BEFORE YOU READ THE STORY PLEASE TAKE THIS QUICK POLL!!!
I’m thinking about producing another book, this time a short story collection, a mix of stories previously published in literary magazines and journals, some stories published on Substack over the past 2.9 years, and some fresh ones unread. How many of you would enjoy reading and reviewing (on Amazon) such a book and what do you feel would be a fair price for the eBook and softcover? There are 3 polls here. Answer whatever you like. The more info I get the better.
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*This is a completely made-up fictional story. There is some of “me” in it (from the past) but it’s definitely NOT an autobiographical story though, the truth is, it’s not too far from something I would have done when still actively drinking circa say 2006, 2008, in my early/mid-twenties. But this all comes from my imagination.
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John McIntosh got up and did his usual morning routine. It was 8:17 am on the nose. His iPhone was doing that annoying cliché ring. He grabbed the phone, turned the alarm off—how many had gone off since 7:00?—and groaned, half turning over.
Ugh, he thought: Another fucking day.
He sat up and glared at the tall French window across his room, partially open to the cool March Madrid air, the beige blinds pulled back as always, grotesque, righteous yellow sunlight penetrating through the thick glass into the room, coagulating in a sharp diamond-shaped beam on the hardwood floor.
Fuck, man.
Rubbing his nose, sniffling into horrible wakefulness, he once more grabbed his iPhone 13 and then his pack of Camel 100s. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the apartment. He often did. Besides, he was hungover as hell.
Last night percolated into his dim, fragmented memory: Aaron and Carl, the pubs, the shots of Jameson, the shots of bourbon, that girl—what was her name? Chelsea? Nicky? Gloria?—making out with her, his greedy hands palming her tits over that white blouse she wore, tempting him all night. Then separating from the boys; an argument with Carl (?); Chelsea-Nicky-Gloria’s apartment; the rough sex; then staggering back home to his place at 3am, bleary and stumbling. He remembered falling on the stairs. Damn it. Had he been loud? Had he woken his neighbors?
He was scared to look at his phone. He’d seen several texts when shutting his alarm down.
His red Bic lighter was still in his jeans pocket, which he was wearing in bed. He pulled the lighter out and, still sitting up in bed, lit it. He inhaled the nasty, beautiful tobacco, sucking the noxious fumes deeply into his lungs. He desperately needed water, greasy food, sugar, even a beer. Hair of the dog. He was 28, single, living alone in Malasana, on Calle de Monteleon, just south of the major street Calle de Carranza in Madrid. An American ex-pat living his dreams.
Finally, after several minutes of silence sliced by a few loud staggering sirens in the distance and the sound of a woman down on the street (he was on the fifth floor) yelling something angrily in Spanish to some unseen other, he looked at his phone.
The first text was from 11:30pm last night: Hey, It’s Annika.
ANNIKA. That was her name. Right. Where had he got Chelsea, Gloria or Nicky? He chuckled. He had dubiously responded to her text two minutes later (11:32pm): You’re hot. I want you, baby.
Oh, Christ. Cringe. His heart started beating heavy and hard. What a douche-bag he was. He sighed, rolling his eyes. He was such an idiot around women after he drank too much. Whatever. Dumbass.
The next text was from Carl at 12:09am: Dude, are you coming back to our table? Where are you?
John’s response came a half hour later (12:39pm): Fuck you, mate. I found a girl.
Then at 1:02am from Aaron: Where are you, man? Answer your phone. We’re worried. Did you go home with that chick??
No more texts. Two missed calls, both from Aaron.
John put the cigarette out into the little faded-red ashtray on his bedside table, threw the covers off, stood, yawned loudly, felt like he might actually wretch, searched around for his Iggy and the Stooges T-shirt from last night (yellow with red, thick crusted lettering), found it, pulled it on, and walked into the bathroom.
When he flipped the light on he saw a shock.
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