Wendell 6 – Friday April 1, 2011 (Part 2/2)

I knew Paisley would yell at me as soon as we’d retired to our hotel rooms, but I underestimated the bastard’s fury. He sat beside me all day, watching me autograph every piece of memorabilia I was handed with dead kittens, and he barely uttered a word. Only once after the presentation of my grisly painting did he actually protest, and as punishment I began drawing little dead businessmen. From then on he didn’t even shake his head in disagreement. I expected his eyes to flash every time I said the word “fuck” (I made an effort to use it at least once per sentence), and I thought I caught him bristling when I told one fifteen year old that my inspiration came from my good friend Jack Daniels. But he never peeped and I kept smiling, his silence assuring my victory. I had won this time.

Of course, I’d forgotten that Paisley has this remarkable talent for reminding me who is in charge of my business affairs. Idiot that I am, I never saw the attack coming.

I’m not sure how it happened, but I think I lost myself for a moment.

OOO

Stubborn as an ox and looking twice as angry, Decker stood in the doorway of Wendell’s room with fists stuffed into the pockets of his slacks. Wendell ignored him, his grin holding strong as he stripped away his neon suspenders and looked around at the mess he’d left in his hotel room the night before. Sticky paint brushes, bits of pastel chalk, and color-smeared paper towels almost completely hid the tiny table from view, and crumpled sheets of paper littered the carpeted floor. When searching for an outfit he’d dumped his entire suitcase out on the bed. He’d even left a crimson handprint on the handle of the little refrigerator. He stooped to pick up a few balls of rumpled paper and proceeded to toss them in the trashcan on the other side of the room. And when his first shot went in, Wendell whooped with enthusiasm.

But Decker, unable to keep his temper bottled up any longer, wasn’t having any of it. “I guess you were just dying to have a little fun, huh?” he demanded.

Wendell nodded cheerfully. “And I expect you want an explanation?”

“I deserve one, yeah.”

Pushing aside the mountain of clothes, Wendell took a seat on the foot of the bed and scrunched his face into a thoughtful expression. “Deserve one? I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s not as if any of this hurt you.”

“Are you kidding?” Decker scoffed.

Wendell raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “You disagree?”

“You may have just annihilated my career!”

“Mine, maybe –”

“Your career is my career, dumbass! Why would you even do something like that? Did you honestly think making a scene was a good PR move? Or did you purposefully decide to do all of the wrong things?”

Wendell knew that a silent and coy act would drive his manager right up the wall. He chuckled at the idea as he threw another ball of paper toward the trashcan in the corner of the room, and again, it made it in.

He was right, of course; his silence gave Decker an unneeded opportunity to rile himself up even further. He began pacing around the room, stepping over the piles of mess, and his hands flew through the air in wild gestures. Wendell folded his arms and watched the display with a grin, relishing the hilarity of it. The room shook with his agent’s quaking shouts, his complexion reddening, and his veins popping. It was enough to make Wendell swell with satisfaction.

“And when I think of all the trouble I went through to keep that cat story quiet, just to save your sorry ass! Good Lord, all the phone calls and e-mails – and some of those dicks got a hold of my personal cell! My personal cell! I actually had to get a new number! And why do I waste my time? It couldn’t possibly be that I’ve been taking care of your job or anything! No no no, with you I have to start aiming lower so I’m not disappointed, because you just keep pushing all the worst buttons! Being professional? As if you ever could be, you pitiless ass –”

“Temper Paisley,” Wendell warned, amused.

Decker finally turned to him. “Just what the fuck were you thinking, Felix?”

Wendell had been waiting for him to ask this, and he had his cocky answer ready. “I was thinking it’d feel nice to show up everyone who’s weaseled their way into my life. Including you.”

“What?”

The affronted look on Decker’s face urged him on. Wendell shrugged carelessly, bending to pick up another piece of bunched paper from the floor. “I knew it’d make people angry. And that made me happy.”

“…That’s it?”

“Well, I did kind of want money for that painting. Never thought I’d get three hundred bucks for it.”

“I thought you said that money would go to your neighbor!”

“You believed me?” Wendell snickered. “And you called me a dumbass! Besides, I just made some extra cash. Who’s really complaining?”

“Your neighbor might, if she hears you made a profit from the murder of her cat –”

Wendell rolled his eyes, playfully passing the crumpled ball from one hand to the other. “Puh-lease…”

“And if you were smart you would give her that money!”

