Worst/Best Day of My Life

  5. The Wake-Up Call (sample)

  6. Hollywood Ass. (sample)

***

Foreword

Everyday Psychopaths is a short story collection containing three short stories with at least one psychopath in each of them. I have also included samples of my two novels, The Wake-Up Call and Hollywood Ass, since you could say that both books have an element of "everyday psychopath". Depending on where you draw the line of course.

Starting off this 5-piece collection in style (gory style) is A Killer Date, my first effort to write a story in the thriller/horror genre. I read a lot of Stephen King as a young adult so this is kind of delayed. But it was worth trying and a lot of fun.

The second story is a very short one about a development talk gone wrong. I was extremely creative (doh!) in calling it The Development Talk. The story is about the main character Jasper's nervous meeting with his "psychopath" manager. I think some people might recognize themselves here, but hopefully not too many.

The third story is also partly set in an office, but reaches into the land of relationships, a person's general outlook on life and what happens when you pass that 40-year old mark and become bitter about it. The Worst/Best Day of My Life is a slightly dark, but mainly humorous story which I hope can bring a smile to your face.

The two samples I've included are meant to hook you on my two novels, The Wake-Up Call and Hollywood Ass. The Wake-Up Call has had over 40 000 downloads at the time of writing so although some people despise the main character too much to read on, many really like it. It doesn't come as a huge surprise that Jack Reynolds stirs readers' feelings as the book was written as an experiment to see if you could sympathize with an "asshole" if the story is told through his eyes. You might love or hate the self-centered workaholic, womanizer Jack - as long as you don't find him uninteresting.

Hollywood Ass. is not a book about butts. "Ass." is just an abbreviation for assistant and a play on words because some might argue that the main character, B, is a bit of an "ass" sometimes. The story is about the life of celebrity assistant Darryl Glendale and his employer, A-list actress "B". Her marriage is falling apart, her career is on the ropes and she's close to a mental collapse and the only glue keeping her puzzle of an existence together is her loyal assistant. But what happens when he starts having feelings for her?

If you like these samples, I would be very happy if you took the time to check out Hollywood Ass. and The Wake-Up Call on my official site: http://jonaswrites.com/my-books/

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy this little collection. Any feedback or help with spreading the word about my writing is, as always, much appreciated. I would also love if you join my VIP newsletter list: http://bit.ly/196X2jz This way you'll always be the first to get updates about upcoming releases, giveaways and more.

Wishing you warm regards and happy reading,

Jonas

***

A KILLER DATE

Terry loved candlelight dinners and red wine. It was a nice contrast from work and killing people. Because although he also loved killing people, it was sometimes very hard work.

He looked across the table at his date, Sheila, who looked spectacular in a shiny blue dress and pearl necklace. He adored her "bun hairstyle", it was very elegant, almost too elegant to be on a head like Sheila's.

He sipped his glass of Chateu Lafite and let the warming liquid roll around in his mouth.

"You are so beautiful, I could eat you," he said.

And it was true. Her smile was as intoxicating as the wine.

And he could eat her.

Not that he had eaten lots of people in his life, he had only nibbled on some victims or torn a piece of a woman's ear with his teeth when he got a little bit extra excited, but not eaten per se. No cutlery, no frying of body parts, no head on a plate.

Just nibbles.

But maybe different this time?

Sheila giggled like a little girl. She was happy this date, set up by her friend Fiona, was going in the right direction. Terry was a handsome man, tall, well-built, and had a cleft on his chin like Clive Owen and a generous portion of raven black hair on his head. He was eloquent and quite a gentleman too. Could this be the one? she thought to herself and couldn't help but smile again.

"You have really nice teeth," Terry said and thought they could be excellent for his collection of exquisite human body parts. He had learned that most people had at least one body part to be proud of, no matter how ugly the other parts were.

And no part was ever as ugly as what was in their brains and hearts.

"Thanks," Sheila said slightly surprised, "That's the first time I hear that."

"Maybe you don't use them much, because you have such a nice figure." Terry said, generous with his remarks. He had learned how to charm a woman by now. After all, this was his 30th one. Maybe it called for a bit of extra celebration? Champagne for dessert? Or maybe just a little treat for himself when he got back to the house? He smiled at the thought. He liked treating himself to something nice now and then.

After all, that was what life was all about.

"So what do you do and how did you meet Fiona?"

Questions. They were inevitable and annoying, but for the moment rather easy to dodge. Still, he preferred to be the one asking.

"I'm afraid it might bore you. I'm a management consultant, which means I help companies become more efficient and often downsize their organizations. It pays well, but it can be awfully dull."

"You have to fire people and stuff like that?"

"Yeah, sometimes. It's the worst part, but most of the time it all turns out for the best. For both sides."

In fact Terry didn't think it was the worst part. He was excellent at getting rid of people and proud of it too.

"Sounds like a tough job." Fiona was bored with the topic already. Good, thought Terry.

"It's tough sometimes, but it nets rewarding results."

"You met Fiona through work then? I haven't talked to her since she called me about this possible date and told me you're the perfect guy."

Little did she know that Fiona was now in Terry's basement, chopped to pieces. It was a bit funny talking about Fiona as a living person, Terry thought.

A trifle morbid.

"We met at bar actually. That's when she called you. We started talking and I complained to her how difficult it was to find a good woman and she said she had the perfect one for me. Afterwards she called you and set up this date. I don't know her well, but she seems like a really nice person." At least she had perfect ears, Terry thought.

"Oh, Fiona is more than nice," Sheila replied, "she's the best. We've known each other since high school and she's one of my closest friends."

Terry had received a text to Fiona's phone from Sheila about how nervous she was about tonight and he had sent a message on the dead girl's behalf that she needn't worry. It was all going to turn out just fine.

It was. In a way.

They both received their rib-eyes, Fiona's well-done and Terry's almost rare, with slivers of red juice seeping out of it as soon as he poked it with his fork. This got him a little bit excited, because he loved meat. Of all kinds.

He cut a perfect piece and thought how much he missed his knives at home - the ones sharp enough to cut through bone. Here he had to almost saw the meat, but he didn't let it bother him too much. A slow process was sometimes sexier.

Sheila ate with gusto, her beautiful teeth tearing the meat apart efficiently. He watched her with a spark in his eyes and she flirted right back. Things were going well and he had no doubt in his mind she would happily follow him home after dessert.

Where there would be more red juice.

The evening progressed and since Terry had made up his mind to celebrate his 30th victim, he ordered two glasses Moet Chandon to go with the excellent Pannacetta with poached rhubarb. They toasted to the fortune of meeting each other and Terry was happy to notice a slight slur creeping into Sheila's voice. If she could just be a little bit drunker, everything would go much more smoothly. He made an effort to toast a number of times and as soon as her glass was empty he quickly ordered a refill.

"This is the best date I've ever been to." Sheila said, out of the blue.

"Me too." Terry lied. He found Sheila too easy to be the best, as he liked a bit of resistance. Not that he had a horrible time with her, but lately he had grown more and more impatient with his victims in waiting for the grande finale.

But all good things in due time, he reminded himself.

"All the guys I go out with turn out to be such assholes. I don't know how I do it, it's like I have some built-in need for self destruction."

More than you will ever know, thought Terry and had to force himself not to chuckle. Laughter came later.

"They're either drunks or just out for a quick lay. I think I've never met a guy who seems to have it all under control. Good job, nice looks, and who is also moral and kind."

Terry couldn't help but smile at that. This was becoming rather humorous, the girl was absolutely taken by him and soon she was going to be permanently taken by him. He wished he had someone to share the irony with.

"I think we all deserve to be lucky some day. I rarely meet girls who are so alive and vibrant. Most of the ones I hang around are dead boring." Mostly dead, he thought to himself. Man, was he cracking himself up tonight!

Sheila laughed and Terry joined her.

"What do you say, should we go to my place for a drink? I rent a townhouse not far from here, we can drink some nice wine, listen to music and talk until you're bored with me. Then I'll drive you home of course."

"Sounds like a great idea," Sheila said and gave him another flirtatious smile. She saw no problem in following Terry home, she simply couldn't see how this night wasn't going to turn out perfectly.

Terry paid and left a handsome tip, they put on their coats and headed out into the slightly chilly autumn night.

"My car is parked over there," Terry said and pointed towards his spotless vintage Aston Martin.

Sheila locked arms with Terry and they started walking. Too easy, Terry thought for a second before he heard a voice.

"Sheila? Sheila?"

Someone was shouting her name. Terry pretended to ignore it and increased his step slightly.

"Sheila?" Suddenly the sound was closer, just behind them in fact. They turned around and Terry saw a young man with long hair, dressed in worn jeans and brown leather jacket. The man looked worse for wear and had a slightly drunken look in his eyes.

"Hi James," Sheila said, sounding disappointed.

"Hi sis, I saw you from across the street and I wanted to talk to you."

"This is my brother James," Sheila said to Terry. Terry raised out his hand towards James. "And this is Terry." Sheila said to James, who took Terry's hand and shook it, awkwardly.

"You think I can borrow some money? I'm heading to the pub and I'm almost broke." This was normal when it came to James, he was unemployed, drank too much and almost always broke. It hurt Sheila every time she saw him. This was not the person she had grown up with.

"You have to stop drinking, James. I hate to see you like this."

"Like what?" James feigned ignorance.

"Down and drunk. I'm your sister you know and I need you to get your act together."

Terry was becoming very annoyed at having to stand and talk to a complete lowlife when he was so close to sealing the deal on number 30. He wondered why Sheila just wouldn't give the bum brother some money and let him go drink himself to death. People like him wasn't worth the life they lived. Neither was Sheila though.

To stop this situation quickly he told her, "I'll give him a fifty, don't worry about it."

This perked James ears. This dude, who looked almost like a movie star, would give him 50 quid just to drop out of sight. It could mean that he really was a rich bastard with the hots for Sheila or that he intended to rape her.

But the guy was probably just used to buying away his problems, James thought to himself.

"You don't need to give him any money, Terry," Sheila said. "How are you, James? You look sad."

James gave her a quirky little smile, "You know me, sis, when I'm broke, I'm blue."

Terry was desperate to get going and forked out a 50 pound note from his wallet and handed it to James.

"I can't accept your money, man. It doesn't feel right." James said, wondering what Terry's reaction would be. He got a bad vibe from this guy, but he couldn't really put his finger on it.

"Just take it." Terry said, firm in his voice.

"But Terry." Sheila squealed, embarrassed at seeing her brother as some kind of charity case. What had gone wrong anyway? They both had the same parents, the same solid upbringing and while Sheila had studied hard and wanted to go places, James had found trouble. Again, and again, and again.

After a few seconds deliberating, James took the money. "Thanks, mate. I'll pay you back sometime."

Terry smiled and said: "No need. Enjoy your evening and don't worry, I'll take care of your sister." What was 50 pound for a perfect set of teeth anyway? Or a human life? Well, he had to add dinner to that of course, but it still came up on the plus side for him.

It always did.

"Don't go and waste all that money on drinks now, James. Save some." Sheila looked at her brother with concern and she knew it would likely land on deaf ears. James was set on self-destruction, always had been, and someone, including himself, had yet to find the cure.

"Don't worry," James said. Deep down he knew there was a risk he was going to lose all of it straight away, but right now he couldn't care less. The funny feeling he had about the generous and elegant man lingered.

"We're going to head off now. Take care of yourself, James. I'll call you tomorrow to check on you."

"Yeah, sure." James somehow didn't want to leave his sister with this man. "Where are you going by the way?"

"We're going for a drink at Terry's place. It's not too far from here, is it Terry?" Sheila looked at Terry who had started to sweat. He didn't like this James character one bit. What an idiot! And for a moment he thought he ought to kill him as well. Save the world from one more redundant human being.

"Yeah, ten minutes drive."

"Which area?"

Won't this guy just shut the fuck up, thought Terry. Soon he was going to have to kill him, as he was compromising the whole situation.

"I rent a a townhouse in Chelsea." After this whole London adventure was through, he was going do what he always did - clean it out and leave without a trail. It seemed like he might have to do it sooner than he initially had planned though.

"Okay," said James, not sure what to do with the information. He didn't want to leave her sister alone that's all. "You wouldn't want to come out for a drink or two? A quick one? I'm buying," he said and chuckled.

Terry realized he wasn't going to lose James and he was getting both tired and frustrated. The brother was a pest and needed to be dealt with as well, unless Sheila would find a way to say no. But he didn't deem it likely. Her brother was obviously a soft spot for her.

Sheila gave Terry a troubled look. She didn't want to let her brother down and yet she still felt like being alone with her date.

"Ehh..." she said, unsure on how deal with the situation.

"Why don't you come with us to my place? I have plenty to drink and afterwards I'll call you a cab."

Sheila felt warmth in her heart for this kind man, who only did not treat her like royalty, but who also took her brother in with amazing generosity. Maybe this really was the one?

"Wow, that's really nice of you, mate." James thought for a second that he had been wrong about the guy. It seemed strange that he also wanted to invite him to his place, greatly limiting his chances of getting frisky with Sheila. He seemed too kind and that was a bit suspicious in itself.

But maybe he was just being a nice guy, it wasn't unheard of. Just very rare.

"Let's go then." Terry said and motioned them towards where he had parked his car. There was going to be two deaths tonight he thought to himself. He would have to be extra focused and fast not to create complications. He liked to use the element of surprise to avoid any chasing or fighting or bruising of the body parts he desired. One swift stab or cut was sometimes enough, but with two people things could quickly become more difficult. More gory.

On the other hand he liked the challenge. And in the few minutes he had known him, he had learned to hate James, which gave him a jolt of adrenaline.

Death is a beautiful thing, he almost said out loud as he unlocked the door to his Aston Martin.

"This is a fantastic car." James said, before stepping into the vehicle. "Set you back a bit, huh?"

"It's not cheap if that's what you're asking." Terry said, "But ever since I saw James Bond as a kid, I've wanted an Aston Martin like this. So it's kind of a dream come true to drive in one every day."

"It's amazing," Sheila said and sat down in the front seat next to Terry. The man was unlike anyone she had ever met, he seemed to have it all.

The traffic was easy going and 12 minutes later they were walking towards the door of Terry's rented Chelsea townhouse.

"Fancy," James said.

Terry opened the front door and let them inside a long parquet hallway. He realized the townhouse looked like no-one was living in it, full of luxurious furniture and objects, but without a sign of life. No stained mugs near the sink, no open books on the coffee table, no smells. Nothing. It was too clean.

Except for the basement of course.

"Wow! This is an amazing house. You rent this?" Sheila looked around with big eyes. Terry watched her from the corner of his eye, while he was filling wine glasses in the open-plan kitchen and living area.

"Yeah, the company I work for rent per assignment. This year I'm working in London. Next year in New York or Dubai maybe. It depends."

This made Sheila's heart sink a bit. Had she really imagined a future for them? And how was that future going to be with Terry having to move around for his work? But she knew she was getting ahead of herself. Like always.

"Sounds like a pretty swell job you have." James said, as he was being handed his glass of red.

"It's not bad," Terry said and gave the other glass to Sheila. Who should I kill first, he thought. Two people was definitely a twist to him.

"What do you do yourself?" Terry countered towards James, knowing the answer would likely embarrass him.

James was immediately uncomfortable. He hated answering that question, like the only thing that mattered in life was your career. Not everyone's made up to play with pens and papers, he thundered inside his own head.

"I work a bit here and there, depending on what pops up. And I'm in a band."

"A band?" Terry contained his laughter. It seemed like everybody who couldn't find a normal job was in a band. A band of losers.

"Yeah, we play lots of Stones covers, 60-70s stuff. I'm on rhythm guitar. We do weddings, birthdays and pub gigs." James thought there was no point in telling a guy like Terry any of this. He probably listened to Beethoven and Stravinsky while smelling his own rank farts.

"Interesting." Terry said, absentmindedly. How was he going to separate the two and stab him? He had to do it quietly, because he didn't want Sheila to be a sloppy job. He needed her in close to mint condition.

Sheila regretted bringing James, he didn't seem to be in a good mood and it made things between her and Terry a lot more awkward. She just wanted to help her brother and take care of him, but sometimes it seemed awfully difficult, helping someone who didn't want to be helped or just didn't realize he needed it.

She took a sip of wine and played with a lock of her thick red hair. Maybe if James could take a taxi somewhere so the evening could progress the way she wanted it to. She was afraid her brother was going to scare Terry away.

Like Terry had heard her request he excused himself and exited the room. Sheila waited a few seconds and leaned over towards James and whispered: "Can you please drink up and take a cab somewhere? It's kind of weird us all being here."

James had noticed his sister's mood change as soon as they arrived and he knew what she had in mind, a night alone with the rich and handsome mystical man. There were possibly already wedding bells going off in the back of her head. But he couldn't leave her here could he? Could he really trust that smug bastard?

"I don't like the guy and I don't want to leave you alone with him." James wheezed back and finished his glass.

"What? What's not to like?" Sheila gave him a cold stare. She was starting to become very annoyed with her brother.

"I don't know. He creeps me out. There's something about him I just can't shake. Let's go, okay?"

"No. I don't want to go. Sorry, but after knowing you all my life, I can't trust your instincts."

Right at this moment, Terry came back. Now with a super sharp pocket knife in his pants pocket and ready to put an end to this tiring evening. He noticed some new tension in the room, signs of an argument.

"Care for some more wine?" he asked James.

"Nah, I think I might be heading to the city. A friend just texted me." James rose from his chair and stretched out his hands to Terry. "Thanks for the wine and take care of my sister." He gave Terry a stern look. He might be a loser, but he wasn't going to let some jackass hurt his sister. Emotionally or physically. He eyed Sheila as he put on his jacket, "Take care, sis. Text me, okay?"

"I will." Sheila said, relieved to have James leaving, but still feeling sorry for him. He always seemed to land into situations where he had to excuse himself. It was a sad talent.

Terry wanted to rub his hands at the perfect development, but then he realized it might be a problem to have James on his case. The brother was of the suspicious kind and he might prove to be a problem if he didn't hear from his sister tomorrow. After all, he had been in his apartment, his car and knew too much already. He would have to be taken care of somehow.

He could take him down to the basement, show him something, push him down the stairs, stab him, something like that, but he felt there was too much risk involved in dealing with both of them at the same time. Too many things could wrong. No, better to let him go, take care of Sheila and then text him from her phone to meet up someplace. The SMS-trick always worked.

James was on his way out the door. "Text me, okay sis?" He reminded her, while opening the thick white door and letting in the cool evening air. "Of course," Sheila said, her arms crossed.

They all said bye and Terry and Sheila returned to the living room. "Sorry about my brother, he can be a bit forward. He's just had a tough life and I don't like him drinking on his own or with his stupid friends."

"Understood. He seems like a nice guy, maybe he's just a bit lost." Terry knew how to say exactly what women wanted to hear. It was an ability he had picked up over the years and which had served him like a charm since he started his little body part collection project.

"Yeah, he's lost alright. What about another glass of wine?" Sheila said and smiled towards Terry. Now she was going to let the evening unfold naturally.

Terry poured two glasses of wine as Sheila sat down by the fireplace. "Would you ever consider living in London? I mean you seem to think it's a very nice city." Sheila asked him.

Terry took a healthy sip and replied, "I like London, always have. Not sure about living here though, lots of the time I'm kind of living out of a suitcase. But I would maybe consider it, if something special happened, like if I met someone and wanted to settle down." Terry liked this part, where he put wings on a dream and then cut them right off. Literally. It was enjoyable to see the expression on them when the dreams in they had built up in their heads became nightmares.

"So you're waiting for Ms. Right?" said Sheila, excitement brushing her body. This could be a special night indeed.

"You could say that." Terry gave her the most sincere smile he could muster. Which obviously wasn't very sincere.

He took a sip of the wine and studied her, besides that beautiful smile, her face was rather disproportionate, her eyes too close to each other, the nose a little crooked. But her smile was beautiful with those perfectly shaped, crystal white teeth and that was what he wanted. What he craved.

"You know what? I have something to show you, something I think you would like." He said and smiled.

Meanwhile, James sat down at a small pub in Chelsea not far from Terry's rented townhouse and ordered a pint of Stella. He had lots of thoughts whirling around in his head that he wanted to kill and the best way to do it was to have a drink. He just couldn't shake the thought that this guy Terry was up to no good, that his sister would end up getting hurt one way or the other. He had seen guys like that before, super slick, attractive, picking up women with the flick of a finger and then dumping them just as easily. His sister deserved better, but she didn't know it and right now she was too taken by the bastard to listen to anything her brother said. Nobody ever listened to anything he said, it felt like.

He finished the first pint quickly. He had always been a fast drinker, almost like the drink would go bad if he didn't empty it in time. He knew he should focus on getting his act together, but he didn't know how. He wanted some kind of lucky break or sign of some kind, but he had yet to find one. The world was cruel.

The bar was buzzing, but he didn't feel like talking to anyone. He just felt like drinking and trying to quell the demons in his head.

By the third pint, he realized he couldn't shake this Terry guy from his head. He had to go and get his sister, he didn't care how angry she would get. Better angry than hurt. Besides, he was used to people being angry with him.

He drank up, paid the bill and walked back towards the house. On the way, he wrote his sister a text that he really needed her company tonight and that he was going to pass by the house again.

But Sheila didn't reply, because she was hanging unconscious in a harness in Terry's basement while Terry was laying out his shining steel tools on the adjacent table. He was carefully studying all her body parts, most of it was junk, but she had nice and delicate wrists that might prove useful. He wondered if he should kill her or talk to her a bit first. He liked to give the victim a final chance to say what was on their mind. The room they were in was well sound-proofed so she could scream her lungs out if she liked to.

And they usually liked to.

James was starting to have doubts about forcing his sister to leave with him. Maybe he was completely in the wrong? That would make another embarrassing blow to his already broken ego. But as he was twisting and turning the thought in his head, he knew he'd rather do something stupid than neglect his sister. Even if the chance of her getting hurt was 0,1 percent.

Screw this shit! He thought to himself and stopped in the middle of the street. What am I doing? Have my drinking made me paranoid, dreaming up stories to make my life more interesting and to feel more useful? He looked at his feet and then up the street again. Should he or shouldn't he? A beer might help him think this through properly.

The room slowly came to her like a kaleidoscope of colors. Piece by piece the blur became solid shapes and she could start to make out her surroundings. She felt an excruciating pain in her head, like she had hit it very, very hard. And for some reason she was hanging in a kind of sling and she couldn't move because her limbs were tied.

"There, there," a voice spoke.

"Huh?"

"Hey beautiful." She looked to the left and saw Terry standing there with a smile on his face and a pair of evil-looking clippers, resembling some kind of dentist appliance.

She screamed out loud.

But Terry was as calm as a cucumber. "I understand you're confused and you might be in some pain because you hit your head. But don't worry, you're in good hands with me."

Fear bounced around inside Sheila's head. Was Terry some kind of psycho? Was he going to kill her? Why was she always attracted to the wrong men?

"I have someone I want you to meet," said Terry and went inside an adjacent room.

When he came out he was holding a human head, the head of her friend Fiona.

And Sheila fainted.

James internal struggle tore him to bits and he had walked three steps back towards the pub when a voice in the far back of his head got the better of him and he skipped around and started striding towards Terry's house. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong.

Sheila woke up again and screamed out loud. She screamed so hard it felt like her lungs could burst any moment.

"It's pointless to scream, my dear." Terry said with a grin on his face, "This is all very soundproofed. In fact, I could invite a symphony orchestra down here and the neighbors wouldn't hear a note."

"Who are you and what have you done to Fiona?" she said, desperation now taking over her voice completely. She realized she was going to die here, but for the moment death didn't scare her, only the journey there.

"I have made her more beautiful. You see, humans are despicable and disgusting beings. Their thoughts and emotions are pathetic and their efforts to live what they call a "meaningful life" is so pointless and ridiculous that I cannot talk about it without clenching my fist. The only beautiful thing on a human is, in certain cases, the body. And rarely the whole body, but one part, one limb that is close to perfection. I collect these parts and free the world of the redundant bits."

"So with Fiona you freed her of her head? Is that how your twisted mind works?" Sheila spat at Terry.

Terry laughed heartily, "No, not her head, didn't you notice the ears were missing? That was the only part I liked. The rest was pretty much crap. Especially the brain," he said and laughed again.

James rang the doorbell. No reply. He looked around to see if someone was coming and then leaned against the thick frame, trying to make out something, but he only found silence. He rang it again, several times, but nothing. This was starting to feel very weird to him. How could they not hear the bell? Or did they just ignore it? Maybe they were upstairs making out and he was just wrong and possibly pathetic?

He rang again to still his mind, but the mind couldn't be stilled. He called Sheila's cellphone, but like he predicted, there was no reply there either. Just dead silence ringing out into the night like an ominous nothing.

He had to do something.

"You know what I like about you?" said Terry to Sheila while he gently caressed the blade. I like your teeth. You have really shining, beautifully shaped, white teeth which is very rare these days, especially since they look natural."

Sheila had gone from screaming out in panic to a calm assurance of death and trying to look for ways to make it a fast and relatively painless one. But her guess was that Terry didn't like painless deaths.

"You sick bastard," she said.

"Yes, I guess you could call me that. But I'm getting tired and I think we better start." Terry opened a drawer and took out a some kind of a large sponge with a rubber band around it. He fastened it around Sheila's head and pushed her mouth open and squeezed in the spongelike thing so that her teeth wouldn't bite down or get injured through the pain.

The pain that was about to come.

Meanwhile, James threw the brick through the window and it crashed inside the living room. He climbed inside carefully, avoiding the remains of the glass and within seconds he was back inside Terry's house. But he couldn't hear anything. There was nobody home and soon the neighbors would call the police and he would be arrested. But no time for that, because where in the world was his sister?

