Isabella is supposed to call around nine o’clock.
It is 8:49
PM
.
That’s eleven minutes.
I’m freaking out.
I cleaned the house.
I vacuumed the floor, did the dishes, took the garbage out, even dusted.
The place looks good.
I’m sitting in front of the computer, improving my MySpace page, trying to waste time, trying to make time go easier.
Time won’t go easy.
Time is crushing me.
It is 8:50
PM
.
A minute has passed.
I’m still sitting here.
I wish she would call early.
She won’t call.
Isabella hates me.
No, she doesn’t hate me.
She doesn’t care about me.
She views me as someone who sits at the Waffle House all night reading with a strange man, looking terrified, never saying the right thing, unable to hold a decent conversation.
She always goes, “What’s up, Vasily?”
And like a fuckhead I say, “Nothing.”
Then she says with that inflection that signifies she is speaking to a loser, “You live an interesting life.”
But what am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to describe how I watched global warming disaster videos for four hours last night? Am I supposed to describe how Gina makes my heart swoon, my cheeks redden, and I get all stupid when I’m around her. I can’t say that to Isabella, because I’m trying to fuck her. Talking about how my mother hates me is not how to get chicks. I can’t describe how I lay in bed for two hours dwelling on how big of a fucking ass I am, how I’m a failure, how I’m crushed by history, fucked, lonely, and want to die.
No, I can’t say those things out loud.
To get a chick you have to say something witty, you have to get them to laugh, you have to put on a performance, be a comedian.
I can’t make jokes.
My sense of humor is deadpan.
Deadpan doesn’t get the bitches.
It is 8:52
PM
.
She isn’t going to call.
Maybe she will.
She won’t.
Maybe she will.
I don’t know.
My life is horrible.
My mind keeps racing to horrible conclusions. I’m a complete waste and need to be vanquished before a live studio audience.
I go to my room and lie on my bed.
I don’t turn on music.
It is quiet.
I lie in the fetal position.
My eyes are closed.
I don’t cry.
I feel like it would be therapeutic.
But I’m a man and men don’t cry.
When I was younger, it was easier for me to get girls.
When I was young I was cool, I was an artsy kid. All the kids were artsy kids. We were artsy kids and we hung out at certain bars and we met, got drunk, had sex.
Now those artsy kids have babies, and instead of being artsy kids, they are moms and dads and have jobs that require education, like hairdressing and teaching middle-school. Some became addicts, but they also became moms and dads.
I have no kids.
They all tell me, “Vasily, get some kids, get married. Why didn’t you get married to Jessica?”
I answer: “Because she sucks.”
No one believes me though. Everyone thinks I’m immature and an asshole for not marrying Jessica and having loads of offspring even though Jessica and I fought all the time.
It is 8:55
PM
.
She isn’t going to call.
I need to die.
Maybe if I lay here in this dark room in silence I’ll fall asleep, and if I’m really lucky I’ll have an aneurysm.
That won’t happen.
I’ll wake up knowing I was stood up.
I remember when I was younger, I was with this girl and we fucked all night, and the sun came up, it shone through the windows, and she looked so pretty.
Those days are gone.
It isn’t cool to be weird when you get older.
Being weird is cool when you’re twenty, but as time passes you get creepy.
I’m creepy now.
And that’s why Isabella isn’t calling.
And that’s why she won’t come.
I’m such a failure.
If I had some drugs she’d be here.
I have no drugs.
Drugs make me depressed, scared, and lonely.
I already feel depressed, scared, and lonely.
I don’t need anything that will exacerbate those emotions.
I lie here for a moment and try not to exist.
I remain perfectly still.
Like a rock or cactus.
It doesn’t work, I still exist!
This is bad.
It is 8:59
PM
.
She won’t call.
I’m doomed.
Life is a horrible monstrosity!
I’ve been stood up before, I can take this.
Now I’m telling myself things, to make myself feel that I’m strong or that I know things, and since I know things I won’t let them affect me.
It still makes me want to scream, break my arms and legs and cut myself in a masochistic rampage.
You can’t make the truth of your failure go away.
Even if you know every little thing about something, even if you know and understand every calculation, have every bit of news on the subject, even if you can name all the conspirators, have a list of times and dates, study every psychological discipline ever invented, and know exactly who to blame and who not to blame.
It doesn’t matter!
It still crushes you.
And here I am crushed.
It’s 9:00
PM
.
What did I do to deserve this?
Nothing.
It isn’t a question of deserve.
Isabella likes to feel special.
I know this.
I have this information.
Months ago she said to me, “I like to feel special.”
Everybody likes to feel special.
Everyone is running around trying to get other people to make them feel special.
I made her feel special because I asked her out.
She got what she wanted.
She wanted to feel special and I gave her the medicine.
But now she won’t come.
I wonder when I first came out of my mother’s cunt, back in Russia, if anyone standing there, maybe even the doctor or a nurse, thought, ‘One day this man will be stood up and life will crush him.’
Someone had to think it.
Someone should have told me when I was little, “Vasily, everyone is playing a game in life. Everyone is trying to feel special. And to accomplish this, they will hurt you, and you will even hurt people to gain this feeling of power over the world. This is the game that humanity plays.”
But that wouldn’t have mattered.
Because I would have done it anyway. I would have asked her out anyway. I would have put myself in a position to be humiliated and mutilated before a live studio audience.
Time passes and she does not call, so I call Chang.
“Chang.”
“She didn’t come?”
“No.”
“Bitch!”
“Thanks. To the bar?”
“To the bar.”
8
Chang and I are sitting in Sweet Jenny’s.
Sasha is behind the bar serving drinks.
There aren’t many people in the bar.
Chang and I sit there like two useless assholes drinking draft beer.
Chang says, “Fucking bitch.”
“Yes, a horrible fucking bitch.”
Chang is a good friend. Good friends always hate the people who stand up their friends.
Sasha comes over. “You got stood up?”
“Yes.”