The Day Of The Late-June Storm

After work on Sunday I took a nap and woke up hungry, unsure of where I wanted to walk on this hot afternoon to find food while Jenny was at work and I needed brain power to keep writing. First I have to wait for Arielle to come pick up her car. I got lazy and decided to grab a cheap sandwich and a Pepsi from Grocery Outlet, but then I heard Hemingway's voice in my ear and put the Pepsi back in favor of a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Ernest knows best. I drank that whole bottle by myself in my room as I churned out another couple pages of prose, killed a character or two, moved the plot forward and brainstormed for future chapters. Then, at some point between sunset and intoxication, Jack came by with a joint and we spent an hour rambling about the purpose of life, Jack's crazy roommates, the pros and cons of Old Soul and the innate human desire to "want more." He left and then I finished writing and suited up for a late-night walk to Jenny's apartment. Somehow we ended up watching the first half of Superbad with Nick and Ashley, smoking more pot, and my rational self finally convinced the Hemingway-inspired reckless me to go to bed. 

I woke up with terrible allergies, but nary a hangover. 

I would've preferred a hangover. I hated my life during that long morning shift, endlessly battling an impending sneeze, a runny nose and red eyes. Felt bad for Cody because I was such a useless lump. 

As soon as I was free, I took a long nap, a shower, gathered my sorry self together and made plans with Jenny to go see Conan O'Brien's documentary at The Crest. I thought this customer, Joshua, was gonna be there but he wasn't in the audience. Oh well. Jenny and I bumped into Ross on the way there and he was hopping off his bike outside of de Vere's, where he was meeting a few others for Pub Quiz Night. The documentary was neat. A nice glimpse behind the scenes. Nice to see that Conan didn't sugarcoat anything. If he was tired after a long day of meet-and-greeting fans, he was vocal about it. Afterward, Jenny and I still had a lot of daylight to spend and so we went back to de Vere's and were in time to join the Pub Quiz game already in session. Ross, Howard, Barbara and Steve made room at their table for us and right off the bat, Jenny's answering a question or two and I get the question about Peter Falk right and our team gets fourth place and it's neat to hang out with these older versions of ourselves and Jenny has a long, important conversation with Howard about journalism and I'm watching her face glow and her eyes brighten as Howard says all the right things to encourage her to keep writing. Then we order dinner. Afterward, Jenny and I go back to my room and it's still early but we're tired and the night fades away.

Today I wake up in a much better mood without allergies. I work with Jessica, who, now with a shaved-head, has to explain herself to a thousand different people and I can tell that's annoying her. I guess that's how Conan gets after signing a thousand posters. I find out that Matty got jumped and beat up on Sunday. He's got the cuts to prove it and though the guy might be a little socially awkward, it's still a tragedy that something like that happened. I'm restless all day because Jenny gave me a good idea for the story and I'm a little over halfway done and all I want to do is write it and finish it and share it. I hang around after work for a while to say hi to Erin and Bobby and Lilly, then head home through the rain-drenched alleyway. 

Rain. I said that. Not just rain, but lightning and thunder. 

In late June.

So now I'm drinking a bottle of wine and writing again. Sean said hello from San Diego and it was good to hear from him, as brief as those text messages were. I've been watching the rain and listening to French music all afternoon, writing. What else should I be doing? This feels perfect. Maybe I'll hang out with Jenny later, but with this weather, it wouldn't be a very fun bike ride. Also she still has my helmet. Also I have to wake up early to open tomorrow, my Friday, anyway. Here's to hoping the bonfire still happens tomorrow night. Here's to hoping I'm not becoming an alcoholic. Here's to fiction and the life that feeds it. 

- Left to Fry