He ran upstairs and checked the two bedrooms, which were both very tidy and untouched. He entered the third one and twisted the knob. It was locked. Who locked their bedrooms? Only men with secrets right? He took two steps back and threw himself at the door which opened with a slam. The bedroom was as tidy as the others. It looked like the maid had just been in it.

What the fuck? James thought to himself. He was now sweating profusely. There was a big mahogany chest of drawers against the wall and he started rummaging through it. He didn't know why, he just went through all the drawers looking for something. Something.

But he didn't find anything but underwear, socks, some business papers and a bunch of old photos. Just before he was about to close the remaining drawer he saw a small brown envelope. He decided to open it and found to his amazement cropped-up pictures of shoulders, necks, legs, breasts, chins, fingers. He scratched his head and thought, now what the hell is this? Why would a management consultant carry pictures of body parts in his bedroom? It didn't strike him as particularly normal.

He put the pictures back, closed the drawer and picked up his phone. He knew Sheila wouldn't reply, he just wanted to make sure. He headed downstairs and on the way down he heard a distant wailing sound. Police sirens. Of course, someone had called the cops and now he was in deep shit. Story of his life.

He looked at the door which he presumed led to the basement. Should he make a run for it or conduct a final check there? He would lose time, which meant risking getting caught. Fuck it, he said to himself and walked over to the door.

Luckily, the door wasn't locked and the staircase bathed in light.

When he reached the end of the stairs there was a small room with a cement floor and two doors. One of them looked thicker and heavier, so he opened it.

His eyes met Terry's and then he saw his sister, hanging in some kind of harness with blood running down her arms and legs. She was probably already dead.

Terry's heart stopped for a moment. How the hell did that idiot get here? Well, he was going to die too. He lunged himself towards James with his big knife, but James was fast and kicked him in the chest. James then kicked the knife out of Terry's hand and threw himself down at him, but Terry pushed him away and James fell to the floor. He felt an intense pain in his back, but he couldn't let Terry reach for the knife, then he would be dead too.

James suddenly got a fist to his face. A sharp pain exploded in his nose and he felt warm liquid dripping from it.

He wasn't seeing anymore, he was feeling. He and Terry were two alligators rumbling around in a swamp. He tugged Terry's hair and hit him in the ribs. Terry made a wheezing sound.

James didn't have the raw build of his opponent, but he had gotten through a fair share of rough fights in his life. In school, in pubs. He had what most people lacked, tenacity and very little sensitivity to pain. And although he felt blood pouring from his nose, he managed to get another solid punch in, this time to Terry's gut, immobilizing him.

James rose to the floor and ran over to his sister while Terry squirmed on the floor like a worm. She had dozed off among all the blood, but James saw a flicker in her eyes as he untied her. He was shaking, trying to get her to come alive, "Come on, Sheila! Come on! Don't you nod off now, we're going home and everything's going to be fine." He was shouting in panic, praying to God his sister would live.

She came down from the harness unconscious and he used all his power to lift her up over his right shoulder. He heard her mumble something. She's still alive, he thought.

"You fucking punk, I'm going to..." The re-energized Terry launched forwards with his knife and stabbed James in the side. James fell over and Sheila tumbled to the floor. I have them now, thought Terry and was just about to throw himself over James when he felt his hand disintegrate. He dropped the knife and saw blood gushing from his hand. Sheila had bit him with her perfect teeth. Teeth so sharp she had almost torn a hole in the hand. Terry wore a shocked look on his face when he realized what had just happened. And to make matters worse, James had managed to stand up and proceeded to whack him with one of his metal tools so hard in the head that he passed out.

"Anybody here?" came a shout from the top floor.

James threw a tired glance over at Sheila. She was bleeding, but still alive. "Help!" They both shouted. In came two policemen and the look on their faces told them they hadn't expected a bloodbath with three badly injured and bleeding people, one of them a world-famous serial killer, of whose identity and fame they would find out about later.

When James and Sheila had been taken to the hospital, their damage been surveyed and their wounds attended to, Sheila said to her brother: "You know, if it wasn't for you, I would have been dead. You're my hero, James. A true hero."

James flashed a tired smile at his sister, "I'm happy I can be good for something."

"You're better than you think, you always were. And this time you really proved it."

James chuckled and said, "I would hug you if I could, sis, but I'm hurting too much." They both laughed at this.

"And Sheila?" James gave her a mysterious look.

"Yes?"

"I never told you this, but you have really nice teeth."

THE END.

***

THE DEVELOPMENT TALK

Beads of sweat formed on Jasper's forehead. He was in for his yearly development talk and scared to death to be alone in a small room with his manager, Stephen. Stephen was a psychopath with a split personality who liked to talk in a derogatory voice. Like he spoke to a ten-year old girl and not full-grown men with families. Jasper was sure the upcoming meeting wasn't going to be any different.

Not that he had done anything wrong. He had never stolen as much as a paperclip, never been late for work, never screwed up on a task and never uttered a derogatory comment towards a co-worker. He was a spotless employee. But that didn't mean Stephen saw things the same way. Since the perfectly combed bastard started working there a little less than a year ago, he had scared people shitless with his sudden outbursts, lingering stares, quick and silly team exercises and uncomfortable jokes. He was a strange mix of Heinrich Himmler and Barney the Dinosaur.

Nobody liked him.

The meeting room was, like all meeting rooms except for possibly Google's, very sparse and dull. Office furniture left no space for imagination and to Jasper the surroundings looked as cold as Stephen's heart. Stephen on the other hand looked neat in his white shirt and dark blue tie. He was a good-looking psychopath (yes, the world was evil sometimes).

"Please sit down," Stephen said with a grin on his face and pointed to an empty chair opposite him.

Jasper sat down without saying anything. In his hands he held the documentation they were supposed to fill out. Five pages on different job-related things, self-assessment exercises with points for different traits in their characters, descriptions of typical work tasks and other annoying questions. Jasper felt like he was back in school, doing a test and almost having an anxiety attack for not having studied properly. He was never good with being under pressure - stable performance had been his motto through life and he didn't think it would ever change, no matter how many motivational exercises and team-building events he was forced to do.

"How are you, Jasper?" A formal courtesy question that had nothing to do with how Jasper felt. It was the icebreaker, but with guys like Stephen the ice was never going to be broken, so why kid ourselves, thought Jasper.

"I'm fine, I guess." Jasper tried to find a more comfortable position in his chair. He couldn't. Whoever constructed office chairs must have had the cunning idea not to make employees too comfortable. He was sure it had something to do with efficiency graphs and painful research on the slouching tendencies of the human mind.

"How's family? How's the kids?" More polite inquiries, more empty phrases. Stephen must have had this on a template somewhere or maybe it was in the book "Empathy for Dummies."

"They're dead," Jasper felt like saying. But he never said what he felt, so instead he said, "All good." Going into his wife's swollen toe or his daughters excellent results in the latest math test, wouldn't change things at this stage.

"That's swell," said Stephen in a voice that belonged to someone who didn't care. He gave Jasper a look of...yes what was that look? Amusement, malice or constipation? Jasper pictured his manager breaking out into evil movie villain laughter as soon as he left the room.

If he would ever leave the room.

Stephen's weird look formed into a question, "So..." Stephen said, "What did you learn about yourself doing this exercise?"

This was the first blow to Jasper. What did he learn about himself? That he despised all kinds of made-up office bullshit taking up important working hours and making everyone feeling like they were 14 again and had been caught smoking on the periphery of the school playground? That he sometimes would rather clean toilet seats with his tongue than work in an office, just NOT to do these things? That he hated being forced to talk in front of other people and write reports full of mumbo jumbo, when he was actually hired to write code? That he was so uncomfortable around his manager he thought of stabbing him with his ballpoint pen?

He couldn't say that could he? Or could he?

"I learned about some strengths and weaknesses I have," he forced out. It felt like squeezing an inflamed pimple.

Stephen looked concerned. Maybe he was also thinking that Jasper was more suited to cleaning toilet seats. Had he answered the question wrong? Was there a wrong answer? Or even a right one?

"Okay...." Stephen said, like Jasper had just said the stupidest thing. "What would you say is your major strength?"

Jasper gritted his teeth. Major strength? He was good at typing clean and functional code. Was that what the jerk meant?

"I'm kind of a perfectionist when it comes to my work," Jasper said, happy to have found a decent-sounding answer.

"A perfectionist," Stephen repeated. On his lips the word seemed to taste of excrement.

"Yes, I mean it's important for me to write clean and functional code. I take pride in it." Jasper felt his confidence was increasing. He had now said two sentences that made sense and should have been to Stephen's liking.

Stephen was making some notes and then looked up at Jasper again. "And what would you say is your biggest flaw?"

Hmm...that one was hard. For doing what the job required, Jasper felt he didn't have many flaws. He was a solid performer.

"I don't know. I don't like typing reports, I guess."

"So you would say your biggest weakness is typing reports?"

"Yes, I think so."

Stephen's reply came back like a thorny boomerang, "You wouldn't say you're a bit of an anti-social person?"

Anti-social? What was this about? Jasper felt attacked and started to perspire again, this time areas like armpits, scrotum and hands were particularly affected.

Not waiting for Jasper to reply, Stephen continued. "Everybody knows you're not the best team player and I'm a bit concerned you didn't write it down for this exercise."

Team player? But I'm not even on a team! Jasper thought to himself. Ninety percent of the time he was on his own, working away, listening to the Grateful Dead. He realized right now he would gratefully have been dead.

"I don't really know what you mean?"

"As you know it's very important for me that we are a team here. We spend eight hours a day together or more and we need to create this superglue that tie us together and to be frank with you, you're not helping in this respect. Your commitment and dedication to team events and team-building exercises is pretty much zero. Most of the day you're sitting there with your headphones on, typing away. Having someone like that breaks the spirit of the team. We need to work together!" Stephen was suddenly animated and worked-up and his previously relatively pleasant tone had gone up a few decibels.

"But don't you think I do good work?"

Stephen was now standing up, leaning his hands on his chair like it was the only way to contain himself. "Yes, you do good work. You are very good at what you do. But in this company, in my team, we look for people who are great. At everything they do! Who commit themselves a hundred percent to the cause! Who come in here with a smile on their face every day and spread a positive energy around!"

Jasper had feared this meeting, but he didn't think it would turn this bad and fast. Okay, so he wasn't interested in getting to know everyone he worked with and he didn't like saying things he didn't mean, just to be nice. He came here to support his family and get a paycheck. He took pride in what he did and never screwed up. Apparently, this wasn't enough. Not since Stephen had joined the boat.

"I guess I'm just not like that. I prefer focusing on work." Jasper felt he was sinking through the ground and his voice got lower and lower until he almost sounded like a scared mouse. He wished he had the guts to stand up to bullies like Stephen, but he had never needed them before. He had gotten by fine on his skills.

"But this is it! Work is also taking part in these things! In being a team player! You can't just sit there and type and think it's the only thing required of you. You need to come out of your shell!"

"I can try to be more social, if that's what you want." Jasper said and hated himself for it. He was so weak when it came to standing up to people who approved his payroll every month.

Stephen looked away, disgusted. He took a few steps to the other side of the room and looked to be contemplating things a great deal. Like he was in agony over something.

Suddenly he sat down again, "You know, this is like an adhesive, no need to linger."

Linger? What was he on about? Jasper was becoming more and more confused by Stephen's behavior. Something was stranger than usual.

"There is no easy way to say this, but I think it's simply a good solution for all if we decided to part ways. You know what kind of team I want to build and in my vision you're kind of like a square-shape fitting into a circle. You're great in your own way, but I think you can unleash your true potential somewhere else."

Jasper felt a sudden sickness in his stomach, like he was about to throw up. "What are you talking about?" he said, "Are you firing me?"

Stephen looked slightly inconvenienced by this, but soon got back into his stride, "I wouldn't say we're letting you go, I would like to say we're letting you move on. I simply propose a better solution. For you and the company. And we're going to give you the chance to find new possibilities in a nice way. You only need to work one month instead of the expected two while we look for a replacement, it's a win-win for everyone."

Stephen smiled while Jasper tried to hold back his lunch. He had not felt good about this meeting beforehand, but he could never have imagined being fired! He had a family! Two children to support! And bills to pay! His wife was a schoolteacher and couldn't support the whole family while he tried to find a new job. This was not a win-win, this was a big and damning LOSE!

"I..." he stuttered.

"I had the feeling you don't like it much here anyway, maybe you will find more like-minded people in another company, in another setting? I'm sure it won't be hard for you to find another job."

"But...I've been here for eight years!" Finally Jasper found his voice again. He didn't feel sick anymore, he felt like attacking Stephen with a blunt object.

"Yes, I know you're one of the veterans here. But, as you know, the dinosaurs were around for a helluva long time, but they still died." Stephen chuckled about what he thought was a clever comment.

"But you can't just fire someone like this? I have never failed at my work tasks, never missed a deadline, never been late for work. I don't see what grounds you're firing me on."

Stephen seemed both disappointed and surprised at this attempt of defense, "I'm not firing you. I'm letting you go, there's an important distinction. This might be a shock or strike you as unfair, but you know it's what you really want. You don't want to struggle to fit in here anymore. You have shown this clearly and now I'm giving you the chance to find something you truly want to be a part of."

"You're not even giving me a warning? It's just, this is it, all of a sudden?" Now Jasper felt like crying, his energy slowly seeping out of him.

"Since this is kind of an inevitable end, I don't see why we need to drag it out. Like I said, you're a box in a circle. You're a good developer, but not the star player we're looking for. It's as simple as that." Stephen was starting to get annoyed with the stubborn denial his opponent provided. There was only one winner in this kind of meeting, so he wished Jasper would just lie down and die already. Which meant sign the paper and leave. He had better things to do than to sit in a meeting with a guy who couldn't see himself in the mirror and say: "It's time." People showed very little self-awareness these days, he thought to himself.

"So..." Jasper said with a quivering lip. The walls of the office were white, but seemed black and closing in on him. He was having problems breathing. "What happens next?"

"Formalities," Stephen said and tried to keep a cheerful tone. "I have a paper that I want you to sign. If you want to read it thoroughly first, that's fine. Just leave it on my desk when you're ready."

Stephen slid a paper across the meeting room table. It was full of letters, but the combination that caught Jasper's attention was "Termination." It was such an apt word and captured the essence of what was happening to him wonderfully.

Stephen rose from the table and stretched out his hand, "Believe me, this was not an easy decision, but like I said, I'm sure it will be beneficial to both parties. We will give you a good send-off on your last week of work, but for now a handshake." He gave Jasper his friendliest smile and showed a lot of sharp teeth.

To Jasper the room was suddenly spinning. He didn't know if his legs would carry him. He rose slowly from his chair and stretched out a sweaty and cold hand towards Stephen. They shook, briefly.

He took a few steps towards the door and grabbed the handle before something hit him like a thunderbolt.

It was anger. A tsunami of fury swept through him and instead of turning the handle and opening the door, he turned around. Stephen wore a surprised look on his face.

"You know what?" Jasper said, "I would like a few more minutes of your time."

Stephen didn't like the look in Jasper's face. It said C-R-A-Z-Y and he had seen it before upon firing people. People were inherently fucked up and needed a firm hand, he had discovered.

"Sit down," Jasper said, his voice now controlled by something deep inside of him. He didn't recognize it, but he was paralyzed and just had to watch what this other self was going to say.

Stephen looked at his watch, "You know, I have ten minutes before another meeting, so great if you can make it brief."

"Sure," Jasper said, a malicious twinkle in his eyes. Gone were the fear, anxiety and nausea and left was only hatred for the person in front of him.

"You know people think you're a psychopath, don't you?" Jasper said.

"What? What are you on about?" Suddenly, Stephen seemed a little bit off track.

"People talk behind your back all the time. They think you're a man without emotions, a phony. Ever since you came here last year with your perfect haircut and your shiny teeth, your fake voice and your so called team-building exercises, everybody longed for the day when you would be gone. Because nobody really likes shit like that! Nobody likes complicated talks with weird Freudian questions, bullshit meetings, adult games with the only goal of making people feel like five again so they would be easier to boss around. In case you haven't noticed, we're not the girl scouts, we're a company and our purpose is to make money. How do we make money? We sell software to our clients. They don't care how much of a team we are, they just want a good product."

Stephen seemed keen on interrupting, but Jasper waved him off and kept talking.

"Would I be a better programmer if I completed your self-assessment sheets? No. Would I care more about the company's welfare if I stood in a circle and recited some corporate vision over and over again? No. Neither would pretty much anyone else here! You should listen to what they say about you and your little games during the coffee breaks. But maybe you're too full of yourself to hear what is actually going on, maybe you just like to hang out in your little bubble and be Mr. Manager. Or Mini-Hitler, which is what some people call you! You think all your little get-togethers with your make everyone into company-loving team players? No fucking way. They just make us all hate you a teeny bit more every single time."

"All we want to do is come here, do good work, drink decent coffee, small-talk with non-psychopath work mates, get a paycheck and go home to our families. That's all we want to do. Don't you have a family to go home to? Is that it? Is that the problem? Because there's obviously some kind of fucking problem!"

Jasper felt his blood rushing, boiling, spilling over. His hands were shaking from the outburst, none of which he had ever experienced before in his life. He was suddenly drained of energy.

He looked over at Stephen, whose eyes had gone almost transparent. The silence that filled the room was suffocating and the tension pounded through the walls, but Stephen sat silent, lost, speechless.

Jasper just stood there, still shaking. Had he gone too far? Maybe. At this point he couldn't care. But he couldn't stay there and wait to be escorted from the building either, after all he still held the termination paper in his hand, he was still fired. Nothing had changed. He gave Stephen one last glance, opened the door and left the room.

He went to his desk and turned off his computer. His desk mates were oblivious to what he was doing, they all had headphones on and seemed to be studying their computer screens with their usually intense stares.

Jasper didn't want to call attention to himself by saying goodbye to people, so he just took his bag, his car keys and left the building.

When he reached the parking lot he looked at his car, the six-seater he had bought when his second daughter Ella had been born, and made up his mind to leave it there for today. Instead he was going to take a long and refreshing walk home. It didn't look like it was going to rain, in fact the sun was just behind a cloud and the wind was pushing it ever so slightly.

He suddenly noticed how light his feet were, like he had lost a lot of weight. Maybe he had, because it had been a very tiresome day. Still, in a way, he felt more energized than he had in a long time.

And the sun peeked out from the clouds.

THE END.

***

THE WORST/BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

This is the story about the worst/best day in my life. Well, it's actually a story about two days where my life quickly shifted between heaven and hell. Those 48 hours changed my life in ways I could never imagine and that's why I feel the need to tell you about it.

The reason my life was hell at the time was mostly Mary Pedersen's fault. You see, she stole my promotion right in front of my eyes and jumped several steps ahead of me on the corporate ladder, even though I had been sitting at that same desk, working overtime almost every day and stroking my boss, Jeff "Cauliflower-ears" Nicholson's ego like it was the office pet. But of course, I hadn't been stroking the part of him that Mary had.

Things like people jumping head in line doesn't happen without a reason. Or a treason.

When I got the news that Mary and her blonde swell of hair had been promoted Executive Sales Manager and was now supposed to manage me, I almost hit my desk with my head, but in the last second I held back, not wanting to grant my so called co-workers the enjoyment of watching my career hopes crumble right before their eyes.

Sometimes I had thought of quitting, but at age 44 my self-esteem wasn't good enough to throw myself out into the cruel world of young competition, applications, resumés and interviews. I simply didn't have the guts to. Besides, I had a family to support and had never been much of a risk-taker.

Another reason my confidence was at an all-time low was my failure to get it up in bed. And with it, I mean my limp loaf of a penis.

Any man having experienced this problem knows what I'm talking about. It's like your best friend in the world letting you down in the moment when you need him the most. You try to pep-talk it, you try to pat it on the head and cheer it up, but it just lies there, depressed and unwilling to rise to the occasion, if you excuse the pun.

This obviously affected my wife Holly who thought I wasn't attracted to her anymore, that maybe I was cheating on her or suffered some severe closet porn addiction. But none of these were true. I was as attracted to her as I'd ever been, despite that we both had gathered some extra kilos from when we first met. My problem was not Holly, it was my head. Both of my heads.

I simply couldn't relax. No matter how many tapes of whale sounds I listened to, I made Hitler look like a hippie. I was wound tighter than a piano string and if you plucked me, I'd snap.

My inability to take it easy had also created another problem, which was that my hair, much like my life, was running away from me. The doctor's term was receding hairline, which made me want to ask the doc where the hell my hair was receding to. Why was it abandoning me? I wasn't a pensioner. I was a man in the prime of my life (okay, maybe not my prime).

To add to all of the above, I was also starting to develop a middle-age man-gut. You know one of those hard bellies you can't exercise away no matter how hard you try? Although I didn't really try to be honest with you, I had bought a treadmill that I walked on every now and then, but it didn't get me anywhere (haha!). I guess all my afternoon beers and burgers were catching up with me, which made me want to scream THEN WHY NOT MY HAIR!?

The worst part of it was that I felt my kids were destined to take the same uninspired route. At that point they hadn't shown any interest whatsoever in excelling in anything and in truth they didn't seem to have much potential either and I was starting to worry that my little swimmers might not have made for a powerful cocktail. I remember trying to get Patrick, then 15 and with a ridiculous little stubble on his chin, to get into sports or music, but the only thing that seemed to bring joy into his existence was to sit on his chubby ass and play video games. "You'll never get anywhere playing video games," I kept telling him. Not unless you're desired destination is the unemployment office.

But it's not like my daughter Jane was much better. At 17 she showed every sign of being a hopeless, troubled teenage girl. She had more spots in her face than a pepperoni pizza and she was obsessed with rappers. Rappers! Guys with a myriad of tattoos, gold chains, and vocabularies the size of pamphlets. Who wear tent-size clothes and only mention women in derogatory terms. One dude I saw on a poster in my daughter's room had a sweatband on his bald head and an adhesive on his face! What's up with that? What kind of message is this for my kids? To tape over your acne?

The message I wanted to give my kids is that the only thing that pays off in life is hard work, but that was going to be rather difficult as I had just proven myself wrong. The only thing which really seemed to pay off in life, if you looked at the false and seductive Mary Pedersen, was sleeping with your superiors.

Mary was a go-getter, or let's call it a go-gettim, and always dressed in tight business suits that made her ass-cheeks bounce like basketballs in a sack. She had a full figure, slightly overweight, but with the fat in all the right places and which was what got all the men in the whole office look away from their screens when she passed by in the corridor.

The only person who wasn't looking was my desk neighbor Janice, her opposite, who always wore clothes from another era where the general style seemed to have been brown. Her lips had the fullness of a ruler and she seemed to hate me with gusto.

And I was fine with that, I didn't care much for her either.

Well, I was fine with that until I got the e-mail announcing that Mary was going to be my manager. It shook my world. I got so disturbed by the news that I started panic-clicking around at random with my computer mouse (not that I have another mouse), which in turn led me to click on a spam e-mail. It was for Viagra, so maybe it was my subconscious controlling my actions.

A few seconds and clicks later, it seemed like I had a virus in my computer. Pop-up windows of teenage girls in almost no clothing and text boxes announcing that I had won millions of dollars kept jumping at me wherever I turned and slowed my already snail-paced computer down to a standstill.

I learned in an stress management course I once took that when you're near bursting, you should get up from wherever you are, take a walk, drink some water, try to breathe slowly, count to ten, etc, and that's why I rose from my chair and with a few brisk strides walked towards the coffee machine.

Sadly, I wasn't alone at the coffee machine, there was also Tom, the office parrot. A man with the superhuman ability to always repeat what you said in a slightly different tone of voice. For example:

Tom: So how's everything at home?"

Me: "Same old, same old."

Tom (in his squeaky voice): "So same old, same old, huh?"

He didn't have much in that skull of his, poor Tom.

"Hi man," he said this time, giving me that trademark crooked grin of his. "Did you hear about Mary? Head of Sales. I mean wow!"

"Yeah. I heard. She's climbing the ranks." (I fought the urge to say: "climbing the cocks").

"Yeah, climbing the ranks is the word for it. Good for her!" This was accompanied by his signature smile that would make any sane person want to hit him in the face. I could also see that he had something stuck between his teeth. Something small and disgusting-looking. It could have been his brain.

"Tom, you got something between your teeth."

"I got something stuck between my teeth?"

"Yes."

Tom rummaged around his mouth with his finger trying to dislocate that piece of bread, fruit or whatever it was he had stuck in there. I wished for a second that I hadn't said anything.

"Is that better?"

He pushed his coffee-stained teeth right in my face and raised his head up enough to give me a good look inside his nose. Besides being the worst day of my life, it was also Nausea Day, where we celebrated boogers and decomposing food remnants.

It wasn't better. The piece was still there. But I couldn't watch him do another round of fingering so I said:

"Yes, that's fine. See you around, Tom."

"See you around!" Tom repeated, pleased as punch for some mysterious reason.

Stupid people had it easy.

I took my piping cup of sewage-tasting coffee and walked away from Tom, leaving him to find another man to torture.

It said "Obama" on my mug. It wasn't much of a political statement, it was just a gift from my annoyingly handsome and successful friend James who worked as a wire reporter in the White House and who I was insanely jealous of.

Despite not being a political ploy, my Obama mug did raise some conversational drama between me and my co-workers. Brian Depiro, for example, a big-chested and red-faced republican, always gave me a look or a wise-ass comment when I passed him in the corridor holding the mug. After which I usually told him to go fuck himself.

Talking about fucking yourself, after I had gotten my coffee I decided to pay a visit to the IT department with the faint hope of them being able to rid my computer of annoying pop-ups. The "guys" in our IT-department had very few human traits. Yes, some would say that the only thing separating them from animals was that they drank coke and typed on keyboards, although I'm sure you can find some half-trained monkeys that can do that too.

