Wendell 1 - Sunday March 6, 2011 (Part 2/2)

From his position, a booth in the farthest corner of the Japanese restaurant, Wendell had a perfect view of the front entrance. Unfortunately he also had a perfect view of the circular clock on the wall above the hostess podium, and he glared hatefully as the seconds tick-tocked away. Decker’s late, he thought, pulling off his jacket and lying it on the seat beside him.

He couldn’t understand it. He felt irritated yet sedated, annoyed but apathetic. Maybe sleep still clung to him, in spite of several extra hours of slumber. Wendell could think of no other cause to blame for his lack of emotion; lateness, or rather other people’s lateness, enraged him. And yet he had been waiting for Decker for nearly fifteen minutes. Hadn’t that chubby idiot been the one to arrange this lunch in the first place? Hadn’t that sweating swine called a second time three hours after Wendell had hung up on him to make sure his shining star would show up? And hadn’t Wendell wrenched himself from the comfort of his bed and his bourbon to oblige?

My presence is more than this asshole deserves. Slouching, Wendell folded his scrawny arms over his chest and continued staring at the door. He grudgingly decided that focusing on Decker’s absence was preferable to taking notice of the world around him.

He closed his eyes to the sounds of talk and laughter. He held his breath to save him from the accumulating fetor of fumes hovering like a toxic cloud around the restaurant. But even that did nothing to settle the nausea settling into the pit of his stomach.

People. He hated people. People he passed on the street, people he spoke to, everybody he had to encounter just by living. He hated them all.

They had never done anything to him of course. Some of these people even liked him. The famous Felix Haydn, prodigy among writers and artists everywhere? He was adored by lovers of his world, a world of gruesome illustrations and grotesque happenings to his collection of ever-flawed characters. Wendell had always received high praise for his work. He was a master of using colorful language and pastels to spin a wondrous web of stories from his every twisted fantasy. He marveled at how these people could swarm like flies over him and his passion. Though he had to give them credit; flies were only half as annoying. And he had few complaints as long as they continued to become ensnared enough by his sticky tangle of stories to feed him cash. Decker certainly shushed him every time he had something negative to say, reminding him that if the fans didn’t care about him, nobody would. At the very least, Wendell could stew in his unfounded disgust. It served as a kind of inspiration to help him create his next horrific scenario for publishing. And as for the people who didn’t acknowledge him as an artistic literary genius? He could loathe and malign them as he wished. Even the impassive who had never heard the name Felix Haydn earned his aversion.

Now Paisley Decker had the nerve to stand him up, to leave him waiting like this? Wendell felt a muscle beneath his eye twitch with irritation. He had one more reason to detest the pompous prick. His list of offenses had been nearing triple digits throughout their few years working together.

He opened his eyes to look at the clock again, readying himself for another wasted fifteen minutes, when he saw his tardy colleague leaning into the hostess’ booth at the front entrance, flashing the slender Asian a winning smile and a casual demeanor. But what revolted Wendell the most was that the raven-haired hostess seemed to be enjoying the attention. Laughing at losers’ jokes must equal big tips in this restaurant.

Wendell scowled and snapped his chopsticks apart, preparing to eat as much as he could as quickly as he could. He wanted to get back home, where a warm friendly bottle of Knob Creek was waiting to welcome him into a sweet birthday stupor.

Ironically, it did not take long for Decker to move away from the flirting girl (though Wendell noticed he had slipped her a tip before she rushed into the kitchen) and join him at his booth. “Hey Felix. Happy birthday.” Decker chuckled as he gave Wendell a firm slap on his shoulder. Wendell did not try to hide the accompanying cringe that shivered its way up his spine. “Had a celebratory drink yet? Cos I just ordered –”

“Paisley, what made you think you could have me sit here and wait for you for half an hour when you were the one who pulled me out of my house?" Wendell spoke in a low voice, watching his manager hoist his round belly into the seat opposite him.

“Hey, I told you I had a tight schedule today. I told you this politely, even, and you brushed me off. You couldn’t wait for me, I couldn’t wait for you.” Decker shrugged at Wendell’s furious gaze as he removed the hat from his balding head and set it aside. “Listen, Felix, Kid, I love you, but you can’t pull an attitude when things don’t go your way. You’re twenty-two now, not ten, remember?”