“She wouldn’t accept it anyway; it’s practically blood money.”

Decker stared incredulously as Wendell stood and aimed his third wad of paper for the waste bin. “You fucking idiot. You really are enjoying this.”

“Haven’t had this much fun while sober in years!” Wendell affirmed with glee. He was about to take his shot, but before he could Decker marched up to him and smacked the trash away.

“Ow! Hey –”

Decker shouted in Wendell’s face, jabbing an accusing finger inches away from his nose. “This ridiculous stunt of yours probably ruined us, you son of a bitch!”

Wendell shook the sting from his hand, annoyed now. “Oh, relax. It was just a little game –”

“Grow up!” Decker shoved Wendell’s shoulders, hard, and the skinny man fell back into the table, knocking paintbrushes and chalk to the floor. Wendell steadied himself, shock replacing any amusement in his face, as Decker roared on. “This isn’t a game, and it’s not funny! But you can’t see that because you’re too self-absorbed to have any regard for others! So stuck in your own little world that you can’t imagine anything ever going wrong!”

“I –”

“Even your drinking was all for you! You didn’t really have a reason to quit, did you? It sure as hell wasn’t for your poor neighbor, or your fans, or anybody else!”

Wendell bristled with anger. “Don’t –”

“Oh no, let me guess! Did you quit because you hated yourself? Is it because alcohol made you an idiot? Is it because you did stupid things? News flash, asshole, that hasn’t changed! You’re still an idiot. You still do stupid things! And you still walk around doing whatever you want like you own the place. But you’re not a child, Felix! Life isn’t a fucking game, and people aren’t your playthings –”

“Temper, Paisley…” Wendell said, this time in a low and dangerous voice.

Decker’s rant finally came to a slow, and the scorn in his eyes faded as he stared at Wendell, who shook with fury. Then he heaved a frustrated sigh. “Look, Kid, I’m only saying so because you need to change. And I know you want to – you quit drinking, after all – but it didn’t do anything for you, did it? You have different problems, and you’re acting out and making mistakes. You need help –”

“Do not think for one second you know anything about what I need,” Wendell warned.

“Kid, you need to learn something here –”

“You should leave, Paisley.”

Decker clenched his jaw, and Wendell could tell he was struggling to keep quiet. He continued to glare at his manager, daring him to take the challenge. He would’ve loved to have kept going. He was already imagining how quickly the fight would move in his favor: one swift punch would stun Decker long enough for Wendell to grab hold of his bulbous head and slam it into the wall. One, two, or however many times it would take to smash that thick skull into bloody pieces…

Decker, however, did not see the sick and hateful longing in Wendell’s eyes. With a husky groan and a disappointed shake of his head, Decker headed for the door, stepping over the mess once more. He spoke to Wendell over his shoulder. “What’s really pathetic, Kid, is that you aren’t going to learn anything from this.”

He was gone with a slam of the door, and Wendell stood unmoving, waiting for the rage and the wrath to pass.

But it wouldn’t.

And he could feel a flicker of self-doubt in the midst of his anger.

If I was learning, shouldn’t I have made some progress by now? It’s been almost a month since I quit drinking… Shouldn’t I be a little closer to knowing who I am?

He headed down the short hallway and turned into the bathroom, turning the faucet of the sink and watching the small basin fill. The water flow hissed unpleasantly. And when it finally reached the top, spilling over onto the bathroom’s white counter, he left it running while he cupped the icy water in his hands and splashed his face with it.

This was not what he was expecting sobriety to be. He was expecting some kind of grand reveal – one of these days he would suddenly discover he was happy. But if that was the way it really worked, shouldn’t it have happened already? Had he been wrong this entire time?

He lifted his grey eyes to the mirror in front of him, face dripping with cold water and sweat, and remembered the jeering reflections in his basement. It seemed so long ago, but all at once the frustration he felt that night overwhelmed him.

He wasn’t learning. He wasn’t changing.

Paisley’s words echoed in his brain. What’s really pathetic, Kid…

And before he could stop himself, Wendell had curled his hand into a solid fist and punched the mirror. With a crack the glass spider-webbed, splitting his reflection into hundreds of jagged pieces. He held back a cry of pain as blood fell from his wounded knuckles into the sink, where it dissolved into a crimson cloud in the water.

God damn it, I’m still not happy!