It's a strange breed, computer nerds. They're often above average intelligent, but their close-to-zero social capabilities together with a strong fear of work and responsibility put them at one of the lowest steps on my totem-pole of people, with Mary Pedersen being at the bottom of course.

I knocked on the IT office door (frosted glass so as not to see them not working) and after a second knock I heard a chair rolling and feet moving.

"Hi, what's up?"

Rick was not much older than 20, had more metal (piercings and braces!) in his face than Iron Man and always smelled like he had scrubbed his body with blue cheese. He was a "computer wizard" and I was told we should be happy to have him in the company, but he really was an eye-sore for the office. Make that eye and nose-sore.

I gave him a suspicious look and said, "Hi Rick. I have a problem with my computer. I clicked some spam by mistake. It led to a link which led to a link and at the end of the chain was porn and some annoying windows about online lotteries. Now I can't get rid of the darn pop-ups and my computer is dying on me. Can you help?"

"What kind of spam did you click?"

"I don't remember. Does it matter?"

"Very much so."

"Okay, it was about Viagra."

Rick posted an ugly grin, "I thought so. That's the one all middle-age men click on."

"Ha-ha, very funny. It was by mistake." I should have punched him for calling me middle-aged. And I probably would have if it wasn't true.

"Yeah, and the 100 gigs of porn on my computer also landed there by accident. Anyway, bring your laptop and I'll have a look."

"Okay."

"Nice mug by the way."

Rick gave me a sly smile. I wasn't the first Viagra man in the office, which in a weird way was kind of comforting.

While Rick pretended to work on my computer, I decided to go for an early lunch. It was a nice June day in Washington D.C. which meant the strong summer heat was holding off a bit and we enjoyed a light breeze. I would probably have enjoyed it if I'd felt better about myself.

Once a week I had lunch with James, who was the only close friend that I spent time with, despite that it always made me feel jealous of him and his life. We had been friends since childhood and had always gotten along fine, it was just annoying to always be the shorter end of the stick.

James was a nice guy. He dressed nicely. He was nice looking. He talked in a nice way. His wife Rebecca was nice and their son Todd was nice as well. This was also the main problem with James and his family - they were simply too nice. They made you and your loved ones look like a less well-dressed version of the Adams Family, and that's why I was growing tired of hanging out with James, he simply reminded me that my hair was actually going further than it's owner (me).

But no matter how tired I was of seeing his polished facade, we still had lunch once a week and there was no changing that. James loved his traditions and I had nothing better to do. My social interaction with my co-workers was pretty much dead. I had killed it.

On the worst day of my life we were sitting side by side on a wooden bench digging out of plastic boxes of food court-Asian: mixed rice, vegetables, and chicken, while letting the sun bask in our faces. James looked content as always and I felt jealous of him. As always.

"So how's the family, George? Everything peaches?"

I have never liked expressions that involve fruit except for the word "melons", but that was a typical thing you couldn't say to James. He wouldn't understand. He loved fruit and hated sarcasm.

"I don't know about peaches. More lemony at the moment."

"Why? Something's wrong?"

"Nah, same old, same old, except I didn't get that promotion I was hoping for. I've become the company hamster. Although the wheel is invisible and not moving."

"Aww, that's a shame. I'm sure something will come up, right? They can't keep overlooking you much longer. Maybe if you talk to them, tell them how you feel."

This comment almost made me choke on a piece of chicken. Tell them how I feel? This is not Oprah. This is business. If they want to ignore you they can, I thought, but trying to explain this to James was an obvious dead end. He was an eternal optimist.

"I guess I can try," I said to please James, but soon got back to my negative self, "but I bet it won't work."

"Well, who knows? I have known you a long time now, Joe, and I know you would be a great addition to any work place."

Then why can't you get me a job! You have connections! You have influence! Was what was pounding in my head, but what I said was:

"Thanks James, I appreciate it. How's your life? Everything good with the missus?" My voice sounded robotic and fake and I hated myself for it.

"Everything's great. Todd is having his violin recital at the convention centre this Saturday and he's practicing really hard to get those staccato notes working for him. Rebecca is doing very well too with her MBA. Now she really has what she needs to get to the next level."

James smiled. He seemed sincerely happy his wife was about to make more money than him. I admired his lack of scrotum, in some strange way. Not to say I had much use for mine at that time, I should have given it to him.

I pinched a piece of shrimp, stuffed it in my mouth and chewed it violently. Wasn't there anyone I could talk to? I mean really talk to. Someone who didn't think everything was "peaches" or generally fruity.

"So what are you doing tomorrow evening? Want to come over for dinner? Rebecca is doing her famous meatloaf," said James showcasing his bleached smile.

Every dinner with the "catalogue family" left me feeling more hollow and useless than the holes in swiss cheese (I'm sure they do something), but my wife Holly liked to get out of the house now and then, so of course I pretended to be a good husband and said yes.

"Sure. I'll talk to Holly. But I'm pretty sure we don't have anything planned." I forced a smile.

"Great! I'll buy some nice wine and prepare the Scrabble bricks. You have revenge to claim." James smirked.

Table games. The road to hell is paved with scrabble bricks and monopoly money, but James always insisted we play. Why we were friends was starting to confuse me.

The chess game ended with a bang on the chess clock, some pieces fell over and the two people, one tall black guy and one short, stocky Greek guy, proceeded to argue about what happened and how the pieces stood before the "accident" happened. Likely there was money involved, but the police car parked across the street would probably prevent the players from kicking up any bigger fuss.

I looked at my watch and pretend to be late. I knew IT might take the whole day on my computer, but I simply couldn't take any more of James right now. Besides, I had dinner to "look forward to".

"See you at eight tomorrow then!" James called out to me as I was walking from the park. I waved and smiled at him. Then I wanted to bite my tongue off for saying yes to dinner and more agony.

The computer was of course not ready when I got back to the office, instead Rick was out on a late lunch and I was left stranded and computer-less. I looked at my paper notebook where I kept all my handwritten to-dos, but I got so tired doing that I couldn't help but close my eyes for a while. I dreamt about being the CEO of the godforsaken company I worked for, of firing Mary Pedersen, of owning a large house with straight shingles and a large swimming pool, and coming to work every day in my Ferrari. I even dreamt of my penis standing up for me again.

Suddenly someone touched me on my shoulder. I didn't know who, because my eyes were closed. When I opened them I saw Rick. Looking amused.

"I fixed it for you." he said. "Had a good nap?"

"Thanks." I say and pretended not to hear his other comment.

I scanned the room and saw both Jennifer and Keith looking at me. I could only hope I didn't have the audacity to snore.

I turned on my computer and found to my horror...an e-mail from my new manager...Mary Pedersen.

"Hi,

As you've heard I'm now the Executive Manager of the Sales Team. Therefore I want to schedule meetings with you guys to see what your needs are, how you're doing, and what we as a team can do better. Just click YES on the invite and we'll see each other later today!

Regards,

Mary

Oh, like I needed to be reminded that she was now my manager.

The invite came shortly thereafter. The meeting was two hours later which meant I didn't have much time to kill myself before.

***

Mary was swiveling back and forth in her chair like a child when I entered her office. She looked comfortable in her new surroundings. Far too comfortable.

"Hi Joe," she said and gave me a Judas' smile. She had an unhealthy portion of red lipstick to match her business suit. I couldn't see her legs behind her desk but I knew they were stocky like Victorian table legs. She had curves and nice hair, but I was determined not to let that get to me. I was going to be strong and firm.

At least that's what I told myself.

"Hi Mary," I said, in my tough, I couldn't care less-voice.

"Have a seat," she said and gestured towards a pathetic little plastic chair. At least it was pathetic compared to hers. I was now sitting well below her and had to look up. I assumed it was all part of her plan to make her feel powerful and me feel ridiculous. She didn't have to work very hard for it.

"So..." she said, and stood up, showing off her full figure, which she had used so efficiently to get her (and others - hah!) standing in the company, "I have looked at your figures, Joe, and they don't look very good. In fact, you're now the worst guy on the team." Her warm look took an icy substance. I suddenly saw a business person in the woman I thought only worked with her body.

"What? Are you sure they're that bad? I know I've had a rough couple of months, but in general my performance in this company has been excellent, as I'm sure you know." I was suddenly feeling jittery.

"Joe, you know as well as I that sales people don't live on old merits. It's all about what you deliver today. And your results haven't been very promising lately. Is something bothering you?"

Suddenly her appearance changed. She looked at me with deer-eyes and I saw something close to "mothery" in her face. She really seemed concerned about me. I was almost hypnotized and couldn't really tell her that what was really bothering me was her and the way she stole my promotion. Thinking about it now, maybe it wasn't so strange that I didn't get it.

"I've just gone through an uninspiring period in life, Mary. It's hard to explain." Talking about my limp genitalia wouldn't improve things at this point. At any point.

Mary smiled and walked over to where I was sitting. Suddenly she was behind me and put her hand on my shoulder and said, "We all go through moments which we need to struggle through. You know I had to go through a lot before I got where I am today."

She said this like she had climbed Mount Everest. It didn't surprise me she had gone through a lot...of sex.

"But I know you've always been a performer," her hand gripped tighter on my shoulder, "so I want to give you a second chance." She released my shoulder and sat down on her desk, right in front of me, with a racy look in her eyes.

Second chance? What was she talking about? Had I fucked up so badly she considered firing me? And why was she so touchy and flirty? Was this a part of her evil brain game?

She eyed me, waiting for me to say something. I must say at that moment she sure looked darn sexy and I almost wanted to jump her bones.

If I hadn't hated her guts.

Whoa! Wait a minute here! I thought to myself when I felt my lower head throb in my pants - something I hadn't felt in quite a while. Suddenly, like a jack-in-a-box, my loins wanted to spring into action. It was quite remarkable and made me awfully self-conscious and destroyed any plans I had of showing my ruthless side.

"Cat took your tongue?" Mary said and smiled when I failed to say anything. She was toying with me. That bitch!

"Sorry Mary, I'm just not myself right now. I'm happy for the chance to show my skills of course. I know I can get back to good old style." I said, nervously.

"That's just swell," she said and stood back up again. Her actions were impossible to read. I wasn't sure if she wanted to sleep with me or thought I was a useless louse. No matter what, I still had a hard-on.

"Let's book another meeting, in two weeks from now and look at your results then. You should know I'm definitely a woman who values hard work and I'm not afraid to show it."

What? What on earth is that supposed to mean? I was shaking from nerves, but I couldn't stand up because I had a tent pole in my dress pants. It was as embarrassing as it sounds.

She walked over to me again and stretched out her hand. "Thanks, Joe. Let's get this ship up to speed again."

I took her hand and I shook it. "Thanks," I stuttered. Then I took a few, awkward and slow steps out of her office, wishing I had a binder or something else to hide my male protrusion.

When I reached my desk, I let out a sigh of relief. But relief wasn't what I was supposed to feel, because, in reality, Mary Pedersen had ridiculed me. She had turned on a fierce sexuality that made me weak in my knees and had played with my feelings like she was a cat and I was a ball of string. It made me slightly nauseous.

The remaining hours of my work day I just sat at my desk and stared at my computer. I didn't make a single phone call and I didn't get one either. I had basically lost my desire to exist.

And things weren't going to get any better soon.

***

Out in the driveway the Honda refused to start. The motor squeaked for ten seconds while I turned the key, but then it died. I tried again. More squeaking. I hit the steering wheel in frustration and hurt my hand. Fuck!

About 15 minutes and 45 tries later it finally got into motion somehow.

I was late. I should have been home at around 6:30 pm and it was already a quarter to seven and I was still in the capital, one car in the slow-moving line of many. At a stoplight on 16th street my phone rang on the seat next to me. I picked it up and saw it was Holly. The traffic light turned green. I put the phone on the seat again and pressed the gas pedal. The phone kept ringing and I knew she was mad that I was late and I could only understand her. I had been both late and in a lousy mood every day that week and she was getting tired of it. My mind drifted and that's probably why I didn't realize the other cars in front of me had stopped which made me crash right into the bumper of a large Chrysler pickup. Shit, shit and triple-shits!

We drove off to the side of the road to inspect the damage. A young redneck-looking man with a ponytail of bright red hair and freckles in his slightly wind-beaten face stepped out from the driver side. He was furious.

"Watch your fucking driving, man!"

I was too tired to do anything but give him my number and insurance information.

"Let's just get this over with okay. It's a broken light. Not such a big deal."

"You don't really decide what's not a big deal, asshole." The redneck glared at me.

Oh, God, I thought. Some lame troublemaker who wants to pick a fight. Which wasn't what I needed on a day like this.

I handed him my insurance papers.

"I only take cash."

"Cash? What do you mean?"

"You give me cash. 500 dollars should cover it."

"500 dollars? For a broken light? I mean my insurance will take care of this, right?"

The man stroked his goatee and smiled.

"You pay me cash now. Otherwise you'll be in trouble." He brushed aside his jacket to show me the handle of a gun. Jeeeeesus, I thought.

"But...but I don't have 500 dollars." I nervously fiddled around inside my wallet. "I can give you a hundred bucks and we forget about the whole thing."

"You deaf? I want 500 dollars. There's an ATM over there." The man pointed over to the brick building, a hundred-fifty meters away from us. I was suddenly aware that I was in a pretty shady area.

"Or else? You're going to shoot me?" I looked around for people, but all I could see were cars flashing by, likely going home, something I wished desperately that I was too.

"You can try and find out. But it will be less painful for you to just give me the money."

My head was throbbing. I hadn't had anything to eat since lunch. I was already late for home after a horrible day at work so getting robbed was just icing on the cake from hell. And I knew that if I obliged and walked over with this guy to the ATM it might not save me any pain. He might just take the money and shoot me - nothing was certain.

I studied him. He wore a worn leather jacket and loose hanging jeans, so he was definitely not working in an office. My guess was that he was in his upper twenties, but I had never been good at guessing people's age so maybe he was physically (but obviously not mentally) gifted 12-year-old. Anyhow, I made the assessment that he wasn't a completely desperate individual, so I didn't think he would use his gun. It was a risky decision, but I was in a strange frame of mind.

"Well, then fuck you," I said, turned around and ran to my car, opened the door and closed it with the speed of someone being chased by a bullet. I heard the man running towards me and suddenly he tugged at the car door shouting, "I'm going to fucking kill you!" and when I put the car in drive, he took the butt of the gun and broke my passenger window. Glass shattered on the car seat. I pushed the gas hard and drove off, leaving the redneck standing there among his own profanities.

I made it! I thought, my pulse racing. I quickly went from a state of shock to a feeling of gratitude. It was a close escape. The guy could easily just have shot me instead and I was insanely lucky that my gamble had paid off.

I reached our house, a white 60s townhouse in Arlington, Virginia (that needed quite some work on it which I never had the time nor the money for) at 7:30 pm after wrestling with traffic for a while. I was exhausted and in dire need of a drink.

I opened the door and mumbled "Hello."

Not a sound. I moved through the hall to the kitchen table and put down my laptop bag. I didn't expect the teenagers to be in, they rarely were, but my wife Holly used to be and I could have needed a hug right about then.

The house was pitch dark. Worrying thoughts raced through my head, but after turning on the lights I found a note on the kitchen table that read: "Late again? I didn't feel like cooking today so I took the kids out to Red Lobster. If you read this before seven you can join us, otherwise there's that meat casserole we had yesterday in the fridge."

Fuck. That casserole tasted like mashed-up sewage rat and I knew I couldn't force that down one more time, even if it was chased by a pint of beer. I needed some comfort food to make up for the shitty day I'd had. A burger or an oily pizza. And it was too late to come waltzing down to Red Lobster and face Holly who probably was angry enough for her face to be the Red Lobster. So instead I decided to head down to Tiffany Tavern, one of the Irish pubs in Old town, Alexandria. I knew I might get shit for it later, but I think the episode with the gun would explain my slightly irresponsible behavior.

The Tavern was packed so I took a seat by the bar next to a horse-faced girl with freckles and glasses, the result of an unfortunate gene-pool lottery draw. She was drinking a pint of Guinness and had beer-froth on her upper lip. Her glasses were so thick I figured she probably wouldn't need to drink to get drunk. She didn't pay me much attention though. Good.

When no one was looking I pulled my elbow up and managed to sniff under my arm. Yowza! Something must have died in there. But at that low point I couldn't really have cared less. I needed food, not company.

The bartender who was a young and sedated-looking man gave me a look and said:

"Eatin' or drinkin'?"

"Both. Can I have a cheeseburger and a bottle of Bud, please?"

He scribbled my order down on his notepad and talked to the other bartender who nodded and went back inside the kitchen. The Tavern has the best cheeseburgers in town if you ask me and since I was unbelievably hungry, I was salivating just thinking about sinking my teeth into one. I thought about calling Holly, but I couldn't take feeling like any more of a disappointment and could definitely not deal with it before I had at least two beers inside my vest, so I sent her a text telling her I'm sorry I'm late, that I had a rough day at work and was going to get a burger.

She was pissed enough not to reply.

Then I just sat there and listened to the murmur of people talking and thought about the events of that horrible day. The promotion Mary Pedersen stole right out of my hand, my humiliation in our meeting, me falling asleep at work after clicking the Viagra e-mail, getting threatened by a guy with a gun and finally getting home so late Holly couldn't bother with staying around. It was a whole bucketful of shit.

But soon a bottle of ice-cold Bud was placed in front of me and the first sip made me feel somewhat better, like the world wasn't about to end any minute. I let the frothy liquid roll down my throat. It was my simple treat to myself. A Bud.

I watched a man in a suit sit down next to me. He looked flustered. He had fair skin and light brown hair and his cheeks were pink. He had had a rough day too, I'd bet that in a second. He was younger than me, hard to say how much, but my guess was ten years. He put his suitcase on the floor and started typing on his iPhone with a distraught look on his face. When he was finished typing and had tucked the device inside his jacket pocket, I decided to start a conversation with the vague hope that someone else's shitty day might put more perspective into mine.

"Rough day?"

He looked up, obviously surprised that someone was talking to him. "You can say that. I was just fired from my job."

"Fired? Ouch! I thought I had had a bad day who missed out on a promotion and almost got shot." I chuckled in disbelief.

"Shot? Wow. Well that sucks too. What do you mean by almost?"

"I don't know how really, but I managed to get away. Maybe my shitty day made me desperate to try. It was stupid really, I knew the guy had a gun, but somehow I didn't think he would use it. But he smashed my window.

"Thought I saw a Honda outside with a smashed window."

"Yup. That's mine. Another spoonful of shit in my jar of life. So how did you get fired?"

"I was congressman Dirk Jensen's assistant. But today I handed him the wrong papers before an important hearing and since he's such a dickforbrains, he messed up big time and looked like the complete idiot he is. It didn't take him long to tell me to pack my bags."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, but maybe it was for the best. I kind of hated my job. He's such an asshole I can't even begin to describe it."

I looked over at Richard who eyed his newly received pint liked it contained the secret to his existence. I understood how he felt.

"Wow. That sucks. So what's your plan?"

"No idea. Move back home? Clean the streets?" Richard had a distant look on his face. He was officially in the basement mentally.

"You got any family?"

"Nah, I guess that's a good thing in times like this. I'm single. And this is not going to improve things."

I didn't know what to say so I nodded my head in respect to the guy with the even more crappy situation. At least I had a job and a family who loved me. Maybe I shouldn't complain so much? I thought for a second.

"Richard." The guy stretched out his hand.

"Joe." We shook hands.

"Life sucks sometimes, huh," he said, unprovoked.

"You bet." I lifted my bottle and we clinked our glassware.

At about this time my fat burger with a thick layer of Provolone cheese and a plate filled with hand cut fries arrived. Richard quickly looked up to the bartender and said, "I'll have exactly what he's having."

He then proceeded to tell me how it was to work for Dirk Jensen. I had a hard time believing half of it, but Richard seemed sincere. Dirk Jensen wasn't though. He was an old, raging, sex-aholic with a weakness for prostitutes and cocaine. Richard said he contemplated writing a book about his crazy ex-employer, but he was afraid Dirk would send one of his gorilla bodyguards after him. He had heard stories about people in Dirk's presence suddenly disappearing. Disappearing underground.

I ate my burger and listened intently to his stories. I realized again that some people lived more exciting lives than me and that Richard was one of them. But exciting wasn't always better, because now he was fired.

He turned to me after we both had finished our burgers and had reached beer number three or four and said, "Sorry, I've been talking this whole time. What about you?"

I laughed and said, "Well your stories are much more interesting so that's fine. I have nothing to measure up against that."

"You're selling yourself short. You were almost shot at and your promotion got stolen from your hands. Tell me about that."

So I did. I told Richard about Mary Pedersen and the people I worked with. How much I hated going there and never getting anywhere.

We had another beer. And another. And a few hours later we were pretty drunk.

At that time I got a message from Holly. I realized I had to get home and I knew I shouldn't drive in the state I was in, but that was the exact problem with the state I was in, I wasn't sober enough to make the right decision.

"Can I go with you?" Richard slurred.

"Sure, where do I drop you off?"

"I live in Bedford. I hope it's not too much trouble."

"No, no problem at all." It was of course a bit inconvenient to have to drive all the way over there to drop Richard off, but he was a nice guy who had lost his job to a complete asshole and I didn't want to let him down.

We drove off and I quickly noticed how shaky my vision was. I started worrying whether I was really going to get home safely. Richard had gone silent, but I could sense him giving me looks from time to time. I thought he was checking on me and my handling of the steering wheel and I couldn't blame him. I was tired enough to pass out.

"Take a left here," he said of all sudden.

"Roger that," I said and made the left turn. But what I didn't expect was a truck coming against me the other way and I had made my turn too wide and quickly had to divert from the imminent crash which led me half-flying into the woods, where we rolled straight into a tree, almost cutting the front of the car in half.

Luckily, we both had seat belts on and we didn't get more than an airbag in our faces and a slight pain in our necks. To add to the massive shock of hitting a tree.

After coming to terms with what had just happened, I straightened up in my seat and rubbed my eyes. I looked over at Richard who had his eyes closed. Had something happened to him? I unhooked my seatbelt, leaned over, grabbed his shoulder and said, "Richard? Richard?"

He came to life and looked at me. We were very close at this point, because I had to lean in to check on him. And that's when it happened. In the daze of everything and as the final treat on my smorgasbord of a day, Richard tried to kiss me.

Our lips touched briefly before I withdrew.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I glared at Richard who suddenly looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him.

"Uhhh...I thought you were into me. You've been giving me looks all night, you bought me a beer, you started the conversation."

Richard's face was crimson. Somewhere deep down I felt for him and his embarrassment.

"Sorry man," I said, rather firmly considering the situation, "but I'm not driving on that side of the road. Plus I'm married to a woman I love. I'm sorry if I gave some other idea."

"I really feel like shit now," Richard said, "can we forget about this and go home?"

That second it hit me that driving home would be difficult. I had only half a car and we were in the middle of nowhere.

"I think I'll have to call Holly." I said, wanting the earth to swallow me too.

Holly was already furious with me, but I didn't know what the hell to do. And her presence brought some kind of comfort despite her anger. It always did. Holly was "home".

She was of course furious, shocked, worried, and pretty much every other emotion in that direction when she heard I had been in an accident, that it happened on the way to Bedford and that I needed her to pick me up in the woods.

After telling me how incredibly stupid I am, she hung up on me. Not the kind of sympathy I'd hoped for, but not a completely unexpected reaction either.

The wait with Richard in the car was excruciatingly awkward, the drive with Richard and Holly back to Bedford was the longest ride in my life and the drive back home with Holly early in the morning had me considering suicide.

I hardly have to tell you that I spent the night on the coach.

When I woke up, morning light was pouring into the living room and I realized I was fully clothed and my head was breaking apart like pie crust.

I rose from the couch and noticed I was already half-an-hour late for work. I stepped inside the kitchen and saw to my surprise a young African-American man standing there, holding the refrigerator door and sucking from a cart of orange juice. He wore black silk underwear with skulls and a burgundy t-shirt.

"Hi," I said, not sure how to react.

He turned around and I must say he looked pretty relaxed for a guy I'd never seen before, rummaging around in my house. He spilled a few drops of juice on his chest and wiped them away with his finger.

"Yo." He had a really deep voice for being someone not yet in his twenties.

"Sorry to be rude, but who are you and what exactly are you doing in my refrigerator?" I hoped this came out authoritative and stern, but I suspected I was too hungover for that kind of voice.

"Ahh, you must be Jane's father. I'm D."

"D? Like in the letter D or D-e-e?"

"I'm Derrick. My homies call me D."

I didn't know if Derrick meant that I was a "homie", but that he mentioned me in terms of being Jane's father worried me.

"Okay. So, why you're not in school?"

"Our teacher's sick today so me and Jane are staying in. Chillin'. I just got so damn thirsty."

"So you're classmates?"

"Yeah." D smiled like he knew something I didn't. Which I bet he did.

"Where's Jane?"

"She's upstairs. She asked me to bring her a coke."

A coke at 9:30 in the morning? My respect for my children was fading fast.

"You can tell her she's not allowed to drink soft drinks for breakfast."

"Aight. I understand. Teeth and sugar and all that, right?"

"I'm going to take a shower and get ready for work now, Derrick, but I wouldn't mind you two doing something useful with your day off. Studying or sports or whatever you kids do."

Derrick smiled at me again. He probably thought it was a joke. "Yeah," he said and chuckled, "see you later Joe."

It made me sad that Holly had already gone to work without leaving a note or anything. My guess was that she was still livid with me. I had been out too long, driven drunk and trashed our second car. This meant that I had no simple means of transportation when it came to getting to work.

Could I really take the bus? I thought to myself. But I never took the bus! And a taxi would be very expensive. Especially considering I might soon be unemployed.

