Wendell 5 – Thursday March 31, 2011 (Part 2/2)

Landing did not brighten Wendell’s mood, nor did arriving at the fancy hotel for the weekend stay. Nausea had taken its dizzying hold, as it usually did during plane rides (or during any long trip away from home), and the only comfort he had left to indulge after he denied his thirst for vodka was a proper rest. So when he entered his suite, he wasted no time in getting cozy.

Wendell cast a bored glance at his surroundings as he sat in a blue cushioned chair at a small circular table near the balcony. He was unimpressed by the blue and green paint scheme, floral carpet, and paintings of peacocks above the enormous bed. Paisley had picked the hotel, and Wendell had not paid enough attention to catch even the name of the ridiculous building, but this would not stop him from complaining to his agent about the obvious lack of taste.

His head pounded, like it had been for days. Part of him suspected this was because he had remained loyal to staying sober, but he brushed this thought aside yet again with an easy self-assurance. Remember, you’re not an addict, so quit bitching and distract yourself already. Wendell pulled from the inside pocket of his jacket his tiny black diary and the stub of a pencil. He began to write there at the wooden table, forcing himself not to think of the aches in his bones and how a decent drink would most certainly eradicate them.

But his pencil had barely pressed into the white paper when the door to his room suddenly clicked unlocked and swung open. Wendell started as Paisley barged in, dressed in his everyday brown suit and flat cap, an extra layer of sweat shining on his cheeks.

“Hey Felix,” he sighed, worn out. “Settling in ok?”

“Better than you, it seems like.” Wendell said with an annoyed huff.

“Eh. I took care of my luggage myself. Sure, pushing that damn cart from the elevator to the end of the hall is no job for, well,” Decker patted his large stomach, “a guy like me. I’m a bit too –”

Wendell sneered. “Fat?”

“I was going to say well-rounded.” Decker said, going in to the bathroom. “Anyway, doing it myself is better than tipping a busboy. They’re always annoying, doesn’t matter what hotel you stay in. Following you around, itching to do mindless chores ‘til you tip with a twenty or whatever…” He held a washcloth under the running water in the sink and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “Greedy, grubby little brats.”

With a shake of his head Wendell, ignoring Decker’s hypocritical remarks, turned back to his diary. Yet again, Wendell’s hand faltered above the page as he racked his brain for an inspirational spark. He could think of nothing, and he sucked on his tongue, gently gnawing to keep him from losing his temper. He longed for some gin; alcohol would serve as decent dynamite with which to blow the dam on his normally rapid river of thoughts to smithereens. But he had none, and he again reminded himself that he didn’t need any.

He realized quite suddenly that Decker stood behind him, and Wendell didn’t have to look up from his diary to know he was peering over his shoulder, trying to spy on his written thoughts.

“Do you mind?” Wendell shoved his dull pencil into the diary’s spine to keep his place and then snapped his little book shut as he closed his eyes.

“Not at all.” Decker chuckled, settling onto the foot of the nearby bed. He held a plastic cup of ice water in his hand and wore a look of curious glee on his face. “Good to see you’re taking my little gift to heart, Kid... Or trying to take it to heart. Writer’s block?”

Wendell’s irritation greatened with each pounding thump in his skull. His head was killing him, and his patience was drawn thin. “What the fuck makes you think I’d like you hanging over me like that?”

“Calm down.” Decker gave him a quick up-down glance, his brow furrowing. “You ok?”

“Am I ever ok with you around?”

“Your head hurt? Joints ach? You’re hunched over like you’re feeling sick.”

Wendell dropped his head onto the table with an audible bump. “I’m sick of you.”

“And you’ve got a quick temper.” Decker added. “Quicker than normal.”

Moving his head to plant his cheek against the table’s cool surface, Wendell groaned, “I’m pissed off.”

“You’re detoxing.” Decker replied, a note of realization in his voice. His free hand sifted through his coat pockets until he withdrew a tiny gold pillbox, and he snapped it open. “You’ve been going sober for, what, two or three weeks now?”

“I’m not detoxing. I wasn’t addicted to the booze.”

Decker stood, tapped out two little white pills, and set them on the table in front of his client with his cup of ice water. “Sure, Felix. I guess I’m just imagining the signs. Did you even notice your fingers twitching?”

Wendell perked his eyebrows and lifted his head just enough to look at his hands. Indeed, every few seconds the tips of his fingers tingled and jolted. He stared while Decker chuckled.

“You’re officially a recovering addict.”

“No I’m not. I always get antsy when I’m not writing, and you’re distracting me from that. I was just fine before you came in.”

“So your head doesn’t hurt?”

Wendell sat up with a disgruntled roll of his shoulders. “Why the hell are you here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be hitting on women down at the lobby?”

Decker clapped his hands and rested them in his lap, lips upturned in a smug grin. “It’s funny. Normally the whole ‘denying you have a problem’ thing comes before you try to clean up.”

“Dammit, I do not have a problem.”

