This Is The LifeA Story by TheJordBaker
One of the first short stories I wrote a long time ago, and not one of my fondest but here it is anyway.
There he was, top of the hill, king of his Kingdom, mayor of his melancholy. He’d lost them all around midnight- that he remembered. But it was light now, and his latest Smartphone was screaming for attention in the mire beside him. He peeled himself free and sat up. Twenty-nine missed calls, forty-six texts, and most of them appeared to be off Fred, ranging from ‘you up n ready for pick up? 7 sharp, don’t forget’ to ‘where the f**k are you? Ring me now!!’ He didn’t read the ones in between. He lay back down and rested his phone on his stomach. He breathed deeper and deeper; the nausea seemed to ease, the heat of the sun scorching against his temple, melting him deeper into the sodden terrain. Judging by the temperature it must have been at least close to the afternoon. He checked: 12.04pm. Missed the shoot. F**k.
Too far, Kev, this time you’ve gone too far. He used his phone screen to rate the bags, cuts and dry blood around his bloodshot eyes. Denise could work wonders with a brush every day, sort this s**t out. He turned onto his shoulder and vomited. He considered what the studio did this morning, whether he still had a job, or any of the week’s salary left. Did 400k sound good Mr. Tempton? Not anymore it didn’t; too many habits to feed and vagabonds to pay off, too many slags to see and too many pills to swill. He took up his Blackberry again, clicked onto twitter, then feed.
@TheKevinTempton ruined my morning!! #bored
This isn’t @TheKevinTempton, what’s going on?!
Lost withouth @TheKevinTempton, who’s gonna fix the world now?
Don’t know, but who’s gonna fix Kevin Tempton?
Kevin knocked his phone off and lay patting down his pockets for any sign of his life. Wallet- empty, cards charged to f**k no doubt. Keys, a little bit of change, five numbers on various coasters in his jacket, alongside a champagne bill for three thousand. He was at Madame Chevrot’s then, that’s a start. Flattened spliff in his back pocket, a clear packet, empty of all but one pill. A pair of women’s underwear in the left trouser; must belong to a looker. Finally he gathered himself and stood, stumbling back and forth in the mud. One step at a time now, Tempton, easy.
He tried to cover his eyes as he
staggered the streets, he heard the gasps, his name, calls for his attention
and the occasional ‘I love you, Kevin’. His pace was swift and his legs just
about kept up. He made it home, no one waiting. His front door bounced off the
inside wall and he fell inside after it, crawling far enough inside to kick the
door closed and hear the lock click. He’d apologise to Fred later and deal with
the studio when he had to. The living room was upside down, literally in the
majority. He hoped he’d done this himself and no one else had been here, that
was a worrying grimace. He put his settee up right, the settee he’d paid
six-five for purely because he could. It was vile- he knew it, but he was rich,
so f**k it. He sought his reflection in the window opposite, ‘mess’ he thought,
‘disaster’. His greying hair stuck in all directions from mucky moose, gory
grease and wax liqueur. He tried to flatten it to no avail. The wrinkled truth
the camera doesn’t see, the age that comes with a hangover the lenses never
capture. The worn-down b*****d the world is hidden from yet watched every
Kevin ran back up his street, shopping in one hand, keys ready in another. Shopping straight into the kitchen, milk in the fridge, solid on skull and body to the floor. He felt the running warmth all over his face, the metallic hint French-kissing his lips. He spat the blood back out.
us around enough, Mr Tempton; national icon or not, you owe us a lot of money’.
The voice made him want to gag again, he tried to place it, Eastern Europe
maybe, but he didn’t know it. Kevin’s eyes opened. A large man stood, easily
twenty stone, but solidly built, purposely heavy, a grin on the maw of his bald
head. He rolled a bat around in his leather gloves.
Fred showed up about five, he saw
the door unlocked and open and entered, in his own time, seeing the state and
fearing everything. Kevin was on the kitchen floor, star-fished in crimson
ocean, his stomach contracting in stutters.
The nurse handed Fred a coffee, they don’t half look after the famous here, and their managers. Two sugars his arse, but it was free so he didn’t complain.
‘I rang the studio…’ he began, ‘…told them everything, with a twist of course. If anyone asks you were attacked at home last night’. He took a seat by his friend’s bedside and continued speaking slowly. ‘The channel had to stick an extra hour of kids’ stuff on. I doubt the public were impressed…’ Kevin lay still, wrapped up, his eyes moved to Fred and away again. ‘…you owe me’.
‘I owe everyone, but I have nothing, you’ll just have to join the queue’.
Fred bit down on his knuckle, stood up inhaling deeply and started to leave. ‘You had everything, Kev’.
‘I had a talk show’.
The door shut behind him.
© 2012 TheJordBaker
Sunderland, United Kingdom
AboutI'm Jordan and I'm 20 years old. I am a poet and recently released my first poetry collection on Kindle (These Waters), as well as having some poetry published in other formats. I have also written s.. more..