After a few minutes of deliberating I decided to ask our annoying neighbor Larry if I could borrow his car. Larry was a stay-at-home dad who ran some online business which allowed him to buy new stuff all the time. There were always boxes going in and out of their house, but nobody asked him how or why.

I showered and got dressed quickly and went over to ring the bell at Larry's.

It took him a while to open the door and when he finally did, I could see he still had his underpants on (the second person I met in his underpants that day). Only. And not boxers, but briefs. Something that looked like pubic hair was sticking out on the front. I got the feeling my neighbor might be a werewolf. A box-carrying werewolf.

"Oh. Hi Joe," he said, clearly surprised to find me standing on his doorstep at almost ten in the morning.

"Hi Larry, I'm sorry to disturb, but my car broke down and I need to get to work somehow. It would really mean a lot to me if I could borrow one of your cars."

I saw no point in beating around the bush, because Larry was the master of uncomfortable silences, the master of creating them.

"What happened to it?"

I didn't know what to say so I told him the truth, "I drove it into a tree."

One second later I realized that this would likely decrease my chances of borrowing one of his cars.

"Oh." Larry said again.

"I'll be gentle." I said and cracked an uncomfortable smile.

"You want it now?" Larry said, still a bit dazed.

"Yes, please."

"You can take the Chevy. I don't care if you smash that son-of-a-bitch into a tree. You might actually even do me a favor. Let me fetch the keys for you."

Oh God. The Chevy was a real piece of shit. It was full of rust and I hadn't seen Larry drive the thing in a long, long time. And it would be bothersome if somebody saw me park the monstrosity on the company driveway. I didn't need another dent to my dignity.

Larry came back to the door, wearing shorts and a t-shirt this time, and handed me the keys, "Just let me move my Lexus, so you can get out."

Then I watched him move his goddamn brand new Lexus from the driveway to the curb which revealed the ugly baby blue, rust-bucket duckling in front of the garage.

"You drive stick, right?" Larry said.

"Yes." I said, in a resigned voice.

The engine kicked to life after a few turns of the key and I couldn't believe my eyes when I rolled down the driveway in Larry's infamous Chevy. An abomination of a car. I waved to Larry and set off for the highway, feeling like the loser I was.

It didn't move fast, but at least it got me forwards. After 40 minutes of driving in shame and quite a few worrying clonk sounds, I parked the darn thing as far away as I could on the company parking lot.

I was late. In fact, very very late and I hadn't had notified anyone. My hope was that no one had noticed or at least cared. After all, I felt more dispensable than paper napkin.

But I should probably not have been surprised to find more obstacles lying in my path, since this was after all my own private hell. Sleep-around Mary was standing in the elevator when I entered it. She looked like a breath mint in her pastel green colored business suit.

"Joe! I didn't expect to see you in today."

"Hi Mary, well, I had a headache in the morning, a nasty one, but I'm better now."

This was only half a lie, I had had a nasty headache in the morning, but I wasn't any better. Not by a mile.

"You should have called or texted me. We had the team meeting today you know and I had expected you to come prepared."

Team meeting? Jesus christ, I had no idea about a team meeting.

"Sorry Mary." I didn't know what else to say. I was obviously a disappointment to her. And everyone else too.

Mary looked at me like I was an idiot, "I need you to send your report to me. I want everyone to give a status update on what they're working on. Leads and so on. It's important that we have these meetings to get maximum transparency. And I expect everyone to take them seriously."

"I will. I'll type it up as soon as I'm by my computer."

But Mary didn't seem to listen, "I'm sorry Joe but I have to give you a warning for this. Headache or not, you looked really careless and unprofessional today and I can't allow such behavior in my team. And I'm sad to hear you haven't even finished your report although I asked you to."

A warning? But I never in my life got a warning for anything! I wanted to blubber out like a baby. Anger had turned into self-pity.

"Okay. I won't disappoint you from now on," is what I sad after what felt like an eternity.

The elevator door opened and Mary ended the conversation: "I hope not. We'll talk later, Joe."

"Okay, see you Mary."

Then she walked over to her own magnificent office, while I stepped on the walk of shame towards my desk.

I got judging stares from everyone, but not one single "hi" or "how are you". I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer and proceeded to weed through my inbox.

Then I wrote my uninspiring report to Mary. I had nothing really positive to tell her. There were some leads I was following up on, but nothing more than that. I was probably going to get fired and I had no idea what to do when that happened. I was going to let down myself and my family. I was going to become a shell of a shell.

I went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and cried. And I never cry.

I sat down at my desk again but couldn't get anything done. I was lethargic. They could have put a plant on my chair and it would have been more useful, at least passing around oxygen instead of taking it.

When I drove home in the Larry's old Chevy I realized my pain wasn't going to end anytime soon. I had dinner with James the Happy Camper to look forward to. My life officially sucked more than an ant-eater.

Holly was trying out different evening wear when I entered the bedroom.

"Hi," I said gently, leaning on the door frame.

"Hi, you better shower or we're going to be late."

"You still angry?"

"Until you show a smile on your face or at least try to be more positive about things, yes. You look like you want to die."

"Uhuh." I said, my intelligence shining through like a diamond.

"Is that all you can say? Mumble shit like a caveman? What's happening to you?"

"Work." I said.

"Work? What's new at work? Sometimes it's okay and sometimes it's crap. I thought that was the usual ebb and flow?" Holly wasn't going to give me a break and she was right to.

"They gave Mary Pedersen the job I thought I was up for."

"You still think you had a shot at that job? I thought your numbers were down and I haven't seen you leave the house with a smile in ages? I don't even understand why you're still there to be honest. Why don't you send out your CV, talk to some people? Maybe James can help you?"

"It's not that easy. You know how hard it is to find a job these days."

"But Joe, seriously, that's how it always is and always has been. It's not harder to find a job now than it was five years ago. And you need change! I'd rather we sell the house and try to cut down some expenses than you walking around like the Grim Reaper. I hate to see you like that."

This is why I love my Holly. No matter how angry she is, she cares about me and she knows what I need to hear to get out of my funk.

"You'd seriously let us downgrade our living a bit so I could be happier at work?"

Holly gave me a look that I had to be joking, "Wouldn't you do the same thing to me?"

"Of course. I'd do anything for you, you know that."

"Then that's what we should do then. Now I need you to wipe that depressed look on your face and cheer up. You'll find a better job, you just to have a better attitude about things."

I looked at her stunned. She had taken charge where I had left the pitch. She was one amazing woman and I was proud to call her mine.

"Ai-ai, captain!" I said and made a salute.

"And let's win those board game rounds tonight, okay? I hate to see James's winning grin again."

That was when I went up to her and kissed her. She kissed me back and I held her tight and then guess what else happened? The man in my pants awoke and I pulled Holly out of the dress she was wearing and we ended up making love on the bed like newlyweds.

There was no Viagra involved. Just love.

Afterwards I surprisingly felt like a man again. Yes, I even felt like it was okay to be dining with James and his wife. And it didn't strike me as impossible to find a new job. My confidence was not what it had been once, but at least there was something there. And all thanks to my lovely Holly.

We went over to James' house in Holly's car and I was feeling strangely excited all of a sudden, like I could turn my wreck of a career around and it might not even require money falling from the sky. Or magic.

It was noticeable to everyone that something was different about me that evening over at James' house. I was making jokes, being more sociable than usual and Holly told me my eyes looked different, they were more vibrant and energetic - similar to the guy she had fallen in love with and not the two dead stones they had appeared as for a long time.

Was it the sex? Was that how badly the lack of it had affected me? Coupled with the broken confidence in my manhood and the nightmarish situation at work, maybe they had all served as ingredients in the cocktail that had brought me down to my knees. I put my hand on Holly's thigh and smiled at her. She was still my rock. After all these years.

"How are things at work?" asked James' wife Rebecca. James had apparently not told her they were beyond rescue.

"Oh, I don't know. I kind of hate the place. I'm going to start looking around."

"It's that bad, huh?" Rebecca gave me a pitiful look. She was a kind-hearted woman and the perfect wife for James. Some couples just had it all. Not to say that Holly and I were all bad, because if there was anything not perfect about us, it was all me.

I looked at Rebecca with as much of a sincere face as I could muster and said, "It's been bad for a long time."

"Why don't you ask around over where you work, James?" she said and turned to her husband, "with your network there's bound to be something out there."

"Damn right I will," said James. "We'll get you out of that place. I didn't know you were that miserable."

"Thanks James," I said, feeling elated that he finally got the idea. There was hope. Somewhere over the rainbow there was a place without stinky office ladders, Mary Pedersen's basketball ass and IT departments that smelled of blue cheese. There must be.

I won the scrabble game that night and actually enjoyed it. Maybe it was my refreshed attitude. Maybe it was just the winning. I mean, everything is fun if you win, right?

During the night I felt this electrical current between Holly and I that I hadn't felt in ages. It was odd. After all my fuck-ups, my complaining, my lame commitment to our sex life - she still believe in me and still wanted me and her faith somehow changed everything. It was like nothing else I had ever experienced before. I had been deep down in the gutter and suddenly I was soaring like some kind of (slightly overweight) bird.

Life, huh?

We actually ended up having lots of fun with the James and Rebecca. We drank a little too much, talked a lot, laughed a lot and ended up having a better time than I can remember us ever sharing with them before.

When we got home we were both drunk and laughing and kissing and behaving much like teenagers in love. We had sex again and despite the alcohol numbing the experience somewhat, it was still great.

So what happened next? Well, you know, things changed.

James actually helped me find a new job and his good word probably had a great deal to do with me getting it. Within a few painful weeks I got to walk inside Mary Pedersen's office and put my resignation paper on her desk. She had a look of shock on her face that I will never forget. She asked me if I would reconsider, because my numbers were looking up again by then, but I told her, "Mary, this is the end of the road for me. And after eight years all I can tell you is: good luck." Then I left her office.

With my new paycheck I managed to get a new car, well not exactly new, but new for me. And having less of a commute to work makes it easier for me to spend more time with my family. I have even gotten to know "D", who has become my daughter Jane's boyfriend and I think my baby girl is really happy that we actually get along pretty well.

The reason I'm in a happier place now is that I've stopped being such a pessimist. Things are not perfect, I guess they never will be, but I have a job I kind of like, Holly and I have rekindled our love, I have a stronger connection to my kids and now I don't want to throw up every time I have lunch with James.

Not too shabby, right?

My more positive outlook of life has also made sure that Richard and I stay in contact. What happened in the car is long forgotten and we have managed to build a solid friendship from our chance encounter. He has met someone and seems more comfortable in his own skin and I think him not working for Dirk Jensen might have something to do with it too. Lesson: we shouldn't let assholes like Mary Pedersen and Dirk Jensen rule our lives. We ought to be in charge.

That's one thing I learned during the 48 hours I call the worst/best in my life. Another thing I picked up is that misery and happiness can be very close and that love can be the deciding factor in which one of them you end up in.

I feel I'm in the happiness region right now. I hope you are too.

THE END.

***

THE WAKE-UP CALL

(Sample)

Read more about The Wake-Up Call at http://jonaswrites.com

Can you believe it? Because I sure can't. I'm on a blind date with Gwen Parks. It's really more like a "mute date" than a blind date, at least for me, because it would be hard to find a more boring person than Gwen – even if I looked at the Senior Citizen's Stamp Collection Association. She's close to giving me a brain hemorrhage and we've been sitting at an over-pretentious French restaurant in midtown Manhattan for 32 minutes.

Yes, I've counted them.

It's not like she isn't talking, no, quite the opposite. The problem is, she's not saying anything. I'm not sure if it's because she's nervous or just ignorant, but she just goes on and on, without a single thought towards whether I'm interested in what she's saying or not. She's also on a namedropping mission, talking about people I don't know, have never heard about, have no interest in ever knowing, and she's talking about them like they were mutual friends of ours. All I'm doing is saying "yes", "aha", and "oh" in approximately the right places while trying hard not to fall asleep.

I'm also trying to get drunk, having a more interesting date with this 200-dollar bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin we're drinking. "We" have nearly finished the bottle and I can't remember Gwen making a refill. But how could she, as she's talking all the time? When the food gets here I hope she stops her blabbering for a bit, at least while chewing. I'm starving both for food and more interesting company.

She's looking good though, a classy broad, this Gwen. She's eloquent, posh and dresses elegantly. Her short crème dress is flattering her slightly stocky, but nice legs and she has a gingerbread man tan, probably from a spray tanning salon. The only turnoff - except for her constant talking - is her mouth, which is covered in red lipstick. This makes her and most other women look like clowns. I know people have strange turn-ons these days, but making out with Bozo was never one of mine.

I blame my best friend Mike Kowalski for setting me up on this so called date with his bodacious blonde colleague. He says it's about time I find myself a good, reliable and intelligent woman, which makes him sound like my mother, or at least what my mother would've sounded like if she were like most mothers (and alive). Apparently he thinks Gwen possesses these qualities, although he ought to know that finding a permanent partner is a lot more complex than presenting two lists of suitable personality specs and matching them. I know this from experience, having had many relations, but few relationships - something which irks Mike, but then again, I guess he's just jealous about my good looks.

Mike's absolutely right though that my record with women is based more on quantity than quality, at least when you look at the intelligence and maturity level of some of the girls I've "dated", but I guess I'm not alone in falling for the wrong kind. Good thing I realize my mistakes and end them before they get too complicated, right? I wish Mike himself would've had the balls to do that, because then he wouldn't have stayed with plain-looking and open-legged Joanne (who I usually refer to as Ho-Anne).

There are many reasons I don't like Joanne, but to keep it short, it would suffice to say she's a bitch. This was clear to me from the first time I met her. I remember it like yesterday. Mike and I were at lunch when he announced he would be bringing someone to my party. I was shocked at first, because I hadn't heard anything about this date and he'd been single so long I wondered if he'd ever get back on the horse again. Average-looking people like Mike are usually not very happy on their own, because they don't get the confidence boost from frequently hooking up with new women, something I've done excessively thanks to my nice apartment, my platinum VISA card and inheriting my father's good features.

Anyway, when Mike announced he'd met someone, I couldn't help but think desperation must have struck him badly. But I of course hoped he'd bring a nice, friendly and down-to-earth girl.

Enter Joanne, who looked uncomfortable from the second she put her foot in my penthouse. She clung to Mike the whole evening like he was her lifeboat in a sea of unknown evil, but she didn't stick to him in a cute, we-are-freshly-in-love kind of way, but more like she wanted to make sure he didn't pay attention to anyone else but her. She whispered in his ear, tugged at him like a spoiled child, and hardly said a word to me.

They left early of course.

This was an omen for things to come. I guess I could have understood what Mike saw in her if she was very attractive – but Joanne isn't. She looks ten years older than her age (which I think is 32), her skin is as lifeless as a lifelong smokers' and her voice is coarser than a witch's croak. She always wears short skirts and tight tops, but the only curve on her body is her crooked ego.

As if this isn't enough in the minus column, I strongly suspect she's cheating. Not at Scrabble, but on my best friend. I'm 99 percent sure about this after hearing from Mike about flirtatious text message exchanges with other guys (she claims they're just friends) and lots of nights "out" ending with her coming home in the wee hours of the morning - two things that spell disaster for any relationship. And her appetite for the nightlife makes him worry to death about her, which he doesn't deserve, as I've told him countless times.

And what does Mike do? He defends her of course! He's so brainwashed by her controlling claws he doesn't see what kind of she-monster she really is. He's miserable and deep down I think he knows it. But why would he take my relationship advice? To him, I'm "Jack the dipper", a nickname which might've been flattering if I was still in college, but I'm not. I'm 35.

"How about you, Jack?" says Gwen and wakes me up from my thinking about Mike and his love troubles. I have no idea what she's talking about, as I haven't really been listening.

"About me?" I echo.

"Yes, are you investing in anything?"

Okay, the stock market again. The stock market and her fantastic father - two of Gwen's favorite things to talk about and coincidentally two of the most mind-numbing topics of all time. I don't really give a fuck about her father or the stock market. It's very un-American of me, but money bores me - probably because I have lots of it.

"Not really, I put them in the bank and fuhgeddabout them."

"Well, I thought since Mike's really into these things you'd be too. Anyway, my father thinks the market will..."

I fade out again. I look at her lips moving. They're nice and full and would look so much better if they could remain closed. I drift to work. How's the soup campaign going? How do you make soup sexy? Soup is soup. Maybe that's a slogan? Did I reply to Nicholas e-mail? I could sneak out my trusted Blackberry, but I'm not drunk enough yet to be that rude. I need to remember that this is Mike's colleague and try my best to control myself. But of course I wouldn't mind sleeping with her and there's a good chance of that if I just play my cards remotely right. There usually is.

My mind is an over-active hub. It's always on and the only way I can shut it off is by drinking a generous amount of alcohol. You could say I drink to numb the pain, the pain from not being in the place I want to be - at work and in life in general. It used to be pleasant to think about the agency, especially a few years back, when things were looking brighter than a sunburned blonde's bleached smile and I was on the cover of business magazines as one of the shining stars in the advertising world. Now I'm more like the captain on a sinking ship, running back and forth among the rats on deck, while trying to dodge enemy cannonballs. Okay, it's maybe not that bad yet, but if we lose another big account I'm going to have a friggin' heart attack.

I ought to book a meeting with my business partner and agency co-owner Nicholas Green, but he's always busy with his other business commitments, start-ups and partnerships. But I need that meeting so I better call him. When would be a good time? Whoa, my brain is in my Outlook, need to dig it out, need to focus on what Gwen's saying. Naaw, that's no good, I look at her breasts instead. They're nice and full and I wonder if they're her own. Yeah, they must be, they wouldn't be sitting up like that without a push-up bra, which I'm thankful for because it gives me an ample view of cleavage. I love cleavage. But there's bad cleavage and good cleavage. Too much of a gap and it's bad cleavage. How do you keep eye contact when a woman has cleavage like that? My eyes wander: eyes, breasts, eyes, breasts. Can she tell? Does she mind? She has a cute smile, but her face is maybe a little wide and round, which reminds me of some animal. Not really a chipmunk, but more like a teenage mutant ninja turtle, if that counts for an animal. Donatello, Rafael? Who were those other ninja turtles? Splinter? No, that was the rat.

As a saving grace from my whirring brain, here comes the food, but sadly in small, artistically challenged portions. I agree food should look good, but it doesn't mean you have to create art with it. I get so tired of these fancy, overpriced places sometimes, but you can't impress a girl with a Big Mac and a milkshake, believe me I've tried. Tonight I just wanted a plate of pasta, two bottles of red wine and a decent chance of getting laid, not this hollow conversational torture and cuisine le microscopice. But Gwen is apparently in love with everything French - the food, the people, the language and the wine, and that's why she's enjoying this place, where the waiters have thick accents, hairy arms and their large bony noses high in the air like they just suffered a severe case of cocaine nosebleed. It feels like we're in Paris and I don't like Paris. I've been there twice and never got across the cultural divide and the rudeness. Gwen even placed the order in French - something which got the waiter all sparkly-eyed and likely even more in love with himself and his country.

I order another bottle of red to dampen my growing irritation.

"Amazing right?" Gwen says, piercing me with her green eyes. "Don't you just love the way they serve the food here? Each plate is a treat for the senses."

She takes a bite of her white fish, chews it slowly, utters a lengthy "mmm" and looks at me big-eyed, like she's waiting for me to agree.

"That was just what I was thinking, Gwen." I lie, "Excellent choice." And I raise my glass towards her and as we toast, I lock my eyes with hers. I give her the Jack-wants-you-look, which has lured women into my arms since 1984 or something like that. I should have a sign or some kind of stamp made, signaling I'm tested and quality assured. (But sadly my love also comes with an expiration date.)

We clink our glasses and the way she looks at me I'm pretty sure I'm in the clear when it comes to post-dinner sexercise. I just need to stay on the right side of shitfaced.

I take a bite of food and I'm immediately disappointed by my rib-eye - ordered medium-rare, but definitely more towards medium. But I wolf it down anyway, as I'm now so hungry Ronald McDonald's left rubber foot would've been a treat.

I eat rapidly in an effort to focus on anything else than Gwen's squeaky voice and I wash everything down with my fifth or possibly sixth (who's counting anyway?) glass of red. I smile at Gwen. I smile at her because she's not talking right now and it makes me happy. Although while she's eating, I've noticed she has a very annoying habit of cleaning her teeth with her tongue. It's quite un-lady-like and doesn't suit her otherwise faultless style.

Gwen is also a slow eater and I think she spends more time investigating her food (besides talking of course) than actually putting it in her mouth. It's another annoying thing I have to bear with, if only for the chance of nighttime release. I have a lot of stress built up and sex is my favorite way of getting it out of me.

Tonight I'm even more tense than usual and with every glass of wine I'm getting more and more annoyed with Gwen, her constant talking and her uptight ways. I know I really shouldn't be drinking this much, but once the train has left the station, I find it hard to put the brakes on. Besides, I see no other way to escape the deadly grasp of Gwen's boredomia conversationalis.

I take another healthy sip of wine, finish the glass, re-fill and feel waves of exhaustion crash on my internal shore. I'm not in the mood for dinner anymore, not in the mood for wasting my time nodding to Gwen and her stories about her idiot friends and their pointless careers. I need to do something dramatic.

Gwen's describing her soufflé like it has just given her an orgasm when the thought occurs to me that Gwen is a 60-year-old woman stuck in a 29-year-old body. I laugh out loud. I'm dating "grannies" now - Mike ought to be proud.

"What's so funny?" Gwen asks, giving me a puzzled look.

I compose myself, down my warm glass of Hennessy XO and look her straight in the eyes.

"You know, Gwen, I've got to be honest with you. I'm bored out of my pants. I can't stay in this shithole any longer. So we have two options: I pay the bill and we go to my place and fuck like bunnies or I pay the bill and go home to watch a movie. Either way, I leave now."

Gwen's eyes expand and her mouth drops.

"What?" she says. "Are you serious?"

"Yup," I say, and look around for the nearest waiter.

***

Mike might have set me up on the date, but it's not Mike who wakes me on Sunday morning - it's Stephen, the father. Yes, Stephen is the only one of my friends who has a child, which might sound a bit strange considering my age, but it's kind of typical for New York - a place where dreams come true - not kids. Meaning my dreams don't have any kids in them.

Stephen has been dreaming about kids though, ever since I got to know him back in university. He's in a rock solid relationship and has been for many years, but along with the birth of his son, Jeffrey, that ship might slowly be sinking. At least according to Stephen.

The problem is that baby Jeffrey doesn't like his father, in fact it appears he doesn't have any connection to him at all. He cries every time Stephen tries to carry him, play with him or any other fatherly activity and it's breaking poor Stephen's fragile heart. This strange emotional rift has created a lot of tension between Stephen and his wife Maria, and despite many counseling sessions, the key to their happiness seems to lay in Jeffrey's minuscule hands. It's an odd and sad situation and Stephen has been calling me at uncomfortable hours to talk about it. For some reason he thinks I know what to do, a guy who never had a relationship lasting longer than year, and who doesn't even like kids. I do my best and try to be a good friend and listener, although it's pretty difficult at times. I don't cope well with crying men, especially not those with a faint British accent.

"Hello," I mumble from my bed into my Blackberry. The sound of my own sleep-broken voice sends whips of pain to the back of my head. This is not the best way to start the day.

"Hi Jack, sorry for calling you this early. I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I really need to talk."

It's about now I realize Gwen Parks is lying next to me, snoring like a bus driver. I almost swallow my tongue.

"Sure, I'll call you back in twenty minutes, okay?" I whisper, then I hang up and look at Gwen.

I've woken up next to girls before of course - girls I like, girls I don't like and girls I didn't even know were there. I'm trained in these situations, I know how not to panic.

I rise slowly from bed so as not to wake her up. You should never wake a sleeping one-night stand - be quiet as a ninja.

But it's hard to be a ninja when it feels like you're walking out from a car accident. My legs wobble out into the kitchen, where the sun instantly hits me in the eye. It looks like a fine day in the Apple, but I think I just had a bite of worm.

On the marble kitchen table stands evidence of last night's decadence, a half-empty bottle of 30-year-old, ridiculously expensive and tarp-tasting Scottish malt whisky I got for my 35th birthday since I guess they couldn't find a bottle as old as I am. It's called Glen-something and it's rich enough for you to coat your boat with it. How I managed to empty half the bottle boggles my mind and hurts it too.

I silently open the fridge, take two Evian water bottles and head over to my renaissance-inspired Italian bathroom. I need to shower off the hangover, along with some of Gwen's body fluids. Yuck. I pray I had the decency to wear a condom.

But condom or no condom, I need to focus on feeling human again and get the hell out of here before Gwen wakes up and thinks we should start a relationship.

Or talk.

After rinsing her smell from my body, I write a note to the snoring "granny". My handwriting is shaky and resembles that of a five-year-old, but it's got nothing to do with the hangover, just my handwriting.

"Had to go to work. Help yourself to what you want. Best, Jack."

My lies are usually better than this.

***

It doesn't matter how hung-over you are or who you slept with the night before, Central Park is always a place of beauty (except for the odd hobo and midnight robber). This is where my mind winds down after a rough night and when I bought my Upper East Side penthouse a couple of years ago, it was on the top of my list - to be close to the park.

I grip the thermos coffee cup in my hand like it was a sacred object and take in the green, as much as I can under my hangover helmet. It's a bit sad to ruin this rather serene moment with a phone call to someone as depressed as Stephen, but a promise is a promise and a friend is a friend. I'm just about understanding this and it's about time, because I don't have many close friends left, and the ones I have are basically in meaningful or meaningless relationships - meaning they don't have much time to hang out with me. Not that I have much time to hang out with them either, being a workaholic and all.