“But you’re trying to get clean.” Decker said. “Things are always backwards with you. You’re a fucking anomaly.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Shit, Felix. Did you see how many tickets were bought online for this convention? I mean, pre-sale? Just because your name’s on the guest list?”

Wendell shrugged. “A lot.”

Decker shook his head. “More than a lot. A ton. Most of them, I’ll bet. You’re the next fucking Quentin Tarantino, and what do you do?” He scoffed. “You sit at home and mope around and yell at me when I try to get you to enjoy the success. It’s like you want to be totally common.”

Wendell’s nose scrunched with disgust and he said sarcastically, “Right. I strive for normalcy. I’d love to be just like everybody else.”

“Seems like it, sometimes.”

“How the hell do you come to that conclusion?” Wendell stood from his chair and glared down at Decker. “You know how much I hate people! So many of them are just stupid and selfish and have nothing to contribute to anything! I go out of my way to avoid looking at them or talking to them!”

Decker nodded wisely. “You are pretty antisocial.”

“It’s not fucking funny!”

“Yeah it is. It’s kind of ironic, really, because you also go out of your way to look just like everybody else, talk like everybody else… develop the same addictions as everybody else. Alcoholism is a very common problem.”

“I’m not an alcoholic –”

“You aren’t now that you’re quitting. Admit it, you’re detoxing, so take those,” Decker pointed at the two pills on the table, “and be feeling better by tomorrow. You’ll lose some of your popularity if you’re shaking and cursing all fucking day.”

Wendell’s headache had grown in its intensity, now pumping through his entire brain. He scowled at the pills, hating to admit he needed anything for it, but he copped out with a quiet “I wouldn’t have this headache if it weren’t for your nagging anyway.” He pinched the pills and tossed them back with a quick swallow, falling back into the rhythm of the tiff without missing a beat. “I was never an alcoholic. It was just a past-time.”

Decker nodded. “You should just go habit-hopping. Quit drinking and start another habit. An addiction is a flaw, and everybody’s got one of those. A flaw will make you a little bit more normal.”

“I don’t want –”

“Like pills.” Decker stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his coat. “Pills are a very normal thing to get addicted to.”

Wendell stared, a distant lump in his throat rising up to his tongue, and he thought he felt the little pills squirming as they traveled down his esophagus. “What?”

Decker gave Wendell a heavy pat on the shoulder as he headed to the hotel room’s door. “I bet a decent high would even inspire you a little. Put that diary to some good use.”

Wendell’s mouth fell open in shock. “Did… Did you just give me drugs?”

“Yeah. For your headache.”

“What the fuck did you just give me?”

Decker, his hand on the doorknob, turned back to Wendell with a smirk. “Ibuprofen. C’mon Kid, like I’d get my shining star hooked on anything dangerous. I need you alive if I want any cash flow.” He tapped his cap with a plump finger. “But paranoia, Felix? Looks like detoxing to me. So just chill out. You have appearances to make this weekend. And if you need any more light meds I’m just next door.”

Wendell stared as Decker closed the door behind him.

For a long time he could feel only the throbbing in his head and joints; every bend in his fingers itched with anxiety and even his eyes pulsed. But he stood there, arms limp, shoulders slouched, mouth ever-so-slightly agape, until he thought his manager’s medicine was working, and the pain started to fade. Then he ventured into the bathroom with every intention of gazing into the mirror.

The bar of white light burned his retinas, but he gazed unblinkingly at his reflection, waiting to see something new.

Nothing happened.

Maybe Decker wasn’t completely wrong. Wendell looked at himself and saw the hints of normalcy he had always clung to. Perhaps, in attempting to keep solitary, he had begun blending in. He had been trying to be common, hating how strangers who barely knew who he was claimed to adore him, and the evidence of his shameful effort was staring him in the face. His hand rose and slid along the frame of his black glasses until his thumb slipped through the empty gap where a lens belonged.

They were fake. They always had been, since he realized that they dulled his angular features and made him look… well, unremarkable.

He flicked off the light switch and left the bathroom, taking his seat at the table and opening his diary again.


OOO OOO


Paisley was right. I do hate being special…Really, I’m not special, and I guess what bothers me most is that nobody knows anything about me. Their love is based solely on my work, and that means nothing. If it did I wouldn’t use a pseudonym, and people would love Wendell Carmen instead of Felix Haydn. They’re blind to who I really am and now they have made me blind too.

Something has to be done. And if trying to be like everyone else caused this identity crisis, I just have to try to be unlike everyone else. It’ll strain every agoraphobic cell in my body, but I have to establish myself somehow.

Paisley’s been accidentally budding this self-enlightenment crap a lot lately. He got me on that last little trip, too, making me really think about myself. If he keeps this up he might really help me out, and then I’ll have to start being nice to him. But luckily we’ve got a way to go before that happens.


OOO OOO


As he set down his pencil Wendell ran a hand through his dark hair and nudged his glasses. There’s hope for this weekend yet, he thought with a smirk.