There was just enough patronizing sarcasm in Decker’s words, just enough uncaring ignorance in his tone, to push Wendell into mute fury. Wendell sucked in a deep breath to keep himself from reaching across the table and... What would be satisfying? Maybe plucking Decker’s eye out with the chopsticks he held tightly in his white-knuckled hand beneath the table. He could imagine the tantalizing scene already: screams and cries of pain and shock, the marvelous sensation of Decker’s socket sucking and squelching like a plunger in a toilet to keep the punctured eyeball in his skull, blood and pus spilling out in a mess of filth and gore… Wendell had to give himself a little shake to pull himself away from the beauty of it and, feeling a bit more relaxed, he turned his attention to the fat man in front of him.

Decker was shuffling the inner pockets of his suit coat. “Here, I got you – where the hell? Ah.” He finally pulled out a small book, bound in black leather, and tossed it across the table. “Sorry I didn’t wrap it or anything. I probably should have. You seem like the kind of guy who likes to rip away at things to get to the goodies inside… Speaking of which, you check out that hostess? Cutest ass I’ve seen all week.”

Wendell ignored the vulgarity and stared at Decker’s gift. “What is this?”

“It’s a diary. What’s it look like?”

“I know what it is.” Wendell snapped. “This is your way of telling me to write a new book and earn you more money.”

Decker straightened his jacket. “Income doesn’t materialize from nothing.”

Wendell felt his chopsticks beginning to splinter in his hands. “If you want me to throw you a pitch, ask me. Don’t call me out of my house to harass me in public. I can just as easily type shit up for you on my computer at home.”

“Well, you know, I figured you could use it to jot down ideas when a computer isn’t around.” Decker snapped his own chopsticks apart and began folding the paper wrapping into little squares. “Maybe on the road, for example.”

Wendell liked to think himself a fairly insightful man, able to see through most pretenses. His manager was not fooling him. Decker’s deliberate avoidance of his gaze and the way he fiddled with trash to distract himself was as transparent as glass. He had an ulterior motive here.

“And why would I be on the road, Paisley?” Wendell probed, taking the tiny diary and shoving it into the back pocket of his pants.

Decker sighed and crumpled the chopstick wrapper. “Because I signed you up for a book signing at an L.A. convention in three weeks.” He grinned apologetically as Wendell gaped in irate shock and explained, “They were willing to pay in advance.”

“You asshole! What the fuck –”

“Felix, come on, keep your voice down.”

“Without my consent, Paisley? Really?”

“If I had asked you would’ve refused.”

Wendell felt himself quaking from his rage. “You unbelievable son of a bitch!”

“All right, all right, I get it.” Decker waved his hands to quiet Wendell down, smiling anxiously at the crowded restaurant’s staring guests. “Low blow, I should have asked you. Just calm down and quit attracting attention you drama queen.”

Wendell gathered his jacket and rose from the table. “Fuck you.”

“Give me a break, Felix! It’s my job! I arrange this shit for you, I get you appearances and sales and we get a big freaking payoff! Now sit down and let me get you a drink.”

“Don’t bother. I’m going home.”

“Hell, I can even get you the phone number of that pretty hostess.” Decker desperately offered in a hushed voice. “You saw her right? She’s pretty hot. I can give her an extra tip and–”

“Just keep talking Paisley.” Give me a reason to cut your fucking tongue out.

“No, really! She’ll go for it! She accepted the hundred I gave her earlier, just in case you’re into Asians. It’s a nice present, I think –”

“You’re a sack of shit, and if you pull this stunt again I’ll make sure you never get another penny out of my work, do you hear me?”

“Fine.” Decker rested his sweating brow in the palm of his hand as Wendell turned and stormed away. “I’ll see you in three weeks…”


OOO OOO


That bastard set me up. He knew I would never take up the hassle of removing my name from the guest list of a book signing. I would do it just to spite him, except for one thing: it was a good move, getting me the diary. Sure, it’s a shameless tactic, but I am a writer and an artist, completely incapable of rejecting a perfectly blank page.

This diary is a nice one, I guess. Soft black leather cover, smooth unlined paper, and the whole thing fits snug in my pocket. I debated with myself about actually using it, but now that I’m sitting in bed in my pajamas with this thing and a couple shots of whiskey, it’s starting to seem like a good idea to keep it with me. If I can scribble all this meaningless shit down I can sure as hell write another story. Perhaps one about a fat pig who finds himself the victim of revenge after he steals from the angry protagonist.

Maybe it won’t be that bad.

And if Paisley slipped the waitress at the sushi place a hundred dollar tip, he probably managed to weasel her into his bed. I hope she cuts his dick off. That’d be kind of funny.