I take a deep breath and sit down on a wooden bench. I scan the surroundings, but my vision is lagging slightly and everything around me seems to happen in slow motion. It's Sunday morning so there are basically only two types of people about - tourists and joggers. Not far from where I'm sitting, two squirrels are arguing about an acorn. I like squirrels, they remind me of Christmas. I watch a male jogger run by, his legs so hairy they seem tattooed. He's old but fit, clinging on to the years by his fingernails or by the hours spent in the gym. A young blonde woman power-walks past me the other way, looking pretty in her pink track top and her iPod strapped to her midsection like a life vest. It's the rush hour of jogging and although this is not Los Angeles, people sure want to look good. Good for them and good for me - gives me something to look at. I kind of envy these people who start the day feeling fresh and healthy, but I can't for the life of me go out for a jog. I was never a big eater and the extra pounds stay off anyway, so I might as well do something more fulfilling with my time. Like work. Or drinking. Or sex.

I take a sip from my piping hot Americano and dial Stephen's number. Am I ready for a crying man? We'll see.

Stephen picks up and says: "Hi Jack, how are you?" like he didn't just call me in desperation. This is the problem with being too polite, you end up wasting people's time asking things you don't really want to know nor care about. Being in advertising for almost all my working life has taught me that there are times for sugarcoating and times where you go straight to the point. You have to be able to choose your strategy based on the situation. With friends I don't waste time on the how are you-bullshit if I got something important to say. If they're real friends you don't need it. But since he asks, I'm going to tell him.

"I've got a hangover from hell and I just slept with an elderly lady trapped in a young woman's body. I've been better. I guess you didn't call me to ask me how I was?"

An insecure chuckle follows. Stephen is one of these guys who doesn't know how to react when somebody says something unexpected or crosses a social boundary - it's a typical defense mechanism of his. Then he gets to the point.

"I'm losing it, Jack, I'm on the verge of losing everything. Jeffrey still hates my guts and nobody understands why. Maria is distancing herself by the minute, she's probably already preparing the divorce papers. Her parents think there's something wrong with me. Maybe there is. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be a father." Stephen is already on the verge of tears and pushing out the words in haste, like he's about to break down any second. I understand him though, it's got to be tough wanting something so badly and for so long and then getting there only to find out it's not what you thought it would be. I can sympathize, having worked my ass off my whole life to reach my peak at 33. It's all downhill from here, as Irish songwriter Paul Kelly sang.

But I just can't see Stephen and his childhood sweetheart Maria breaking up, I just can't see it. They are simply not good-looking enough to part ways at this stage, because they know they won't be able to find someone better. I'm joking. Half-joking. But I do feel that a break-up is close to impossible - they're just one of those couples who weather the inevitable storms. Although you can understand they hurt with all this crybaby business, especially Stephen who comes off as the culprit. He's feeling far worse than I do in a hundred ways, yet full-blown empathy is hard to find when you're really, really hung-over. I promise myself to do my best though.

"Fuck, Steve. This is a baby we're talking about here! Your son! I don't know much about babies, but I know this: they grow the fuck up. He might be feeling strange about you right now for whatever reason, but that won't go on forever. It can't."

"I don't know Jack. The whole situation is freaking me out." Stephen sounds resigned, but at least he's not crying.

"You're giving up too easily." This probably doesn't sound so convincing from a guy who's allergic to relationships, but I'll try it anyway. "You have been a couple for, how long is it now?"

"11 years," Stephen says.

"11 fucking years!" I say, loud enough for everyone in Central Park to hear. "That's history man – that's a serious connection. It's not something you break just by a couple of baby tears."

I smile at my own elegant way with words. This is where I'm at my best, saying what people want to hear, without necessarily believing any of it myself. That's the art of advertising, folks.

I continue: "You're just overwhelmed by the situation. I mean, there's so much stress involved in raising a baby, so much pressure." I don't know where this comes from, but suddenly I'm Doctor Phil, which should work on a softie like Stephen. "I think you and Maria need to spend some quality time together, go on a weekend trip, get a room, eat, shop, drink and fuck. Get back to the basics and find the love. It's there, it's just hidden behind all this baby-pressure."

Stephen's silent. Is he actually listening or just holding back tears? Then from somewhere deep down he speaks.

"Jack, you're a genius. I bet Maria's mother could babysit for a few days and we could go on a short vacation and really get some time together. I can't believe I didn't think about it before, but I guess all I could see was darkness, not solutions. You should've been a psychiatrist or something."

Stephen is now doing the I'm so grateful I'll say anything-routine and I actually appreciate it. I don't know if I'd make a good psychiatrist, though - I like the sound of my own voice, but the never-ending noise of other people's problems would kill me.

We don't need to talk more now. He's feeling better and I want to finish my coffee and meet up with Mike for a chat about my date from hell. So I wish Stephen the best of luck with his angry baby and we say goodbye.

***

My best friend Mike, alias "Cupid", is waiting for me outside our favorite Starbucks on Upper East Manhattan. I'm surprised to find him looking more tired than I do, and I look like road kill. But I'm also very happy to see him, as there's something very comfortable about hanging out with Mike. He's a safe card no matter what mood you're in and a great person to have as a best friend. We don't hang out as much these days because of his dedication to Joanne and the amount of hours I work, but I've managed to wrestle him free for a coffee today. He's of course curious about my blind date with Gwen, a blind date he's more or less responsible for.

Mike is almost always clean and tidy, but today his baby blue shirt is wrinkled, his face has day-old stubble and his gut looks surprisingly soft and doughy. I haven't noticed the weight gain before and it doesn't become him. Belly fat is okay when you're 50, but not before. He needs to take better care of himself and the first weight he should lose is Joanne.

"What hit you?" I ask him, "A train of donuts?"

"Very funny, Jack. I haven't slept that's all. You know I can't sleep when Jo is out with the girls (Joanne's loud and immature friends who I also despise) so I stayed up working all night and now I'm completely exhausted."

You see what I mean? Mike has a heart of gold, but balls of...well, let's say he doesn't have any. I go on the attack.

"You know why you can't sleep when your girlfriend's out? Because you can't trust her, that's why!" I say this too loud and get unwanted attention from a Pakistani-looking hot dog vendor across from us.

"I can trust her. I just worry if she's alright or not."

This is bullshit, but before I tell him what his real worry should be, we enter the doors of the green-white coffee chain. They're making bucks like stars these guys, because it's always packed. The good thing with this coffee shop is that I know my Americano will be made to perfection. Besides, I like the guys behind the counter - they crack me up. "They" are a trio of people from very different backgrounds: Richie \- a white rocker dude, Nick - a latino with a gold tooth, and Rhonda - a black woman with a big butt and a laugh that could scare a group of school children from across the street. Together they're always loud, entertaining and constantly throwing jokes at each other's expenses. It might sound like something from a Broadway musical, but it's just how life can be when chemistry finds company.

When Rhonda sees us walk through the door her eyes go big and she shouts, "Ooohhh, here come some extra fine customers! Whaddaya two gentlemen want? You looking fo' some big black lovin? I bet ya'll too weak to handle it," which she accompanies by a satirically sexy pose and a booming laugh. It turns a few heads, but I recognize many as regulars here, so they know it well.

"Nah, Rhon, we're just going to have two blueberry muffins and two coffees and be on our way. Thanks for the offer though." I smile at Rhonda, because how could you not? The woman is a laugh riot.

"Too fancy for our little establishment? I knew it," she says and turns to Richie, who's half-Italian and has more tattoos on his arms than I have hair, and gives him our standard order of one Venti Latte and one Grande Americano. He acknowledges it with a wry smile and starts preparing our coffees. As we take our cups and say goodbye, I feel a bit better already. The hangover has gone from a base drum to a gentle tap, which means I'm slowly but surely recuperating. We head over to the park again, which is starting to get crowded on a fine day like this. A group of Japanese tourists is heading our way, all of them with over-sized baseball caps and cameras hanging from their necks. The world is full of clichés. We spot a nice bench in the middle of the park boulevard and sit down. The sun's beating on our faces and I'm suddenly feeling hot, the alcohol starting to pour from my pores. Mike's already slurping on his coffee – he just loves those lattes. I hate milk myself and would never drink anything you have to stroke out of an animal.

"So, tell me about last night. Gwen's nice, right?" Mike looks like he's expecting me to thank him.

"I bet she's nice if you're old enough to have a hearing aid and can turn it off." I say, immediately putting any misconceptions to rest.

"What? It didn't go well?" Mike's actually shocked. He's a bit like Gwen himself when I think about it - he should date her.

"She almost bored me to death. She's definitely not bad-looking, but when she talks...gaaaah! I wanted to stab her with my cutlery! Always going on and on about her father and her friends. Who gives a fuck? And her voice, it's so horribly nasal it digs a hole down to your brain and starts picking on it like an evil woodpecker. That woman should come with a mute button." I'm exaggerating a bit, it's a characteristic of mine.

Mike's offended. He has this sad kitty look and I'm instantly sorry to disappoint him.

"So what happened?"

"We went to this fancy French place on 52nd street, ate some mediocre miniature food and drank some expensive wine. She yapped on about nothing and I made sounds to acknowledge I was still awake. After a while I couldn't take it anymore and asked her flat out if she wanted to fuck and then we went to my place."

"What?" Mike almost shouts this. I thought Mike knew me and my sometimes less gentlemanly ways.

"You slept with her?"

"Yes, I guess so, I can't remember the details. I think I drank half a bottle of scotch when we got home, got pretty drunk and the rest is hazy. All I know is I woke up next to her snoring like chainsaw. She can't even keep quiet in her sleep, goddammit."

"Wow," he says in disbelief, "I didn't think Gwen was that kind of girl."

This is Mike in a nutshell. He thinks the world is one big yellow submarine and that everyone has good intentions. I admire his positive outlook in a way, but it wouldn't hurt him to be a little less naive.

"Judging from the way she talks, she's not a girl, Mike, she's an old lady. And I've yet to know a girl who will say no to sex just because it's too "early". We're in the 21st century - sex is just sex, it's not a precious gift for women to give up." I'm a strong believer in this and have the record to prove it.

"Well, that's your way of seeing it, Jack. You've been with lots of women (Mike, on the other hand, hasn't), but you usually see the same kind of women. I thought Gwen would be a refreshing change."

"What do you mean the same kind of women? You think I only hook up with stupid girls?" I'm starting to get really annoyed now. I don't have a long fuse and when I'm hungover it's about half its normal length.

"So you're saying you usually go out with mature and intelligent women? I mean, come on! They're mostly 20-year-old wannabe reality show celebrities. Gwen's a lot more interesting than that."

I know there's some truth to what Mike's saying, but it doesn't mean I like it.

"What the fuck, Mike! I go out with lots of different women! And even so, I'd ten times rather date those hot twenty-somethings than be pussy-whipped by that bitch you live with. If I'm going to get serious with someone I don't want to apologize for breathing, ask for permission to leave the house and spend sleepless nights playing the exciting guessing game called "Is My Girlfriend Sleeping With Other Boys?".

Suddenly he rises from the bench and says, "Fuck you, Jack. And don't you worry - I'm not going to recommend you to any other women. You're such an asshole, you deserve to be alone."

While Mike races off in anger, I'm again reminded of how fragile he is and how easily provoked I am. I was never good at controlling myself and lately, with my work/age crisis, even less so.

I lean back on the bench and close my eyes, the sun still burning my face. I'll call Mike and apologize later and we'll be fine. We've done this charade before. But I'm starting to worry about what's going on with me, why am I such a dick? My mind has lived a life of its own lately, I'm having strange dreams, sweating more easily during the day, and my breathing is sometimes forced and constricted. Am I going through some kind of middle-age crisis or male menopause? Or is it just my fading career fortunes that are fucking with my head? I sit on the bench for a while, finish my coffee and let my head drift to work. Work, where things aren't going the way they should. Work, where I once was king, but now feel like a ghost.

This makes my headache triple in force, my chest is suddenly tightening and I'm feeling dizzy. I'm almost afraid to stand up, but after a while I manage to and I walk home slowly, step by step, while trying to push the dark thoughts away.

When I get home the apartment is empty and there's a note on the kitchen table. It says: "Call me! xox Gwen :-)" Her number is carefully written below.

Some people have no self-awareness.

***

It's no lie that my job has taken up most of my life and still does. I used to live and breathe advertising and the ad agency I founded six years ago has made me half-famous (in some circles at least), pretty well off financially and maybe also a bit crazy. When I enter the lobby of our prime location office, I almost always feel pride and excitement, because I built this company, I made it what it is.

Or at least what it was.

The agency, my life work, has caused me much happiness and success, a boatload of stress, a pretty grave unwillingness to commit to relationships, and lately also some anxiety. During the years I've sometimes asked myself, is it worth it? Is it worth coming home late at night, eyes red and stomach rumbling after another round of overtime, over and over again? And every single time the answer has been a resounding "Yes!". Nearing my seventh year on overdrive, it's time to ask myself that question again. Will the answer be the same? For once I'm not so sure and it scares the shit out of me. Because if I'm not who I am at work, then who the fuck am I really?

My three-year younger sister thinks I have an unhealthy relationship with work. She says I only care about money, which is a typical thing to come from someone who's desperate to call herself an artist. I don't know if it's the money, fame or success I crave or just a sense of accomplishment, but she's right in saying I'm not the most spiritual, inward-looking guy. We're very different, my sister and I. Raised the same, but very, very different. She's the aspiring artist and I'm the businessman, her New York is not mine. We're talking Brooklyn studio versus Upper East Side penthouse, art exhibitions in the Meat Packing District versus champagne get-togethers in the Hamptons, and flea market searches versus expensive super-brand stores.

Yeah, you wouldn't think we're related.

I'd like to say something about having an "unhealthy" relationship with work. What's unhealthy really? Your career is a BIG part of who you are. When you spend eight or more (a lot more in my case) hours a day, five to seven days a week doing it - you need to do something you care about. You've got to feel passion, commitment, and desire - otherwise it's just waste, right? Are you willing to spend all that time just making a living? Waiting to really live in the weekends? That life isn't for me. So I worked my ass off, saved money, started an agency with my business partner Nicholas and over the years I've made it hugely successful. I wanted to achieve greatness and prioritized accordingly. Relationships were contra-productive to my career. Starting a family wasn't in the equation. Keeping up with friends didn't really make the list - hell I didn't even know who my real friends were! I wanted to hang out with people who could be beneficial to my career and it turns out they wanted the same. It's a scratch my back, I'll scratch yours-world. I'm sometimes thinking how I could've done some things a bit differently and still accomplished great things, and I'm actually surprised some people have decided to stick by me, despite my emotional absence, my fanatic work situation and the person I sometimes become when I don't get my way. I ought to thank my lucky star to have a friend like Mike, but instead I give him shit. Man, I'm sounding negative and sorry for myself. My father always says feeling sorry for yourself is the road paved to hell, advice I've tried to heed all my life. But lately I haven't been so successful.

My own personal road to hell is currently walking through the corridor on the way to my office. I look down at my Blackberry because I don't want to be forced into small talk with my likely disgruntled co-workers. I don't want them to see my discontent and insecurity, and what I'm slowly realizing is fear - the fear of failure.

I manage to raise my head enough to say hi to my loyal secretary and assistant, Angela, before I open the door to my office. Angela has her hair done up in some kind of knot, which is sad, because her hair is maybe her greatest asset. When she lets it out you see how thick, dark and wavy it is, it makes you want to grab it, play with it and run your hand through it. I slept with her once, but I was too drunk and horny to think of running my hand through that beautiful thick mane and I regret that now. The "incident" occurred after a work dinner where I was celebrating a successful campaign, leading to a major account signature, by ordering plenty of shooters. After a while I was intoxicated enough to see no harm in doing my secretary. She'd just started and I can't really blame her for wanting to bed her boss either - actually I don't disapprove of anyone who wants to sleep with me, I congratulate her on a good choice. Sex is a power thing and women like powerful men. Anyway, we've never spoken a word of what happened between us, which tells me Angela is exactly right for the job. You need a hundred percent professional to trust them with your deepest secrets and I feel I can do that with her.

Stepping inside my large and luxurious office immediately makes me feel a tiny bit better. It's supposed to be the warmest welcome you can get to your workday and it's somewhat comforting it still gives me that feeling, a few years down the road. You see, I was always a sucker for the Wall Street movies, from Gordon Gekko to Patrick Bateman (yeah, although he's a psycho, you've got to admit the guy's got class) and I always wanted a nice Manhattan skyscraper office with floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, big expensive art on the walls and a large dominating desk, giving you the feeling that here works one of the most powerful men in the city. The view from here, on the 34th floor, is breathtaking. Everything in it is carefully thought out, has a price tag that blows your mind and screams POWER. If you're in a salary discussion with me and you're not intimidated - then I am.

My dream office was designed by my Korean interior designer Kim Song (yeah, that's his real name) after Nicholas referred him to me, following a release party for some new brand of vodka. I don't remember the brand, but I do remember having plenty of it. During the party, I told Nicholas I wanted the best and since he knows pretty much everyone worth knowing in the city, he of course had a guy in his mile-long iPhone contact book who could do the trick. Nicholas is a social beast and a great right hand man for any business, as he hangs out with the New York elite on a day-to-day basis. He sends text messages to Christina Aguilera, plays squash with Matthew Broderick and goes on weekly lunches with Anna Wintour. Nicholas gets our name out and the contracts signed, while I deal with the operations. It's a setup that has worked well. At least until I started to losing my bearings.

So after I got Kim Song's number from Nicholas, I called him up, told him I'd heard he was one of the best in the business and asked him if we could meet up to discuss my new top-of-the-line office. Our initial meeting was really a meeting of minds. I was always impressed by Asian simplicity and neatness, but at the same time I wanted it to be boastful. Not exactly an easy combination to achieve and that's why I needed Kim Song. We started by catalog browsing for materials, inspiration and furniture. At first I had the feeling he was hitting on me, being overly eager to touch my shoulder when we agreed on something, but when I got over that I realized the guy was a true pro and actually pretty much tuned in to what I wanted. In the end he came up with a masculine mix of technology and rustic materials like wood and stone. I can sit in my leather chair, sip on a glass of brandy, watch my Asian stone waterfall and still be able to control all the important functions, from LCD screens to window blinds, with just the touch of a button. And you'll have to look very hard to find a wire.

Describing my office to you makes me think about Nicholas and I realize I haven't seen him in a while. He's always involved in at least five different projects at the same time and doesn't fret half as much as I do over the agency's recent problems to keep major clients. Nicholas was always more of socialite than an advertising man and he probably has enough trust in me to think I can turn the ship around, which is a pretty scary thought for a guy who's at an all-time low on confidence and energy.

Nicholas and I were never close friends outside of work - he has his life and I have mine (which has turned out to be mostly work), but I'm thankful he's my partner because without him, his social networking and supreme ass-kissing skills, we wouldn't have gotten this far. I sometimes wish we had more of a friendship, but on the other hand I don't think Nicholas is as interested in making friends as he's into knowing the right people.

I sit down in my handmade state-of-the-art office chair, which set us back more than most people make in a month's salary and take out my little laptop and turn it on. The computer looks pretty innocent with the glowing apple on it (fruit often does), but lately it hasn't been kind to me. Most e-mails I get these days have some kind of problem in them.

I'm going through my inbox, replying to some, forwarding others and chucking some in the trash, when I find a message which makes my heart stop in its tracks. It seems we're about to lose another one of our biggest clients, a huge moneymaker for us and a soft drink maker for others. The campaign we did for them did not go according to plan, they feel we've abused their brand and they want compensation (we have a "if we don't sell, we'll work for free" guarantee - a great gimmick I came up with, which has now turned out troublesome). I feel my pulse race and then explode. "Fuck!" I shout out to no one and close the laptop lid with a slam. It's quite a smack and something definitely cracks, but right now getting a new computer is the least of my concerns. I spin my chair around and face the wall of windows. This would be a good place to commit suicide and a truly spectacular way to go - just throw myself against the glass. It would turn a few heads, stop some people in the street, make some people's talk for the lunch hour, but then it would fade, the glass would be replaced, a new executive hired, the incident forgotten and New York would move on with its business. I breathe in and out deeply and close my eyes. I need to have a whisky, something, to calm myself down. I turn around and open the left desk drawer to find Bowmore, my liquid friend from Scotland who has helped me still my nerves on numerous occasions. I grab a glass, pour myself a healthy dose and empty it in one sweep. It stings the back of my throat and almost makes my eyes water, but it does the trick - I'm instantly feeling slightly more relaxed. I have another one, thinking I'm like one of those 60's ad executives who always had a few glasses of whisky to get through the day. I understand them completely – the ad game can be pretty unsettling.

My minute of tranquility is disturbed by my phone alarm going off, reminding me it's a day of interviews. We're replacing one of our copywriters and being the control freak I am, I still like to meet all the new people we take onboard, again a testament to this company being a bit like my own personal baby. Besides, I love the interview process as it makes me feel powerful.

I put away the whisky glass and head over to the en-suite bathroom. I rest my hands on the sink and look into the mirror. Still beautiful, still powerful, I tell myself, but honestly, I have a hard time believing it.

***

The first interviewee is Matthew, a young New Yorker with quite an impressive CV. This sadly seems to be the only impressive thing about him and his appearance is the first warning sign. Matthew has a curly patch of dark red hair on his head and freckles all over his baby-ish face. In his over-sized blue suit he looks a bit like a schoolboy in a uniform, which is pretty much exactly what I'm not looking for. I instantly get the feeling Matthew isn't the kind of person who catches the shit before it hits the fan - he scrapes it off afterwards - and during the short interview I have with him, I never really lose that feeling. Matthew's voice is not unsteady, but annoyingly light and his handshake is sweaty and cold. According to the paper in front of me he's 25. I remember when I was 25, I had hair on my handsome face, a stride in my walk and believed the world was to be laid under my feet (I did some of it of course, but mostly ended up laying women). This guy, this half-nerd with unpolished shoes and a nervous laugh, could very well still be a virgin. What that has to do with his job application? Nothing on paper, but plenty in real life. I want to employ tough people, people who know what they want and how to get it. Virgins must have a pretty poor track record of that.

I'd of course love to hire a younger version of myself, as I thought I did the employer a favor by looking for work there. I was cocky, but at least I brought results, passion and hard work to the table. And in the end that's the only thing every employer wants.

Matthew answers my questions in the way I expected him to - I could probably have written his answers down beforehand. There's nothing original or interesting about him, which is strange for a guy who's looking for a job as a writer. Some of his work is competent his portfolio tells me, but I'm looking for a future star, someone who can unleash award-, and most importantly, account-winning ideas, not a person who's decent and happy to get a job, any job in the industry. And although he might have a slice of talent hidden under his red hair, he'll need to be talented somewhere else. Matthew's in the middle of a sentence when I thank him for his time and tell him I'll be in touch. He looks surprised by the rudeness of this, but if he's done his research properly, he shouldn't be, and if he didn't, well...fuck him. I'm not known for silky hands and Matthew's lack of balls makes me angry. I know it takes a while to find a good writer, but I've got no patience for these things anymore - I just want to get it over with. I drink another scotch before Angela calls in the next candidate, but it doesn't really help to dissipate my anger.

As I could've predicted, the following two interviews are even more depressing than the first one. What's wrong with people these days? Either creative director Jim has been smoking some strong herbs or the applicants must have sugared their résumés like donuts. I can feel my mood darkening and I shout out to Angela over the intercom to get me a second Americano to balance out the alcohol heating up my blood. I haven't had any food today and I need to get both lunch and some fresh air to function properly, but I have one more interview to get through before I can head out.

I look down at the next CV in the pile in front of me and I actually remember liking this one when I skimmed through these papers last week. Mindy Wallace wrote the best and most creative cover letter I've seen in a while and her portfolio isn't bad. And I have a feeling that if she can win me over in written form, she could also do it in the interview.

After a while Angela comes in with another cup of coffee, accompanied by a skinny dark-haired girl with a Mediterranean looking face, an olive skin tone (she looks to hail more from Italy than Kansas) and a nice light-grey business dress. She's definitely attractive and my mood lifts immediately. A promising start. I stand up, say hi, and greet her with my biggest smile and point to the chair in front of my desk. She has a confident air about her - she knows she has a good chance at this job and I like that. Optimism, no matter if it's misguided or just, is far more flattering than nerves.

It doesn't take me long to realize Mindy is the one. That's how it usually happens, after a while you just know. So I offer her the job on the spot, but I also try to save a little money by aiming for a salary lower than we really should pay her, considering the market value of the position, her previous experience, and so on. I study her face for a reaction. She has nice features, slim and angular, a bit like a matinee movie star. While I watch her, part of me expects her to burst into a smile and reach over and shake my hand. This is what I want to happen here, what ought to happen. I've had enough of a bad day already and prefer to get this over and done with so I can have lunch. But Mindy surprises me. Her eyes turn slightly downward in disappointment and she says she'll think about it.

Something snaps inside of me.

"Think about it?" I scream in her face. "What is there to think about? You come to one of the best agencies in New York (not really sure about this anymore), get an offer only an idiot would refuse and you tell me you'll think about it?" I inadvertently spit at her when I say this. Mindy looks at me big-eyed now, terrified like a deer in the headlights of a car. Who wouldn't be? Who'd expect this kind of tirade? But she composes herself, lifts her eyes from the ground, looks straight into mine and says with an impressive calm:

"I'd kind of thought you'd offer me more money."

I know I shouldn't take offense, but this is a rejection to me and I can't take rejections. It means Mindy knows her own value, she might have other interviews lined up, possibly even other offers to consider. I'm caught in the act of the cheapskate and I've got no way out but to bluff, to attack when she least expects it. Sometimes it's good to drink during office hours.

"Money? You think this is about money? I give you a bright future on a silver plate and you start talking about money? This agency is about passion, about pushing your own limits and the true art of advertising. It's the best fucking place to work in the industry and you know that. And we can pay you well - after you show you're worth it."

