Writer's Block

He punched me in the shoulder so I shot him in the leg. I should've aimed higher. He owes me now I guess. So do a lot of people, for a lot of things. Some know. Others don't. They all find out sooner or later. Or maybe I'm assuming. I haven't been doing this very long. What do I know? But a little fatalism seems fine. Appropriate even. I'm a bad motherfucker.

I notice my shoe is untied, so I kneel before Emily, while he, Pinky, whom I shot, swears and clutches his leg. I got down on one knee for Emily once before, three years and five months ago. It didn't go well. In my opinion. "How did you know he was here?" she asks.

"Knowing is my business now," I say.

Pinky moans. Emily kicks him twice.

"Jesus," she says. "You go from insecure to egomaniac instantly. It's tedious." I shrug. Over time I'd come to sound stupid to her, or at least like an irritation. I don't expect a thank you.

I ask if she's going to Sharlene's. That's a bar. They've got free latkes on Friday nights. I'm hungry and thirsty and broke. As it happens, Amram's having his birthday party there tonight. He just got a new assignment, one I wanted -- he's flying to Laos to write about a pop star running for President. I pitched that same story to my old boss. He turned it down. He said I didn't have the necessary reporting experience. "What makes you think you can report that story out?" he said. I gave a two-word answer. The words weren't "I quit" but had the same effect. Fucking Amram. I swear he invites me his parties, and he throws a lot, because he knows he makes my eye twitch.

"Yeah, I'm going," says Emily, "with Tevin." Tevin is white. I hate Tevin. Last time I saw him he was wearing a rope belt. Emily looks down at Pinky, who's been dribbling out a low moan for a minute now. "How are you gonna get rid of this guy?" She kicks him two more times.

I step forward, put one in Pinky's head, and decide he doesn't owe me anymore.