I give out a chuckle and look away, like I can't stand to look at her right now.

"I...", she stumbles.

"You know what?" I say in my tough guy negotiation voice, "I could tell you right now to get the fuck out of my office, it would be as easy as one-two-three. But for some reason I'm going to give you one more chance to say yes. Say yes or leave now." I give her a look telling her I mean business and I'm the one holding the cards. This is not true, because I'm tired of interviews and I really hope she takes the job, but I need to stick to my gambit.

"I guess I take the job," Mindy says, sounding more confused than happy.

I turn on my brightest smile (I know I'm acting like a complete lunatic here), stretch out my hand and say, "Welcome! I promise you you'll love it here. You can sort out the details with Ellen over at HR, I'll drop her an e-mail. Now please get out of my office." When Mindy leaves, she's probably as confused as I am after what just took place. I take a long look at her ass and reach for the bottle of scotch in my desk drawer and take a healthy sip, straight from the bottle.

I'm losing it. Seriously.

***

I go for lunch with my friend (acquaintance might be a better word) Russell at an Italian restaurant which is more expensive than nice. The prices are in fact ridiculously high, the service pretty nonchalant and the food varies from delicious to decent. But many celebrities go here and of course all the wanna-see and wanna-be celebs too. I'm no celebrity myself, not unless you're in advertising or read business magazines from two years ago, but I like to be around them. It makes me feel special. And I've got the money to eat here, which is good, because all this place wants is my money and plenty of it.

Russell is half-an-hour late as usual and I've already emptied two glasses of a 200-dollar bottle Amarone Italian wine when he arrives in his professional attire: a dark-grey suit, white shirt and pink tie. He even put time into gelling and combing his chestnut hair backwards, making him look more like a Wall Street shark than a real estate broker. This is in stark contrast to his casual attire, which basically consists of things homeless people wouldn't wear. Russell is a self-championed fashionista who mixes and misses more than he matches. He's always out of place and therefore always stands out, which is what he wants, of course.

"Fuck man," I say loudly and point to my Rolex Submariner as soon I see him nearing our table. A Gwyneth Paltrow look-alike at the table next to us gives me a look.

Russell looks guilty. He knows he fucked up. Again.

"Let me take a moment to teach you how time works, Russell. You see this watch here? You see how the small arrow is moving and the bigger arrows are still? Well, the bigger arrows move too! And they move especially fast when you're about to be somewhere at a said time."

"Sorry man," Russell says, "had a slow client."

"You sold anything?"

"No signed papers yet, but yes, I think so. They're an older New York couple who moved to Florida a few years ago, got tired of the gated communities and people reversing without looking and now want to get back to the big city. Jack and Jill - can you believe that's actually their real names? I showed them a townhouse on Upper West Side which isn't very modern, but it's spacious and good value if you do it up properly, and the look on their faces told me it's pretty much a done deal."

To be fair, Russell doesn't have to work much. Property in New York sells itself and through his father's agency he has enough contacts to always have wealthy clients knocking on his door, ready to pay a hefty sum for a slice of the Big Apple. Russell only has to show them where the slice is and take quite a piece for himself.

"So I think I have a buyer for lunch today?" I say. Paying for lunch is good compensation for being late.

"Sure," Russell says, flashing me his breadwinner smile.

My friendship with Russell is simple on the border of mundane, meaning Russell is like a Homo Erectus in a suit. We're mostly drinking and lunching buddies and rarely meet without an unhealthy dose of alcohol, although I always seem to be around alcohol these days. He's younger, more energetic, and still very much in the fast lane of things. We're probably too alike to be closer friends, the difference being that, while I worked my ass off to get here, he got everything pretty much served on a silver plate. This might sound like I'm jealous, and yes, sometimes I am.

Most of our conversations revolve around things we like to buy or women we like to bone, which is Russell's caveman expression for it. We don't really discuss politics, sports, or any other topics, except for maybe real estate. It's a shallow friendship and it would bore me to death to hang out with him on a more permanent basis, but for hitting the nightclubs he's the best friend you can get. I always had a natural talent for meeting women, but Russell's one level above me, he's born for it.

I tell Russell about Mindy, concentrating on the hotness and not the breakdown I had in the end of the interview, as I'm still trying to figure out what the hell happened there.

"She sounds interesting. I like the dark hair. Kansas girl, you say? Reminds me of Nicki, you know that girl with the boyish haircut? Fantastic body and crazy as a coked-up rabbit in bed. We had some good times. Why don't you invite this Mindy out for a drink?"

"I don't know man, I've been there, done that. I don't sleep around with people at work anymore."

Russell looks to the side, over at the Paltrow look-alike and says "true", but I can tell he's not really listening. This kind of common sense wisdom is very difficult to impart on a shallow brain like Russell's. He picks up his glass, sniffs the wine and looks at me and says: "Well, if you don't want her, maybe you can set me up?"

I quickly regret having mentioned Mindy, as Russell's hornier than a Viagra-popping rabbit. He's one of those guys who writes every girl down in a notebook and rates her. But he wouldn't admit it to me, as I think he still looks up to me somewhat.

I want to stop where this conversation's going and say: "Yeah, we'll see. Maybe." And then I change the subject to Russell's new Bugatti. It's not a very interesting topic and I soon realize how bored I am with guys like Russell - they never have anything interesting or important to say, and today, for whatever reason, Russell seems more distracted than usual and doesn't get into his somewhat entertaining, "girls I slept with recently"-routine. Instead he keeps thumbing away on his iPhone from time to time. We finish our octopus angel-hair pasta and the bottle of wine and when we've left the restaurant he says:

"Did you see Gwyneth Paltrow over there? Man, she's still hot!"

***

It's seven o'clock and I haven't had anything to eat except a Snickers bar since my lunch with Russell. I need food and I don't feel like eating alone. I run through my options.

Stephen's out of the question. I don't want to hang out with people who have bigger problems than me - the person needs to cheer me up, not the other way around. Mike's stapled to Joanna and I'm 99 percent sure he won't be able to come, so I'm not even going to bother calling him. Russell again? No way, I got enough of him at lunch. Don't I have any more close friends? Can I really count them on one, feeble hand? Wow, that's kind of... sad.

Then I come to think of Karen, my sister, who I haven't talked to in weeks, although she lives in the same city. My little sister and I don't have a very good brother-sister relationship and I think part of her actually resents me for never being the caring big brother I ought to have been because of my one-track mind focused on success. I don't really know if Karen needed any brotherly assistance though, like our mother she grew up to be pretty tough and independent in a family where everyone's his or her own island. The Reynolds were never Family Ties material (you know that show with a young Michael J. Fox where everybody says they love each other all the time?), we were all occupied working on our own projects, hobbies and careers, something that of course meant there was little quality family time. I'm actually not really sure what family time means.

I never thought about these things until my mother passed away four years ago from lung cancer. 40 years of smoking at least one pack of cigarettes a day did that to her and in the end her throat was red like a stop sign, and the cancer looked you right in the face as you talked to her.

I actually thought my mother's fight with cancer would bring the family together, because death should do that, right? But although we all cried, drank and talked about her, we quite casually went on with our lives afterwards. My father moved from his beloved Boston to start a new life in Miami and Karen and I stayed in New York, where we quickly drifted apart again.

I have recently started to wish we were different.

"Hi sis!" I say, trying to sound energetic.

"Hi," Karen's voice is low and slightly wooden, I can tell she didn't expect this call, but that doesn't mean she's overjoyed about it either.

"So, what's up? Painting?" I sound stupid of course. This timid, "what are you doing"-talk, is not really me and my sister knows it.

"No, I'm waiting for Dylan. We're going to watch a movie."

Dylan is Karen's band-playing emo-boyfriend (you know, guys who think life is against them from the start, listen to depressive music and try to cover their face with hair), and I can't stand guys who play in bands. He's far from the type of dude I'd hang out with, which means he's probably a good match for Karen.

"What are you watching?"

"A Spanish drama, not really something you'd like." Karen's right, she knows I'm not very interested in small European films.

"Aha, okay. I just wanted to check on you. Everything's good?" I'm grasping at straws here - the idea of the loving and caring brother is something I could have sold ten years ago maybe. Not now.

"Yeah, I guess. I sold a painting a few days ago, through my blog. It's great to get some extra money. And Dylan got a few more gigs."

These gigs are usually played at half-empty bars in out of way-locations and I'm pretty sure Dylan isn't destined towards musical greatness, but what do I know?

"Okay, that's good. Progress!"

The word progress is a heritage from my father, his life motto and the one word he really wanted us to believe in.

"Yep, some progress, I guess," Karen says.

"You heard from dad?"

Our father is a standard item of our conversations. Neither Karen nor I are good at calling him though and he's not world champion at staying in touch with us either.

"We talked, let's see, maybe three weeks ago? He told me about his new girlfriend, a girl he's been seeing for a few months now. She's young, about my age and her name is Melody. Can you believe that? It's probably some porn star or something."

Karen's obviously disgusted by the thought of our father dating girls half his age, but he has always been a ladies man and he's good looking for being 60 with this "permanent" tan (he has his own tanning bed in the basement), a good physique and a thick wallet. So I'm not really surprised he's met someone named Melody.

In the background I hear a door slam. It's probably Dylan, back from a "gig".

"Ha-ha," I laugh, "you know how dad is. You got me curious now, I should call and check on him."

"You do that, Jack. I'm going to start watching this movie now, but we can talk some other time, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I'll call you. Take it easy, sis."

"Sure, I will. Bye."

"Bye."

The silence after that bye is a long silence. I don't know what I'd hoped for, but grabbing a beer with my sister wouldn't have been too shabby.

I look up at the sky and feel the first drops of rain hit my shoulder. Around me people are rushing off to their after-work beers, homes, wives, kids, dogs, roommates, and I'm standing on the pavement holding my cellphone hard like it's the only friend I've got. I must be extremely lonely, because in the end I actually decide to call Russell anyway, as he's the only guy I can think of who would be free to have a drink on such short notice.

"Yo," Russell replies.

"Hi," I say. "Drinks?"

"No time for that, bro. Got a date."

"A date? Why didn't you tell me at lunch?"

"Didn't know about it then." Russell says, sounding stressed.

"So you just scheduled a date in the afternoon? How did that happen? You walked into someone in the street?"

I say this but think: Shit, this guy is good!

"Yeah, pretty much. No time for details now. Got to go."

Russell's ready to hang up - he apparently has better places to be than talking to me.

"Okay. Talk later then."

"See ya."

Click.

So here I am alone. Everybody's watching movies, saving marriages, and dating while I'm walking around the city in a slight drizzle with a headache and a rumbling belly. I can't recall feeling this miserable in a long time. The rain's pouring heavier by the minute and I look at the sky in disbelief. I need to get under a roof and run across the street and into a Borders bookstore. I haven't been in a bookstore in a long time. Although they're not really bookstores anymore, they're social interaction centers serving coffee and muffins, which is good, because I'm starving.

I walk upstairs to the Borders café and look around. People are scattered about at small tables, playing with their iPads, typing on their laptops, sharing a coffee or reading a book. It looks like such a lonely place I instantly feel even more depressed.

I stand in line behind an old man in a tweed jacket. He emits a rancid smell and I'm trying to block my nostrils and focus on what sandwich I want instead. Suddenly I'm at the front of the line, but the pimple-faced and pig-nosed girl taking my order doesn't exactly raise my spirits. I order a chicken cranberry baguette, a bottle of still water and a large Americano. I pay and move to the side for my seventh coffee of the day.

The wait is longer than usual for just an Americano and I'm starting to feel impatient when the pig-nosed girl shows up again. With a Cappuccino.

"I ordered an Americano," I say, holding up my lactose-infested cup for her to see. "They don't contain milk." I give her a stern look.

"Oh. I heard you say Cappuccino," she says.

The pig's apparently deaf and uninformed about the phrase "the customer is always right". I sigh loudly.

"I said Grande Americano. Now can you please just get me one."

"Ok," she says, clearly annoyed and snatches the cup from my hands so fast the cup tumbles over and a sliver of coffee spills out through the breathing hole (because you can't really drink from that hole) and onto my hand. The piping hot coffee burns my fingers and stains my blue Dolce Gabbana shirt.

"Fuck!" I cry out.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir!" The pig's frantic now. "Sorry, it just slipped out of my hands."

"I think your job just slipped out of your hands," I say, while trying to wipe the coffee off of my shirt.

"I'm going to talk to your manager about this," I continue, squeezing out what could likely be the lamest line of all time. Still, like a reflex, I say it.

I feel the whole room looking at me, but the heart-breaking silence is soon replaced with the background noise of thunder and even heavier rain hitting the window, and that's kind of the drop, if you excuse the pun.

It's the second time that day I want to jump through a window, but instead I sit down with my stained shirt and my tasteless baguette and just soak in all the self-pity and loathing.

***

The next day at work I find the new employee, Mindy, in the company lobby. She looks excited and she should be. Maybe the success of getting a job with us has sunken in. She rises from the chair and I stretch out my hand.

"Good morning, Molly," I say, intentionally the wrong name. She has to understand how hard she needs to fight to win my respect.

"Mindy," she corrects me. She's slightly offended I didn't remember it. Good.

"My assistant Angela will set you up with everything you need, take 15 minutes to look through the company manual - that's our bible, the IT-guys will provide you with a new computer and we'll have Jim over there - I point to the young and red-headed creative director I got very cheaply two years ago - will give you all the background and briefs you need to get started." I look her in the eyes and smile.

Then from somewhere deep down in Desperation Land, I say this:

"I suggest you and I have lunch. Let's meet 12:15 outside the office. I'll have Angela reserve a table for us." I say this, but I don't really know why I'm saying it. It just struck me as a good idea all of a sudden. Maybe it's Mindy's looks that's doing this to me, because she's absolutely stunning today in a black mid-length business skirt and a white shirt, or maybe I'm just lonely.

"Sounds good," Mindy says, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't.

***

Before my lunch with the attractive, but likely confused Mindy, I have a very important client meeting with the angry soft drink company who made my heart stop earlier. The campaign we did for them was a fiasco and ended up costing them a small fortune with nothing to show for it. The sales are down and the surveys they've conducted show their customers didn't like it. We screwed up and they're right to blame us. It wasn't a very inspired project for some reason and I should maybe have been more in control, but I can't really remember when I was in control last.

But there's no point in dwelling in the past, now I need to save our asses and make the fizzy fuzzy people believe they'll win in the long run. My first job, therefore, is to explain to their chief marketing officer, Brian Anderson, that we're not yet in the long term and it will take more campaigns and more work to get the brand and sales boost we promised. I have my work cut out for me, because you can't really explain patience to marketing people. It's all in the numbers.

The meeting's ugly, Brian's ugly and Brian's furious. His face is pink from all the screaming he's been doing and together with his curly, blond hair it makes him look a bit like a giant, angry baby who someone forgot to feed.

Brian's been "kind" enough to bring his laptop and we're looking at before-and-after figures, once approved TV commercials and the tagline they've now realized aren't aligned with their brand platform. He goes on to shout in my face that they're thinking of suing us. But you can't really sue someone for doing a bad job can you? Well, this is America so who knows?

My head's spinning and I need oxygen. Brian isn't giving me any, although I'm doing my best to sound understanding, when what I really want to do is punch him in the face. But I can't, because it's not what professionals do and although my track record of professionalism hasn't been great lately, I desperately need to be on my best behavior here. So I tell him, in a nice way, that I find it odd he thinks there are a lot of problems with our ideas, ideas he and the rest of the soft drink people first thought fantastic.

This results in more shouting in my face and I'm sure Brian's face is bound to pop like a ripe zit. But it doesn't and when he's calmed down we agree that according to contract and our sales message, we'll do the next campaign for free, as compensation for the bad results. I agree to this because I really need Brian and his company. Losing the account could be the final nail in our coffin.

When Brian's followed out by Angela he throws a typical asshole remark, just before saying goodbye. He says, "make sure you get it right this time," and then turns around to give me his fake, fat-faced smile. He knows he won this battle and he's smug about it too. I briefly picture myself running after him and kicking him in his chubby ass, but it's just a fantasy. Brian is today's winner and I just need to make sure I don't need to see his red face in my office ever again. It's sad in a way that an idiot like Brian can be in charge of something so important in such a big and successful company, but that's how it goes in this business, or in any business - you don't exactly need to be the great Lord Nelson to be steering the ship.

When our tense and disturbing meeting is over, I'm exhausted and broken. My hands are shaking and my face is burning. Not a great preamble to my lunch date.

***

Mindy's quiet during our walk to the restaurant. I'm not really in a talking mood either after my fight with the red-faced retard. I need a hardcore drink to clear my head. I of course also understand her reluctance to shoot the breeze - I must've made quite an impression for all the wrong reasons. I don't want to apologize though, because I prefer to be intimidating than to come off as a nutcase with a temper problem, which might be closer to the truth.

I try to ask her some random personal questions to loosen her up, to at least get on talking terms. How does she like New York, does she have any hobbies, and so on. She says she's into yoga (which spells "limber body" to me), she likes to read books and has two chubby cats living with her. Cats are the sign of lonely women, so I feel slightly hopeful she's single and approachable. There's nothing better than women to take my mind of myself.

As this is a kind of date in my twisted mind, we go to one of my favorite American Noveau restaurants. I want to impress Mindy and the splendid mix of French and Italian food, along with a spectacular goose liver pate, should do the trick. Angela has booked us my favorite window table and as we sit down I immediately order two pre-lunch Martinis. God knows I need at least one.

"Sorry, but I'd rather just drink water." Mindy laughs nervously at the proposal of starting her first working day with a cocktail. She's obviously a rookie.

"But it's only one drink! And we're celebrating!" I give her what can maybe be interpreted as a crazy look, unintentionally so.

Mindy's surprised by my sudden change in moods - from asshole to suitor in one go.

"What are we celebrating?" she says.

"That you joined us of course! It's a welcome in liquid form. All good things come in liquid form." I chuckle at my own joke, which is bad and makes me sound like an alcoholic. And it's dawning on me that it might actually be true.

"Yes, but I want to stay alert during the first day and I'm not really good at handling alcohol," Mindy says.

"But it's only one drink," I beg, now a bit excited by the possibility she might not be able to handle it.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Mindy says, sounding a little irritated by my nagging.

"Ok," I say grumpily, "that means one more for me."

I should have guessed Mindy was going to be a sober bore. She had some of the characteristics and it also fitted in with my recent streak of bad luck.

I decide to drink anyway and forget about my dreamed-up chances of lunchtime intercourse. Mindy's locked up like a clam and as soon as I try to get a bit private with her she crawls back into her shell. It's good to be professional, but it can really be a buzz-kill as well. Mindy's closed-ness sadly leads me to be the narcissist I can be and I end up talking about myself for basically the entire lunch. Mindy stays polite and pretends to listen to everything and deep down I feel so lonely I actually appreciate her bored company.

Problem is, I soon get a little too intoxicated for my own good. I'm on my third glass of wine (to add to the two martinis) when I suddenly get the feeling I desperately need her to open up a bit for us to get just a little closer. So I cross the line and ask her if she has a boyfriend. It doesn't come out as casually as it was intended and she looks a bit taken aback, but says yes, she has, his name is Todd and they're engaged.

I make a disappointed slur and finish my third glass of wine. "Shame on a fine girl like you. We could've really hit it off." I look out the window. It's a sunny day and yet I feel like it's raining on me.

Mindy must be shocked at my audacity. I've broken every rule in the book and she's likely considering some kind of legal action. She drinks her water and looks like she wants the glass to swallow her and spit her out as far away from me as possible.

I know how she feels.

END OF SAMPLE.

Get the complete The Wake-Up Call at http://jonaswrites.com/my-books/

***

HOLLYWOOD ASS.

(SAMPLE)

It took me quite a while to make up my mind on whether I was going to write this book or not. I knew I had a story to tell, that it was something out of the ordinary and thanks to diligent diary-keeping during the time it happened, I had the material. But then I had other things to take into consideration: could I mention real names? Would I be able to do the story justice? Would B, the famous actress I had worked for and the main character in this book, give her consent?

There were loads of question marks, but in the end I only needed one answer and it was B's encouragement to get the story told. She said she preferred it from getting a half-assed biography written by some ghostwriter who didn't know her and she liked that it was more about our friendship than her fame. It was a gutsy move on her part, because this story tells you about the most trying time in her life, a time where she hit rock bottom in her personal life, made a fool out of herself in front of millions of viewers and fans and experienced a close shave with death. I can't express enough how thankful I am to her for not only allowing me, but also helping me, tell it.

Because it is in many ways our story. And I have tried to treat it with the respect it deserves by not mentioning real names. I think it would make it more about their fame and the careers, and not the lives and events around them.

I wrote this book not only because I think it's an interesting tale about people's struggle with fame and relationships, but also because it has something to say about life and how unpredictable and magical it can be. It's a story I hope my future kids will read to get to know me better, because I think it teaches them exactly what my parents taught me, that everything is possible and your dreams are always within reach, if you just act through your heart and not only your mind.

Ultimately, I see this book as a tribute to friendship.

Thanks for reading.

Darryl Glendale,

New York.

***

It's hard not to be captivated by red carpet events and their flashing lights and ridiculously beautiful people milling about smiling like this was the night of their lives and they were oh-so-happy to see this person and that person and spit out countless stale-sounding comments like "you look amazing", "you were terrific in that role" and "have you lost weight?" followed by a sincere look, secretly saying, I'm an actor, I'm really good at faking things.

You see my point. You're simply spellbound by these "fame orgies" until you've been to like 30 of them. Then you're just robotic and going through the motions. Okay, okay, I might just as well come out and say the real reason why I wasn't so ecstatic about the flamenco-colored rug experience with extra everything - it's because I was just an onlooker, an extra among the blessed few who got the chance to dazzle the world with their looks, skills and ad-libbed one-liners. I wasn't an actor, I was an assistant. I was maybe the best damn assistant out there, but in that glamorous part of the world, it didn't count for a whole lot.

When you're a celebrity assistant your performance actually only counts with one person in the world and that's your employer. I was lucky in that respect, because B was always appreciative of me and what I did for her, something which made me work extra hard and really appreciate her. That's also a strong reason we became friends - mutual respect.

But B sometimes had a hard time to respect herself and her career. She was an immensely successful romantic comedy actress and the star of movies that made women all over the world go "oooh" and guys go "uuuugh". You know the kind. I'm not saying they're bad movies and I understood the charm in B's performances, but neither B nor I were into films where you could predict the whole story line just by reading the DVD cover blurb. That's one reason she didn't really respect herself.

And that was in part what lead to the famous red carpet disaster. And I'm not using the D-word lightly here like some people do when they spilled coffee on a pair of pants or are ten minutes late for a school play. What I'm talking about kept Hollywood buzzing with excitement and bewilderment for months. Was it a bit exaggerated? Yes, but everything in Hollywood is exaggerated and when Miss Perfect, which was the character she played in almost all of her movies, threw up in front of millions of TV-viewers and a whole bunch of other celebrities, the media spin machine went into overdrive.

When B had launched her projectile vomit, right there on the red carpet, the world stopped for a second and stared at the mash of white wine, shrimp, guacamole and God knows what else, and asked the obvious question: What the hell happened? The famous TV-presenter, who witnessed the whole thing from only a meter away and probably got some of her regurgitated food on his shoes, probably asked the same thing. He was frozen and pale, a rare look on his always polished and controlled facade. Luckily, her husband and colleague, which we for simplicity's sake call A, acted fast and pulled her away from the action and the crowds and into the bathroom where the vomiting continued for a few minutes, until her stomach was empty and I wanted to throw up just because of the rancid smell filling the room.

A didn't look very happy when we, 15 minutes later, escorted her from the scene of the crime and through a horde of paparazzi to our black Range Rover parked just outside the venue. Driver Don was waiting for us and I remember marveling at how calm he looked. But then again, Don had muscle pains and a subscription for medical marijuana to deal with that pain, so he was probably just high.

"This is it." A fumed in the car, "This is the last fucking time you embarrass me. I'm sick of your tantrums and you behaving like a lost teenager when we should really have a stable marriage with children and a life to be proud of. I've had it."

I glanced over at Don, who drove casually and didn't seem to be bothered by the verbal explosion taking place in the back of the car. More benefits of being high, I guess. Me, I was very uncomfortable.

"Fuck you, I didn't embarrass anyone. I'm sick and told you we shouldn't have come," B has been voted one of the most beautiful women in the world by several magazines, but here she looked more like a zombie and she still had a dash of vomit at the side of her mouth. I remember feeling extremely sorry for her then, something I had done for a few months already, because of her constant mood-changes, her excessive drinking and lingering depression.

A wasn't one to step away from a fight and continued, "You're not sick, you're sideways. I saw how you prepared for this evening, Martini after Martini. You wanted to make a scene, didn't you? You want our life to collapse."

"Shut up!" B said, while leaning her heavy head against the window. She didn't have much of an answer to A, because in a way, we all knew he was right. Her drinking had been out of control for a while and now she had finally reached rock bottom with a slam.

After driving for little more than half-an-hour we got home to the couple's sprawling white, multi-million dollar mansion in the Hollywood Hills and while the couple quickly escaped to their quarters, I sat down with a beer in the kitchen and wrote in my diary. I was simply too afraid to go online to face the storm and the six missed calls from agent Julianne I just couldn't care less about.

All I could feel was how my heart bled for B. I knew that somehow the negative trend in her life had to be reversed, but I didn't have a clue on how to do it and felt helpless thinking about it.

B, on the other hand, had her ideas.

***

Before I go into what happened after the vomit incident that launched it all, I think it makes sense to tell you how I became a celebrity assistant to an A-list actress (if you hate back-story, you can skip this section). As you might know or guess, there's no Hollywood unemployment office or any other shortcut to the wealthy and famous, because like everything in show business, it's about contacts and catching a break. Luckily for me, I knew Rob, a slick bastard with a fast mouth and the ability to sell sand in the Sahara. Rob didn't sell sand, but houses, and he helped the celebrity couple, let's call them the Johnsons, to find and negotiate their Hollywood Hills mansion. He got quite a commission for it too as you can imagine and that's why he drove a brand new Lamborghini.

I got to know Rob through my previous employment, being an assistant to the chief executive officer at a large pharmaceutical company. The CEO, a white-haired, dull and always tidy older man with an S&M magazine collection (his compensation for being more boring than spreadsheets, I suppose) in his bottom drawer, was looking for property and asked me to find the right agent and a proper selection for his perusal. I started the search engine and quickly stumbled upon an image of bleached-teeth Rob, who according to the testimonials on his websites was one of the best in the business when it came to finding lavish homes for the ridiculously rich. We met for lunch and it didn't take us long to get along, as we both shared a healthy disdain for the client (aka my boss) and when Rob said he might have an opportunity for me to get away from my job, I had to hear him out.

What he told me was that his car-loving golfing buddy, who also happened to be a Hollywood movie star, was looking for an assistant, primarily for his even more famous wife. Rob described them as the nicest couple and if I didn't mind taking my assistant life up a notch, both when it came to demands and living standards, he'd recommend me. I think I said yes before he even finished the sentence.

I met the Johnsons for coffee in a high-end LA restaurant. At first I was very nervous about meeting this superstar couple, but their rather modest and easy-going behavior relaxed me and we immediately took a liking to each other. I was instantly taken with B and vividly remember her wearing this green and revealing summer dress where I expected one of her breasts to jump out and every second the celebrity couple weren't looking directly at me, I watched that left boob with intent.

In the end it never came out, but a contract did - I was hired. Apparently Rob had sold them on, and here I quote, my upbeat, yet composed personality and top-notch organizational skills. He didn't have to sell me on the job though: good pay, all the perks I could dream of and working daily with one of the most beautiful women in the world. You could say I'd won the job lottery.

I remember my first day, I felt like a kid at summer camp, sleeping away from home for the first time in his life. I drove up to the house in my slightly battered Toyota Prius and had to call a number to be let in through the massive iron gates. My heart was thumping and I was sweating profusely under my shirt and still had problems to grasp what was happening, but as soon as A came to greet me outside with a huge smile on his face, I felt a little bit better. He was intimidatingly handsome, but looked kind, in fact far nicer than he did in the movies I had seen him in, all of them featuring more explosions and gunfire than dialogue. He gave me a tour of the house, which was every bit as impressive as I thought it would be and introduced me to the team members working there, the team I was supposed to coordinate. Then it was time to meet B and start working on the day's schedule.

B was riding an exercise bike in black hot pants and a training bra when I entered the mansion gym. She turned around and said "Hi Darryl!" with a big smile on her face. She was preparing for a role with several beach scenes and her training regime was fierce. I was a bit surprised not to see a personal trainer around, but it turned out he was sick that day. You never see a celebrity in a gym without a personal trainer, trust me.

It's difficult not to be taken by B's beauty. Simple, yet perfect somehow, it made me slightly weak in the knees. I hadn't had a relationship for some time and my confidence around women wasn't as good as it perhaps should've been (I'm not unattractive and quite funny) and most females sensed this well before I got the chance to even say hello, but it didn't take me long to feel comfortable around B, probably because I wasn't trying to date her. We just had great chemistry from the start. This was already evident on the first day when she was in a good mood thanks to a successful appearance on a popular talk show the night before. She seemed confident and in control and I remember being impressed by her from the get-go.

She was far from the dark place she would land in later.

***

They day after the "incident" started with me waking up at ten-thirty (it was my day off) and thinking for a second it was all a bad dream. It was a blissful moment, but it ended as soon I reached for the iPhone and saw all my text messages.

It was all over the place, of course, the vomit, everywhere your browser could take you. Twitter was blowing up with jokes, the Youtube clips were already in the hundreds of thousands, and the talk shows were busy writing top ten lists, all dedicated to the disaster. The comments were pretty much aligned, with some variations. Some called her a drunk (half-true), some predicted she was pregnant (not true at all), and some said she was going through a rough time in her life and that a divorce might be looming (maybe true). I knew B's agent Julianne was probably trying to spin this around to the best of her abilities, but the fact of the matter was that B had made a royal ass out of herself and for that I felt really sad. B was not only my employer, because after four years as her loyal assistant, we had also become good friends. At least as good as you could be in such a working relationship.

After showering and getting dressed, I headed down to the kitchen for my morning espresso. To my surprise I saw B out in the garden, lying in a deck chair by the pool, dressed in a lime-green bathing suit and holding some kind of drink.

"Can you get me another Smoothme, Fred?" I heard her shout to the pool boy and gardener, 19-year-old gay and aspiring make-up artist Fredric Thomson, who had started working there three months prior and despite the rough patch B had been in, really seemed to enjoy it. The star glow can be very addictive, especially if you're 19.

Fredric, who was fiddling with some plants in the small poolside garden sighed, said "sure" in a high-pitched voice and walked inside to make B's favorite drink, a fruit and vegetable smoothie with a generous dose of vodka in it. This had become her way of dealing with a hangover, just smooth it over and get on with it. She was sadly starting to become quite experienced at this.

"Don't put any vodka in this one, Fred, we can't have her drunk before lunchtime," I said and switched on the espresso machine.

Beautiful dark java slipped out into my cup and I looked at my phone again, expecting Julianne to call at any minute, wanting to discuss the damage or chat to B. On my employers behalf, I had become a filter when it came to unwanted calls and most people knew there was no point in calling her directly, which made my phone vibrate more than a nymphomaniac's sex toy. I was okay with it and according to a test I did many years ago, I have a really high stress tolerance, a requirement for anyone working in the insane entertainment business.

I managed to just about finish my morning shot before I heard her cracked voice calling me, like a crying child begging my name. I took a deep breath and headed out to the pool.

"How are we doing today?" I said, feeling like a caretaker in an insane asylum.

"I'm feeling great, full of energy and ready to take on the world, what do you think?" B said, sarcastically. We had thankfully progressed beyond the polite in our communication. Now we were more like an old married couple.

"I hear you. So...I expect Julianne to call any minute you know. You feel like taking that or?"

"I've got nothing to say to her. I know she's great at turning things around, but right now my world is pretty much painted black as you can understand. I of course knew that things weren't great, but this bad? I mean, Charlie Sheen is probably rubbing his hands somewhere."

I sat down next to her and put my hand on her shoulder, "I know it's shitty and I'm not going to give you some bullshit cliché to feel better, but I just want to say that when you've hit rock bottom there's only one way and that's up."

"You're such a fucking Teletubby sometimes, Darryl, but I still love you," she said giving me a rare smile. Not rare when judging by how she normally was, but sadly seldom those last few months.

I returned her smile and gave her some good advice: "I don't think it's such a great idea for you to lay in the sun and drink smoothie cocktails when you're hung-over. What do you say I have Jorge fix you a nice lunch and then we'll go for a drive or something? How does that sound?" Our drives and walks usually made her feel better and somewhere deep down I hoped even such a disappointing situation could be remedied by exercise and good company.

"Okay," she said, "I'll have the one Fredric is preparing and then I'll take a shower. Deal?"

"Deal. But no alcohol this time, just a regular smoothie, okay?"

"Mhmm," she mumbled like a kid refused her candy.

I went back to the kitchen to check on Fredric, who was struggling with the mixer. Fredric had green hands and knew styling and make-up like it came in his breast-milk, but couldn't tell the stove from the fridge, so I helped him by clicking on the wall-switch.

"She's really off the tracks, isn't she?" Fredric said above the mixer noise and gave me a concerned look.

"Yes, it's bad. We need to do something, but I don't know what."

"Why can't we call AA? Or a psychologist? We need an intervention!" Fredric's voice traveled up to a pitch I thought wasn't known to man, at least a man. I think part of him got really excited about the drama B's life provided. After four years together, I wasn't excited by it, just worried.

"I don't know. We've tried to talk her into therapy, counseling, even some holistic stuff, but she's not budging. This goes deep and if she's not seeing it as a problem herself, then we can't force her to do anything."

Fredric poured the thick green mixer liquid into a glass and said, "Can we at least get her to drink some water and do a facial? If she keeps this up her skin will be hosting next months blackheads-fest."

He was right. B's star glow had been hijacked by the evil Dr. Vodka and his mischievous cousin Deep Depression and we needed to guide her towards a better, brighter path. Wherever this lay.

"You know what?" I said, "Call that dermatologist lady who came last time, she was a pro and B was really happy with the results."

"Roger that." Fredric said, handed me the smoothie and strutted off like a flamingo bird on speed.

***

Before heading out towards Runyon Canyon, I managed a long and disturbing call with Julianne. Julianne was almost always pissed at something and after the "vomit incident" she obviously had plenty to be angry about. Besides, she didn't like me much and didn't understand what my role had become. Before, I was managing and coordinating most of the time, everything from sorting out dry-cleaning, to booking appointments, arranging schedules and plans, and now I delegated most of those things to Fredric and the rest of the team. I had my hands full just being around B and making sure her every wish came true. I was her one-man entourage and had strangely become her link to the rest of the world. Yes, even between her and her husband sometimes.

I put on my tracksuit and headed over to the garage to take out the Range Rover, when I stumbled upon A, polishing one of his many luxurious toys, the Ferrari F430 Scuderia. He looked like he had gotten dressed in a time machine in his tucked-in white t-shirt and tight, stonewashed jeans and cowboy boots. He was an attractive man with a muscular jaw and bulging biceps, but had the dress sense of someone collecting bottles for a living. This was one thing that irked B, but she said that, like most men, he was unchangeable in this respect. He looked up at me and I followed a bead of sweat roll down his forehead with my eyes.

"What's up, man?" he said. A sometimes talked like he was still in college. Maybe he thought this was how black guys talked, that we couldn't utter a sentence without inserting words like man or dawg or worse, the dreaded n-word. Since I had worked alongside him for years and was a book worm, he should've known better.

"I'm taking her for a walk," I said, and realized I was talking about his wife like she was a dog. If only she was as well-trained and easy to please.

"That's good. Hope it makes her feel better," A's voice came out dead as timber and reflected the emotional investment he had shown for her the last year, at least according to B. He had a knack of retreating down to his four-wheeled friends as soon as the going got rough. And it had been rather rough lately.

"She's worried you're still angry with her." I put my hands in my tracksuit pockets and leaned against the door frame. Talking about B with A always made me feel strange, because I was B's assistant, but at the same time a close friend of both. I didn't like to take sides or listen to the rants of a married couple in a desperate need of counseling.

A focused his eyes back on the Ferrari logo, the stampeding horse which was now so shiny it looked like it would spring to life and run away by itself. "Well, she can keep on worrying, because I am. She really took it to another level last night. I mean, how would you react in my shoes?"

"Pretty much the same, I guess." I said, and thought nobody knows what they would do in another person's shoes, but I didn't think A's reaction was strange either. What concerned me was how much he had managed to slip away prior to the vomit. It didn't strike me like he wanted to fight for their marriage, but even the all-seeing assistant couldn't know everything of course. There are two sides to every story and naturally I mostly got B's point of view.

He looked back up at me with his sharp blue eyes and said, "I don't know what to do anymore. She's become this other person, so deeply unhappy and strange. It's not who I fell in love with that's for sure. She refuses to seek help for it too, like she doesn't see a problem that's right in front of her, you know?" A was waiting for a guy response, some agreement, a feeling of camaraderie.

I couldn't shake the feeling that he was contemplating a divorce. After all it wasn't the most uncommon thing in Hollywood for people to say, "I've had it with you and your obsession with yourself, your constant traveling and your absurdly elevated need for attention," although it was a mirror image they were talking to. How could you make such a strenuous concept as marriage work in a world so demanding? There are obviously no secrets, only hard work, and my guess was that A had grown tired of working hard for the relationship, he wanted to see some results.

"It's very frustrating," I said, feeling uneasy about being sandwiched in between their struggles, "We're heading out now, I'll see if I can talk some sense into her."

"Good luck," A said without a hint of belief in his voice and returned to his Ferrari, a car that always performed flawlessly, something I'm sure he wished for in his wife.

***

Runyon Canyon is the celebrity-prone park above Los Angeles, which has featured in countless of movies and series, especially from the 80s. The fact that it's near high-end neighborhoods like the Hollywood Hills makes it possible to run into a celebrity at any time and if you were lucky you might even have stumbled upon the Johnsons taking an evening walk or a morning jog.

I parked the black Range Rover and B walked out in her velvety blue Juicy Couture track suit and adjusted her pants and her hair. I had told her the outfit wasn't in fashion anymore and that it made her look like a big baby in overalls, but she said she loved the material too much to let it go. And let's face it, when your new claim to fame is vomiting on one of the bigger televised awards in the calendar year, showing up in a three-year-old tracksuit is not going to do much to your reputation. I was wearing a grey t-shirt with "Who let the dogs out" in big block letters, so perhaps it wasn't the right time to be pointing out fashion mistakes.

B started walking down the so called Star trail with verve, her long legs striding and picking up speed rapidly and her head focused forwards. She was apparently eager to shed both calories and inner demons and that was a positive sign. You go girl! I thought to myself in my inner gay voice. Every man has an inner gay voice, at least if you spend as much time around a woman (without sleeping with her) as I did.

I jogged a few steps to catch up with her, "Aren't you an eager beaver today?" I said, trying to keep my voice upbeat. She needed me to be on my A-game today and remind her the world wasn't ending just because she had literally spilled her guts on TV.

"I'm no beaver, I'm Barney the drunken dinosaur. Please keep the tempo with me, I can't run into someone today. I just can't." B said, annoyed.

She had a fire in her step while I was panting like a dazed Rocky Balboa after 15 minutes. It felt kind of humiliating that she drank alcoholic smoothies for breakfast and still was in much better shape than me, a warning signal to lose my morning chocolate croissant. Not that I would, but I considered the signal.

"How are you feeling back there?" B said, likely noticing the increased intensity in my breathing.

"I'm good, I'm good." I lied, trying to sound unaffected. "How are you?" I threw right back at her.

"I feel like I'm in a bad dream and I can't wake up. But otherwise I'm fine." B was in a sour mood which was very hard to reverse. She had been sinking for some time and it finally seemed like she had submerged herself entirely in misery. It would take a heroic effort to dig her up and to be honest with you, I wasn't sure I was up for it.

"Did you fart? Something smells nasty," B said and wrinkled her face in disgust.

"Small one. Sneaked out." I raised my hands in the air to show my innocence.

"You really need to stop eating all that cheese, Darryl, it's not good for you."

Look who's talking! I felt like saying, because I'd be stupid to take health advice from my closet alcoholic employer. And I happened to love my cheese, wine and novel-reading evenings - it might have made my stomach a bit bubbly, but you've got to live sometimes, right?

"Did you talk to A?" B's voice sounded anxious, but not out of breath. I struggled to keep up with her.

"Yeah, well only a short one, he was polishing his Ferrari." I said, knowing what her reply would be.

"Now that's a surprise!" B said. "How much can you polish a car without it losing its color? He never even drives that thing!"

"A man must have his toys, I guess?" I said, not sure how to defend behavior I couldn't understand, but on the other hand I wasn't particularly experienced when it came to relationships. I had always been a bit of a loner and around women I automatically seemed to land in the friendship category.

"He doesn't seem to care one bit about me anymore. He used to be the nicest husband, always bought flowers, jewelry, did the most romantic things. You remember that time when he brought me up on that skyscraper roof in New York and there was a helicopter waiting for us and we flew to a Caribbean island and had a romantic dinner by the ocean?" Yes, I remember being left by the helipad like a fool, I thought to myself and nodded.

B looked out over the rolling hills like the answer to her problem was somewhere over there. Somewhere over the rainbow.

"From flower-petal-trails to scratching his balls openly and only lusting after things with wheels, what an amazing transformation! I used to feel like the most special woman in the world and now I'm like his sister, bucktooth Bree from fucking Oklahoma. I should take a sledgehammer down to that garage!"

What do you say to that? Here was bitterness and disappointment I'd never experienced before, but at the same time expected. The last year they had started to drift apart quite drastically after some major fights and I sometimes wondered how they had made it so far considering how different their personalities were. The banal jock with his cars and protein shakers and the emotional artist with her love for extravagance, yes they were pretty much opposites in everything except for that they were both very, very attractive and successful people. Sometimes that was enough.

At least in the short run.

We jogged the last bit to our regular stretching place and when we stopped I felt like my lungs were trying to launch themselves from my mouth. I was in bad, bad shape. Not fat, but with too much stress, too much wine and not enough exercise. I was maybe a bit unhappy in my own way, not that I had thought about it a lot, but it had slowly started creeping into my head that I might be coming to the end stretch of my employment with B. It was becoming too much work and not enough fun.

B was stretching her leg muscles against a rock and I sat down next to her whilst trying to recapture my breath. "You don't think he's retreating to his little man-cave because you've been off the rails lately?" I said, leaning back on my role as the mediator and weirdly seeing it as my duty to make sure the couple stayed together. I knew how happy they could be, it had just been a long time since I saw it.

I looked at B's body and thought to myself how genetically blessed she must be to be able to treat it so badly and still stay so fit and beautiful. She was simply born with that skinny-curvy look that all women want and pay handsomely to get. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of lust.

"You know what I think?" B said, looking like she had just thought of something brilliant, "I think he's cheating on me. It would explain everything, the evading behavior, the lack of affection, the night-time jogging, all that. I bet he's been seeing someone for quite a while. You'd tell me if he was, right?" Her stark blue eyes were studying me and for a second I felt like I was in school, trying to invent some believable lie to explain why I hadn't finished my homework. But I didn't have to lie, I knew nothing about A's love life outside B and my hunch was that he didn't have any. He just didn't strike me as the cheating kind.

"Why would he cheat on you? You're one of the most beautiful women in the world, according to Maxims and many other magazines, and me, and I know he still thinks you're the love of his life. You just need to work on yourselves and your relationship. It's not the weirdest thing for couples to go through a rough patch."

B looked at me like I was trying to sell her a used car with a bad engine and rust in all the places you couldn't see.

"Thanks for the compliment, Darryl, but that's bullshit. And in a way I can't blame him, I look like a toilet brush. I drink too much, smoke too much, do brainless parts in movies I don't even like myself and go to parties to meet people I don't care one bit about. We haven't had sex in a long time and last time I was barely conscious. Who wouldn't cheat on me?"

"If you're in that self-loathing frame of mind, there's no point in talking anymore." I didn't want to waste time wading around in B's well of depression, I knew it wasn't going to get us anywhere.

"Last question then, if he loves me so god damn much, why isn't he here? Why is he never around?"

I didn't know how to reply. Telling her she was hard work wouldn't cut it, because she knew that already. "I don't know. Maybe you've just hit a rough patch. In Hollywood people sometimes get too stuck in themselves, thinking me, me, me and nothing else and that's why so many marriages crash faster than you have time to say "I do." Your five years is pretty fantastic when you think of it, it must mean you have something really special."

B finally showed me a glimpse of a smile, "How do you do it? How do you always stay so positive?"

"Maybe it's because I don't think so much - guess I'm kind of stupid like that." I flashed my million-dollar smile. I've got REALLY white teeth you know, proud of 'em too.

B looked down on her fingers and then out over the rolling hills and said: "That's it, isn't it? I worry too much and that's why I needs ma' wine."

"Something like it. You ought to stop thinking and drinking and your problems will be shrinking."

"You're such a poet, Darryl. All those books you read must do you some good."

"Books over vodka any time, girl," I said and touched her shoulder, "Let's get going again, I think I saw Mr. Gibson walking his dog over there and we don't want you stuck talking to him about how much in common you have."

"Shut up," B said and laughed.

I had managed to bring out a sincere smile on her face.

This is why I was her assistant.

***

After our run, B wanted a Pinkberry, a non-alcohol indulgence I had no problem with. She donned her oversized shades and I parked the Ranger Rover something like 50 meters from the frozen yoghurt place on a sun-streaked Santa Monica Boulevard. Before heading out, I looked around for paparazzi. To my relief, there were none to be seen, but they were prone to pop-up anywhere at anytime like some evil "jackass-in-a-box". I was just about to walk out when, from the bottom of her cracked confidence, B unleashed: "You'd fuck me wouldn't you? If I was single?"

Now what this had to do with frozen yoghurt, I'll never know.

"Yes, I'd pop your Pinkberry if that's what you're talking about. Anyone would, you're smoking hot."

"Thanks, Darryl. Don't you ever quit on me, okay?"

"I promise," I said out of necessity, but it was a promise I knew would be hard to keep.

There was not much of a line in the Pinkberry which was good, because I smelled like locker room and I didn't want to disgust the other customers. The young freckled man behind the counter repeated my order of one Watermelon and one Salted Caramel and gave me a wide smile. For a second I thought he was cross-eyed.

When I was back in the car, B dug into her Pinkberry like she had been on a month long Survivor-diet. I have always appreciated women with healthy appetites and I gladly watched her shovel it in.

B of course noticed my big eyes, "What are you looking at? You're staring at me like I'm miss Piggy!"

To which I smiled and said, "I just like to see a woman eat."

"Is that a black man's thing or what? I thought men wanted women who doesn't eat, doesn't talk, fart flowers and who never let anything out of the anus, just into it." B took one more spoon, rolled down the window, threw out the cup and said, "Let's go home, okay?"

"Yeah, let's go before they arrest us for littering." I replied drily, turned the key and drove off.

On the way home we sat silently in the car, I tried to eat my Pinkberry while managing the steering wheel and B was next to me, lost in her own head.

Back at the mansion, she headed off to shower while I went to my office and sat down by the antique desk that A got from some celebrity estate for a ridiculously large amount of money. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I felt a heavy weariness set in and knew I was in desperate need of a vacation. Assistants rarely rest and it had started to get to me, much like celebrity life had gotten to B. Since I started working for her, I had lost contact with most of my friends and I'd rarely been in touch with my parents. Work, and the glorified world that came with it, had consumed me and I was starting to pay the price.

I probably nodded off for a good twenty minutes, before I was kicked to life by my iPhone dancing on the dark wood. The display read "Julianne".

Julianne was one of those women who had decided to compensate her less fortunate physical appearance by being a ruthless workaholic, determined to put all men down a peg-hole or ten. She had rat-colored hair, a thin mouth and a plank-formed body to go with her sharp, ear-cringing voice that penetrated all sound, and she was the last person I wanted to talk to at that moment. Still, it was my duty to take the call.

"Darryl," I said, praying she would be in a good mood, but I of course knew this wasn't the easiest time to be B's agent, so I expected hell.

"This is one of the biggest fucking PR disasters in Hollywood, Darryl. My phone has been ringing constantly, everybody wants something from her, interviews, statements, appearances, the works but she's refusing to pick up the goddamn phone."

"You know she wants all communication to run through me, I've told you that before, Julianne."

"I don't get it though, why should I have to go through you? I'm her agent."

She should have known there was no point in arguing about this, B held firm that I was the messenger and her filter to the outside world.

"But why is it so urgent to reach her now? She's in no mood to talk to anyone and I don't see how going on Letterman would make anything better at this stage." I tried to be as firm as I could. You needed to with Julianne.

"This is exactly why I need to talk to her! I've actually started to think that we can spin this in our favor and use the attention to something good."

This is why she was one of the best agents - she saw opportunities everywhere.

"So you're saying she should come out and talk about her problems and in this way redeem herself?" I said, skeptically.

"For once you hit the nail on the head. She needs to take advantage of the publicity, otherwise there is a risk she'll have a tainted image forever. She should talk about how she's battling alcoholism as a result of a tough childhood or whatever the hell she's drinking for. I think we could go for the Oprah book club too, I have some formidable ghostwriters ready to start typing as soon as I give the green light. This doesn't have to be a disaster, but instead a great chance to connect with her fans, show her true, vulnerable self and come out on top. How is she feeling by the way?"

This was a rare show of emotion from Julianne. Maybe she had worked on what she needed to say to sound like an empathic and normal human being.

"She's okay, considering."

"So can I talk to her? I have loads of calls and e-mails I need to return today. If we get started now we can really flip this shit. I know we can!"

Julianne was frighteningly good at her job, but also frighteningly bad at reading people. The chance of B going on a talk show at this point in her life was pretty much zero and in a way I felt sorry for Julianne for not understanding this. But you can't blame her for seeing only dollar signs either, it was in her job description.

"I'll talk to her about her options and I'll tell her to call you when she's ready. But right now I think she just wants to rest. I'm pretty sure she's not keen on going on TV to talk about a drinking problem she has hard time admitting to herself. She's really fragile right now."

"Rest is for losers, Darryl. The only thing you should focus on keeping her away from is the bottle, not the spotlight. Hope is not lost if we act fast."

"I'll promise to bring that up when I see her. Thanks."

And Julianne hung up on me without saying goodbye.

***

I want to take a minute to talk about one of the frustrations with living and working in the celebrity world, at least as an assistant. It's the problem to meet women. You see, I used to work all the time, pretty much every day and there wasn't a lot of space for dating. And if I did meet a woman out in a bar or at an event or wherever I might have been, I didn't know where to "conclude" the evening since I was living with the Johnsons and the mansion rule was not to bring any outsiders there.

It's pretty logical when you think about it, but once during my first year I broke the role and learned a valuable lesson.

The name of my lesson was Loreena, a chocolate dream with colorful clothing and a big butt to go with it. I love big butts (and I cannot lie - as the song goes), always have and always will, so I was of course ecstatic to meet someone like Loreena with a jovial personality, beautiful eyes and two firm watermelon butt cheeks. I was probably too hypnotized by her appearance to realize her ulterior motive for dating me wasn't because she was interested in me \- like most women she thought I was funny, which is good to draw them in, but apparently not a strong enough incentive in the long run - but because she wanted to get close to the Johnsons. She wasn't a stalker or a lunatic fan or anything like that, but I should have realized something was wrong by how big her eyes grew every time I mentioned them. I of course knew I needed to be careful with yapping about my employers, but when you find someone you like it's not always easy to be modest. Working with celebrities surely helps to make you more interesting. For a while.

In the end, my clouded mind decided it was fine to break a rule and to try and sneak her into the house without anyone seeing her. So one night when my employers were out having one of their romantic candlelight dinners, I brought Loreena up to my room, carefully avoiding other staff members. As soon as we entered the house, Loreena's head was going back and forth with the excitement of a fat kid who had just stepped inside the Charlie Chocolate factory, while I was preoccupied with not being seen. She soon followed her deranged look up with questions about the Johnsons - where in the house they stayed, where they were right that minute, what my relationship with them was like, what a typical day would look like for them and so on. I had answered some of them before, but here they came again at an alarming rate of brain-diarrhea. A voice in my head started telling me that these questions had nothing to do with me, but her huge, juicy butt completely obstructed my otherwise logical thought-process.

Loreena ended up spending the night in my bed, but when I woke up at five in the morning by my bladder calling me, she wasn't there. I knew I wasn't a Casanova, but could the sex have been that bad? It was hard for me to place an objective judgement on it, especially since it was over in a couple of minutes.

I dressed in my shorts and Nuke "Just Done It" t-shirt and went out to look for her. I walked downstairs and I was so tired I almost slipped on the marble stairs, polished into a death trap by an eager Elena. I walked around quietly not to wake the other staff members and was just about to text her when I spotted her and her chubby ass sneaking around by the pool. What the hell? I thought, got myself over there and started wheezing: "Loreena! Loreena!" When her face finally turned my way she looked like a deer caught in the headlights of car. For a second I thought she would try to run away or something equally crazy, but instead she came up to me and said with a slight quiver in her voice, "I was just taking a walk around the house."

"A walk around the house? I saw you, that wasn't walking, it was sneaking around! I implicitly told you not to be seen! You could land me in a lot of trouble you know."

"I couldn't sleep and wanted to take a look around. Relax a little will you?" Like an attacked animal, Loreena thought the best defensive was offensive. I didn't care a whole lot for her tone.

"Relax? This is my job on the line, how can you tell me to relax?"

And then I saw it. The necklace she definitely wasn't wearing the night before. It was a butterfly in gold and blue stone and looked far too expensive to be hanging around Loreena's neck, if you know what I'm saying.

"What's that around your neck?" I glared at Loreena, my adrenaline at a peak. The date was rapidly becoming a very bad idea.

"It's a necklace. I had it in my bag."

"That's B's necklace! You're a liar and a thief!"

I could see in her face how Loreena was waging an internal war; it was a gated property so making a run for it wasn't an option.

"Ah, fuck you, Darryl! I just wanted some glamour in my life! I wanted to see a celebrity, maybe wear an expensive necklace for a little while! Would she care about one little necklace? They have millions, billions!"

I was impressively calm considering the situation and told her: "Give me the necklace back and I won't call the police. It's time to go home."

That was the only time I brought a girl to the mansion. This didn't make me a monk, but I would have been lying if I said I was close to a meaningful relationship with any other woman than B.

Slugs got more action.

And B was, like you know by now, not herself. When it came to the many good times we had shared together, I had to rely almost only on older memories.

Speaking of which, I do recall many great moments, often ending in massive fits of laughter since humor was our strongest denominator. While I'm taking a stroll down memory lane, I can't help but smile and think about the cover shoot in Paris, ridiculously romantic with the sun going down behind a beautiful French 15th century castle, and the hilariously parodic photographer, stereotypically complete with a comical Anglo-French accent, a t-shirt-blazer-scarf-combo, unruly hair and his dark-haired assistant Annelié, silent, but cute and making lots of eye contact with me. I returned the looks from time to time, when I wasn't watching the French bastard give B, for the shoot dressed in a rather slinky Arabian Nights-inspired outfit, directions to a better pose. Is all that touching really necessary? I remember thinking.

The moment, the setting, the atmosphere, everything is so sharply carved into my memory tree that I can summon it in an instant, close my eyes and travel there like Scotty on the Starship Enterprise.

For a second I thought B was charmed by Pierre, giggling too much, giving him her famous flirtatious smile. I was jealous and worried about her, but then I noticed Annelié again; her dark eye-brows, small head, beautiful chestnut eyes and I lost concentration.

There was a pool not far from where we were standing. A glorious, lit swimming pool, fit for a king.

Fit for a Pierre.

And then, during our break, it happened. Pierre was walking towards the catering section, head leaned backwards, his long, slightly wet-looking hair, bouncing behind him. He held his huge camera casually in one hand and was taking large, relaxed strides towards us, looking like a guy so sure of himself it was ridiculous, while we were standing at a white bar table, drinking a glass of wine and admiring the view. He called something out to Annelié, who was hovering around us again, a bit too shy to talk but eager with the eyes. I think she preferred to look at anything but Pierre, who treated her like she was the Ringer of Notre Dame and not the petite and beautiful woman she was.

On the floor there was a light cable that I had stepped over a couple of times, carefully avoiding a slip and a tumble. But Pierre had his eyes to the sky and managed to put his pointy patent-leather shoe under the wire, got snagged in it and fell backwards, the camera left his hand (all this happened in slow motion) and I saw Annelié somehow managing to catch it, but nobody was catching Pierre, he was tumbling, slipping and with a splash he was in the pool.

There's no way you could witness this and hold back laughter and we all laughed so hard we cried. Even Annelié. Poor Pierre was in the pool, soaked, miserable and humiliated. I don't know if I'd been able to see the fun in it, being in the water, but the Frenchman for sure couldn't. He looked like he had put his face in a bowl of sour cream and cancelled the rest of the shoot.

B and I laughed about the pool incident the whole evening (A was filming in Germany) and we still think back to it at times, and talk about Pierre with the accent, Pierre the stereotyped French artist, Pierre in the swimming pool.

But that was the past and the past was past and no matter how much of a golden shimmer you add to it in your memory bank (using some mental photoshopping), you can't live there. You need to live in the present and that was what I intended to do.

***

After a piping hot shower, I headed down to the kitchen for lunch and chef Jorge's famous tuna salad. I sat down by the kitchen island and Jorge, who looked weirdly forlorn, placed the plate in front of me in haste. His tuna salad was the tastiest way to cut the carbs and it was something I needed to do badly. I never had the rock-solid, action hero body with visible abs and I was fine with that, but I was still concerned about how soft and doughy the skin around my midsection had become. I was nearing 30 and part of me was terrified it was all going to be downhill from there. My indulgences were few, the previously mentioned chocolate croissant, the half bottle of wine with dinner and possibly a slice of cheese or three afterwards, but still every digested gram seemed to count.

But eating Jorge's salad wasn't a huge concession, he usually put the exact amount of dressing and seasoning and always used the freshest vegetables and the best tuna he could find. It was a treat. Usually.

This time though, something was wrong with it. It was overly vinegary, bordering towards sour and the first mouthful made me cringe. I struggled through a few bites and then pushed the plate aside. I walked out of the kitchen and found Jorge sitting on a chair in the back garden looking like a ton of bricks just had fallen on him.

"What's up?" I asked.

"You didn't like it did you?"

"What?"

"The tuna salad. You didn't like it." Jorge gave me a look telling me there was no point in lying. Everything about him was big, his body, his face, his heart and his mind and he knew very well that I didn't like it.

"I don't know, there was something a bit different with it today, I guess." I said, knowing how much his cooking meant to him.

Jorge rose from the chair quickly, removed his chef's hat, ran his left hand through his curly patch of hair and said: "Darryl, I botched it. The dressing. The cap came off and you know? Too much." It seemed like to Jorge there was more than a tuna salad at stake here.

"Don't worry, Jorge. It's a salad. I'll survive. What else is wrong?"

Jorge looked at me with his big brown eyes and then let them travel out into the garden as if they were more comfortable there, and said, "It's my son, Luís. He isn't doing well in school anymore, his grades are off, he's having troubles focusing, his teachers are concerned. When I ask him about it, he says he wants to be an RnB singer and couldn't care less about school. It's very upsetting."

A young person in LA struck by the fame-drug, didn't sound too rare to me, but finding a cure was more difficult though. Once the desire for an exuberant existence gets into your brain, it seems to develop much like a virus, soon taking over your whole being. It becomes difficult to focus on anything else than finding a way to the spotlight. I don't have any research or stats to prove it, but I've seen it up close.

I tried to soften the blow, "Well it's good to have a dream and a drive to achieve it. Does he have any actual talent?"

"I know it sounds harsh, but I don't think so. His interest in music started rather late, too late if you ask me. Or maybe I just don't get what he's trying to do. I'm afraid he's throwing his life away trying to be the next MTV sensation."

"I haven't heard him and I doubt I ever will by the sound of it, but I agree with your thinking. It will be hard to break it to him though, it sounds like his desire is firmly rooted."

Jorge shook his giant head and reached over and touched the stem of a pink flower very gently, like it was a sacred object, "It worries me, the way he's wasting his time only setting himself up to get hurt. I wish he could put all that energy somewhere else. In education, a serious profession. My family never had the money to study and get a degree and the one who finally gets the chance, is suddenly eager to throw it all away. It breaks a father's heart."

"The world puts a lot of pressure on the young, Jorge." I said, still counting myself among the world's young and feeling the pressure. "Besides, you're a celebrity chef, well at least a celebrity-hired chef, so my guess is he would want to do something big, as not to disappoint you."

"He wouldn't disappoint me even if he decided to work at McDonalds for the rest of his life. The important thing is he's happy, that's all I care about."

"But maybe that's not all he cares about? I think sometimes parents make the mistake to think that whatever their children do or want, they had something to do with it. And besides, trying out a music career might make him really happy, no matter how silly it may sound to you."

Jorge appeared to consider this odd piece of wisdom, coming from a much younger guy with no experience in parenting whatsoever. But everyone's free to have opinions and I'm kind of keen to throw mine around sometimes.

"True," he said, but I could tell he wasn't entirely sure about my reasoning, "How's B by the way?"

"Better now, but obviously not great. I'd say she'd love some comfort food today, but I'm not sure her body needs it."

"I'll see what I can do. I won't make her a tuna salad, that's for sure." Jorge finally gave me a smile, which was nice to see. He was generally a very happy camper and I really disliked seeing him worry like this.

"Just go easy on the dressing and you'll be fine. I'm going to run back to the office now. I'll think if there's something we can do about your son. Does he have a website or a Myspace page or something where I can check him out?"

"I don't know actually, but I doubt it. What's Myspace?"

"It doesn't matter, I'll google him. Thanks for lunch, Jorge."

"It was nothing. And I mean it this time."

***

I didn't see B for the rest of the day. She had told me she wanted to stay unreachable and I forwarded the message to Julianne. I couldn't blame her for wanting to shut the world out, a day after vomiting all over it. I sat down and looked at the upcoming scheduling, the month was going to be rather quiet, she had a few meetings booked about upcoming roles, a short interview with Vogue on her dress sense and one appearance at some celebrity fundraiser for green energy. I wondered how long she would feel like hiding from the spotlight, would we need to cancel everything or would she walk out of her room like a new being, ready to forget about the whole thing and start anew? Despite working closely with her for years, I couldn't really know, because we had never faced this kind of pickle before. Not that she was easy to read from the start - she would better be described as an emotional tsunami. When she was happy, she was phenomenal to be around, and when she was sad or angry, difficult was an understatement. With B, everything came in extremes and you had to take the good with the bad.

I poured myself a glass of wine and contemplated possible causes for her recent destructive behavior. I spun around in my leather chair and sipped the lukewarm liquid and let it fill me with goodness. Wine had become such a passion over the years, a passion I desperately hoped to turn into a dream one day, opening my own wine bar. I put a slice of brie cheese in my mouth and thought back to brighter days. It was hard to pin down exactly what had happened to B since I entered her life, maybe things had just caught up with her? She sometimes complained about the industry and how she had been pinned into one category of roles and films and how frustrated she was with never being able to show her true range, but it was difficult to see her career as bad enough to make her feel like a train-wreck. Surely there must be something more, something deeper.

There were her parents of course. Her "unloving" (B's wording) mother Katherine who had pushed her to the top, taken a slice of the cake and then left her there and who only seemed to have harsh words for her own daughter. And her father who had gone away when B was three years old, leaving a big dent in her upbringing and making her seek the approval she could never get because of his death in a car accident, six or seven years ago. He had been a painter who had gotten tired of diaper-changes and screaming and decided to move to France and become a full-time - but never famous or successful - artist. B had been left with her troubled mother and it must have made its mark, although for some reason she wouldn't admit it to herself. She was strangely too proud to seek any kind of counseling or therapy and her stubbornness had, to my mind, proven to be mentally costly. For all of us.

So parents, career troubles and fading fortunes in her marriage - not a cocktail to celebrate with. The marriage problems could probably be traced to one big thing, her reluctance to bring a child into the world. Her husband had been on her for years and tried all his might to convince her, but to no avail. Although she was emotionally rather unstable, at the same time she wasn't easily swayed.

There were, to summarize, many reasons B's boat was rather rocky and maybe the vomit incident gave it its final push and tumble.

***

Interlude

Before I forget, it might make sense to mention how I became such a wine nerd. It will prove relevant, so bear with me (but if you hate back-story you can skip it).

In my happy and worry-free 20s, my best friend Cesar and I decided to go on a European road trip, driving through several cities of Britain, France, Spain, Italy, Austria, and Germany in an old, yellow Mercedes which we bought second hand outside Hamburg from a fat and mustached man for next to nothing. We had saved up for years, me working for my father's building business and Cesar setting up basic websites for small companies, something he called "computer whoring".

It was during our stop in Italy that I had my first date with a beautiful wine. I was mostly a beer drinker then, at least in the capacity a young man in D.C. could get a hold of the stuff (21-year-age limit). I didn't really know anything about wine and the few glasses I'd tried were sour and vinegary. But when we reached the region of Tuscany and our ugly and battered Mercedes broke down just outside the city of Sienna, this changed forever. While we had our car in for repair with a guy in dusty blue coveralls who just couldn't stop smoking, we rented an ugly old room with moldy curtains in the first cheap little hotel we could find and hit the streets.

Sienna is a time machine. It's like you walked straight into medieval times with its narrow cobblestone streets and leaning brick buildings and the feeling of history is so strong you wouldn't be surprised to see a knight in shining armor pass you on the street. We decided to enjoy it Italian style and ordered a platter in a small restaurant on a side street, but the waiter didn't have anything besides the yeasty local beer, which we didn't like, so he recommended a bottle of Tuscan wine. I remember the first sip like yesterday, it hit my taste buds like lightning and filled my whole being with a sense of, I don't know, romance? Lust? Desire?

It was simply love at first taste.

We ended up finishing the bottle and then another and the owner seemed so happy to have us there he gave us a tour of his wine cellar and started explaining the differences between certain wines and grapes and although my head was starting to get sore, I sucked most of it in like an anteater.

So that was how the dream was formed to have my own wine bar, or enoteca as the Italians call it, a place where customers and other wine enthusiasts can relax in comfortable chairs, enjoy an exquisite glass of wine and listen to some soft live jazz or a classical violinist pouring his soul into a Bach partita. A haven for the cultured.

Yes, you could say I'm a bit of a snob.

***

The alarm clock woke me at half past six the next day. I stared at it with incredulous eyes, trying to figure out how it got there so fast and why I had a feverish burn inside my head. It didn't take me long to realize the culprit was one glass of wine too many. That Brunello was simply far too good for comfort.

After a quick shower which did little to mitigate the pain in my membrane, I headed downstairs, desperate for my morning espresso.

There was a shaking sound coming from the kitchen, slosh, slosh, slosh. Slosh, slosh, slosh. The sound was quickly explained by me laying eyes on A, jerking a plastic red protein shaker.

"Morning," he said, in a somber voice which was unnatural to his usually bright and cheerful self.

"Morning. You sound down?" I mumbled. Too early. No coffee.

"We had a huge fight last night. Huge. She took a suitcase and left." He stopped shaking his drink and studied the content, which had become a grey-brownish soil. I wondered how the protein people could call that chocolate when "sewage" seemed more apt.

"Oh, that bad?" I said, not feeling too surprised, as it wasn't the first time B had made a dramatic exit and gone to spend the night at a friends' house. It was an obvious attempt to elicit emotion from A, but she had complained that it only seemed to work for a day or two and then he went back to being the frosty caveman again.

Who said love was easy?

"My guess is she's with Katie, but I've no idea really. She refuses to pick up her phone." A put the shaker against his mouth and let the foul liquid run down his throat. I looked away briefly and thought he might be right, Katie always had a good ear for B's problems, meaning she agreed with pretty much everything the movie star said or felt.

A made a disgusting swallowing sound and said, "Can you do me favor and check if she's okay? I was a bit tough yesterday, said some things I regret."

"Well, that happens in a fight, I guess. What did you say?"

"I told her she was a selfish, alcoholic psycho with major issues. And I told her I'm soon giving up on having kids, I'm turning 40, it's already quite late to start a family."

Bringing up the old our-fantastic-genes-force-us-to-procreate discussion after B's social disaster wasn't the best timing, but you couldn't really blame him for hearing the clock ticking. Extending the family was the natural next step, together with divorce of course. I thought they had reached some kind of tipping point where relationships either made it or broke it. I had seen it before with friends, but never gotten as far myself.

"Can you please make sure she's okay? I really have to go now." A gave me a look that said he knew I would say yes, after all, it was my job to be the yes-man. I was paid for it.

"Sure thing," I said and thought how strange it was to have another man ask you to manage his marriage. Being a relationship middleman was never in my contract, but it became a vital part of my job the last year of my employment. Question was, was it possible to save it? At that moment I thought it wasn't very likely.

"You're the man, Darryl. I don't know what I would do without you. I'll call you from New York, okay?"

And as A left to finish his packing, I turned on the espresso machine, letting it slowly chug out a thick, luscious brew. I took my first sip and thought that I didn't know what he'd do without me either.

***

A marriage without fights can't be a healthy one, but when the fights outnumber the moments of peace, you'd probably start to wonder what the hell you're doing.

The Johnsons had reached this stage and therefore I wasn't shocked not to hear from B for the whole next day. She had gone to hide from agent Julianne, the paparazzi, her marriage struggles, her mother, her disappointing career, yes pretty much everything that upset her. It wasn't the most mature thing to do, but you can't go around being mature all the time, right?

So I figured I should let her take her time and not chase her. Besides, it gave me well-needed break from work. I hadn't had much time off the last two years and a heavy tiredness had started to creep into my bones.

But after almost two whole days of rest without a word from B, I started to wonder and sent her a text. No reply. I gave her a call. No reply. I gave her another call a bit later. No reply. The feeling that something was wrong had started to infiltrate my brain like a small but pounding headache. I actually ended up calling Katie, Alice, her mother Katherine, everyone I could think of, but no one had heard from her.

I deliberated calling A for a moment but decided it would just worry him and ultimately piss him off. He was directing a movie for the first time in his career and it was not the best time to disturb him.

But how do you locate a missing celebrity? There are surely no phone apps for it and if there isn't a phone app, then what? A thought hit me that I should call the police, but somehow it seemed too dramatic, too soon. It could still just be stubbornness, maybe she was holing up in a hotel somewhere in the city, eating buckets of ice cream and watching Sex and the City?

I heard a pling sound from my Macbook. My best friend, IT-genius and European tour travel buddy was writing to me on Skype. I hadn't talked to him in a week so it was a welcome distraction.

"Yo," the message eloquently read. Cesar wasn't elaborate with words, he preferred to get to the point quickly and his speech was often infused with slang and profanity. He was a super-intelligent and baby-faced goofball with a Rastafari hairstyle and I feared he'd never grow up. He had inherited a small loft in New York and worked for a mobile game developer. This was taking the easy way out for Cesar, who probably had enough computer skills to work for NASA and could hack pretty much any website out there. But hacking websites was not the best way to make a living as he had learned from experience. And police.

"Hey," I wrote back.

"What's up?"

"Panic mode. B is missing. They had a fight two days ago and she took her bags and left. Nobody knows where she is."

"I could see that."

"What do you mean?"

"I read about her vomit. Anyone would run away from that sort of thing."

"You can say that again," I wrote and put a sad smiley at the end of it.

"If you want I can try and trace her. All I need is her credit card details."

My heart stopped for a minute. Why hadn't I thought of this? She must have made some kind of transaction in three days and it might at least give me a clue. On the other hand I didn't feel comfortable giving out her credit card number to one of the most money-horny people I knew. He was my best friend, but Cesar and money was always a dangerous equation.

But then again, what choice did I have?

"Okay, wait and I'll give them to you. Don't lose them or use them for something else, okay?"

"Of course not. And send a text message. It's safer."

Luckily, I had her card details in an old e-mail which she had sent to use in case I needed to buy something online. This was before they gave me my own expense card which gold-ish sheen I treasured and admired greatly.

I felt a second of regret before I pushed the send-button. "How long does it take?" I wrote to him.

"Not too long. Give me an hour and I'll call you."

"Thanks, man," I wrote and headed down to the kitchen to make a sandwich, hoping my decision wouldn't prove costly.

Down in the kitchen I found Elena cleaning the floor. She had her permanently disappointed facial expression on and I knew she wouldn't try to start up a conversation. She rarely did. I silently wondered what her plan was, she was nearing 60 and was still working as hard as ever. I didn't know much about her, only that she came from small-town Russia with her son twenty years ago and that he was struggling to find a job as an actor (and enjoying the LA party life a little too much), while she was making floors shine in already successful actors' homes. It was maybe not what she had imagined when she came here, but I wouldn't know, as we had never talked about her feelings. Her skinny and veiny body did all the talking as the broom squished across the marble floors.

I took a bite out of my ham and cheese sandwich and pretended to read the newspaper, while I was really too anxious to focus on anything. I wanted Cesar to call me and tell me where B was so I could move on with my life and do other things. It was while sitting at the kitchen bar that I realized how much I cared about her. I always knew we had a bond, a friendship, some kind of chemistry, but my feelings had never been tested like this before. One minute I wanted to quit and the next I felt so sorry for her, that it felt like I could never leave her.

So it was with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I heard the phone vibrate on the table. The display read "Cesar". I jumped on it like a cat on a light reflection.

"What have you got?" I burst out.

"Not even hello? LA broke your manners, dude. Anyway, her last transaction was at a restaurant, a La Rosetta. In Rome."

"In Rome?!" My mind went numb for a second. This was apparently trouble on an international scale.

"Yes, the two previous transactions also happened in Rome. So my guess is that's where she is, unless someone stole her credit card."

"Oh, shit!" Cesar exclaimed, before I got the chance to reply.

"What? What is it?" My heart was now ready to unleash itself from my chest, which was far from my usually quite a cool character.

"Crazy lady spent 1300 dollars. 1300 dollars in a restaurant!"

I sighed a breath of relief, "Believe me, on this level of fame, it's not that much."

"Are you kidding? That's almost a month's rent and I live in New York."

"So you're positive she's there? In Rome?" This was a new level of B's spontaneity, so I had to make sure.

"I bet you 500 dollars."

"If you're right, I'd owe you big time. This is nuts. I have to call her husband now, thanks for being the C in CSI."

"CSI is some bullshit."

It was a shame I couldn't stay on the phone with Cesar, because we hadn't talked in a while, but I had bigger fish to fry and husbands to call. It took about ten rings before A picked up his phone. He didn't strike me as over-eager to hear about where his wife went, but maybe it was my imagination.

A didn't have even a hint of a clue of why B had decided to visit the capital of Italy. She had been there only once before, two years ago for a cover shoot, he remembered, but he didn't know anything beyond that. Then he said something which hit me hard.

"You have to go."

"What?"

"You need to go to Rome and talk to her, Darryl. I can't do it, I've got a movie to finish. And you've got this friend of yours to help you too. It's the only solution."

"You seriously want me to fly to another continent and track her down? I've called her like twenty times, she's not answering. It's not going to be easy, because she obviously doesn't want to be found."

"It's the best we can do. I'll pay you extra, whatever you need. I really need you to do this, you seem like the only one who can talk some sense into her."

It's not great when your husband thinks the only guy who can talk to you, is some other guy, in this case me. But I knew he was right. If anyone had a chance of reaching out to B it was yours truly and that's why I couldn't give him no for an answer either. And not only for his sake, but for B's sake and mine, as I was genuinely worried about her.

Not that Rome was the worst place to go celebrity hunting either.

I packed my bags as fast as I could, checked the flights online and bought a last-minute ticket with my glimmering expense card. It was going to be one impromptu trip, but I have to admit I was a bit excited to go to Rome a second time. I thought it might be the break I needed, even if it was going to involve some kind of detective work. I ran down the shining marble staircase and at the end I almost bumped into Elena.

"See where you going," she muttered in her sour voice.

"I'm flying to Rome. B is there. Why I don't know." I burst out.

Elena shook her head and sighed, "I know she run away. Her husband never home and she drink like animal. Not happy relationship." She stabbed a finger at me like I was responsible for the whole thing. This was as animated as I'd ever seen her.

"I'll call you when we're coming back," I said and I was out the door before Elena had a chance to reply.

END OF SAMPLE.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jonas is currently the creative director of one of the most successful online gaming groups in the world. He has previously worked as a copywriter and a journalist. When he's not working he cherishes every moment with his family Lenah and Aiden and whatever time there's left he spends writing, reading and playing tennis. He's passionate about traveling and wine and thinks New York is the greatest city in the world. He lives with his family on the Mediterranean island of Malta. Read more about Jonas on his website jonaswrites.com

