Conor

11:00 PM, February 22.

Five things sit in front of me: a notepad, a pen, my guitar, a flask, and a pack of oyster crackers.

The lights are low. Either I can hear an owl hooting somewhere outside of my window, or I'm exhausted enough to be having auditory hallucinations.

I sit, desperately trying to think of words that seem to get stuck halfway to the page. I attempt to conjure up some metaphor, some allegory, something that actually means something to me.

I never write anything down. For once in my life, I feel as though I have nothing to say.

It's a miserable feeling, being this uninspired. If I have nothing to write, nothing to sing or scream about, then I'm pretty much useless.

As I mire in my own frustration, I realize that I've chewed more on my pen than I have on the crackers.

Figuring there's no use in it now, I sit my pen down and shake a few of the octagon shaped crackers from their package into my palm. Trying not to think about it, I pop the handful into my mouth as if they were pills.

I chew and swallow, feeling the hunger that has begun to fade into the background of my existence vanish to some small extent. Then I pick up the flask, washing it down with the burn of straight whiskey.

Some might say that I eat like a bird and drink like a fish. I say that I eat like an artist (starving,) and drink like any folk singer should.

When I put it that way, it sounds just a bit less disturbing.

If I were to go outside and light a fire to sing around, people wouldn't look at me with mock concern, asking that ever-present question that really has become the bane of my existence: what's wrong with you, Conor?

They'd probably just gather around and listen, maybe sing along.

Because then I wouldn't just be Poor Sad Conor, who sulks and pouts and sucks the fun right out of everything.

Then I'd be Conor, the Musician, who is allowed to scream and be sad and angry and hysterical. Hell, he's encouraged to be that way.

Once I'm less human, assuming the role of the tortured artist, people stop caring about how much I drink, how little I eat, why I'm so fucking upset.

At that point, my misery is their entertainment.

To some extent, I guess that's sort of dehumanizing. But I really don't mind it one bit.

The way I see it, it's something to live for.

I wish I were back onstage.

I think of the last album, the energy in writing it, recording it, then singing the words to maybe a hundred people at the time, all of them packed into basements and small venues. I think of the release of pent-up energy and frustrations, of how, no matter how nervous I was, I could look around the stage or into the crowd and genuinely feel like I had friends.

Even surrounded by wholly unfamiliar faces, I knew that, at least for a while, I wasn't alone.

God, I miss that.

Just as soon as I've placed my flask down, I'm picking it up again. Closing my eyes, I tilt it back, feel the warmth running through my body like the touch of a lover.

Soon enough, the flask is empty, and I am nothing more than a puddle of alcohol and self-pity, my limbs feeling only as stable as a gelatin cake. I cast a rueful glance over to my guitar, groaning as I push it away.

The next thing I know, I'm lying down with my cheek pressed against the carpeted floor, suddenly feeling so exhausted I swear that I could die.

Then comes the loneliness, a final few thoughts before I drift into the blank space of sleep. As familiar as it is to have my mind wander down this path, the sadness is just as profound this time as it was the last.

My brain shifts through faces of people I don't have much to do with anymore.

Countless bandmates from over the years, Mike and Neely both being rather prominent.

(Neely especially, with her dark hair and wide eyes and soft lips.)

My parents, with all their good intentions and normalcy.

My brothers, both of them as successful as ever, and the perfect families of their own that they're currently spending their time building.

And then there's a stark contrast, a bright flash of white and blue.

A vision of Summer appears so very vividly in my mind, like a mirage on my bedroom floor.

Summer, with her kindness and self-assured nature.

Summer, with her concerned expressions and trembling hands, shakily jotting her number down on a napkin.

I told her I would call her if I ever needed anybody to drink with.

Of course, I've done more than enough drinking tonight, but I can't stop thinking about that napkin, the hollow insincerity I originally believed that my words contained.

Now, I'm not so sure that I was being dishonest at all.

She offered to be my friend.

God knows that having a friend would go a long way for me these days.

Tomorrow, I think to myself, hoping I don't forget by the time morning rolls around. I'll call her tomorrow.

Then my eyes are closing, and I'm falling asleep ten feet away from the comfort of my own bed.

Summer

Though I'm inside, I can still feel the bite of winter.

It finds some way to affect every part of my body, threatening to send me into a shivering fit. Still, I do not dare to move a muscle.

Here I sit: stationary, bare, and completely vulnerable as some forty sets of eyes take me in.

The quiet group's gaze travels over my body, taking note of every nuance and imperfection. Then they go back to their canvases, fervently copying my form.

Even after all these years, I find the corners of my mouth twitching with pride. I bite back my smile.

This relatively small, mostly male art class is one of a few academic jobs I've taken.

Though the environment is certainly cleaner and more sophisticated than the apartments of the starving artists I attract, there's something terribly stiff about all of it.

I find myself having to put my full focus into keeping my back straight, my expression mum, all the while repetitively telling myself that no, I do not have to pee.

However flattering it is to be considered worthy of such a job, the feeling of scrutiny that I find myself under whilst these students draw me is unreal. Strangely enough, it is able to completely break me down, then build me back up again just as quickly.

I force myself to hold still, feeling the intensity of the artists around me smothering me already, before I can even look at what they have created.

In order to keep myself from getting much too antsy, I focus on the radio in the background, which hums with whatever is playing on UNO's MavRadio station. Some guy with a warbling voice yells over an acoustic guitar, which he seems to be murdering, by the sound of it.

Though it doesn't do much to calm my nerves, it isn't entirely unenjoyable.

Once the clock reaches twelve o'clock, a bell rings, dismissing the class.

Slowly, the artists rise to their feet, stopping to examine what they've been able to get done today. Then they gather their things and head for the hallway, some of them looking much prouder than others.

Once the last artist grabs her backpack and exits the room, the professor turns to me and smiles. Though I could certainly do it myself, he reaches for my white robe and hands it to me.

"Good work, Miss Stevens," he says. Beneath all his scruff, I can see his face reddening.

I choose to ignore this fact as I take the robe from him. Relieved to be offered at least some warmth, I drape the garment over my shoulders before tying it at my waist.

When I stand back up, the professor is still staring at me expectantly. It occurs to me that he is waiting for a response to his praise, as if he, too, deserves a reward for good behavior.

I force a smile onto my face. "Well, thank you, Professor..."

"Stewart," he fills in my blank.

"Stewart. Right." I nod. "Thanks, Professor Stewart. Although I think you should really be applauding the students. They're the ones working hard. All I'm doing is holding very, very still."

He chuckles. "Well," he says. "You are very good at that."

I stop, attempting to take him in as subtly as possible. He isn't my type, — too old, rugged to the point of near messiness.

He sports a bushy beard/mustache combo that would only be accepted by college faculty on the face of an art professor, round, gold-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

Oddly enough, the first thought that comes to mind when I look at him is that of a skinny, artsy Santa Claus.

Jolly Old Saint Nick or not, it is abundantly clear that he is utterly charmed by me, — perhaps moreso than he should be.

In spite of any wife or kids he might have, he clearly has his eyes on the twenty-something who just posed nude in front of him for an hour.

Though I am unlikely to return his interest at any point, I force my polite smile to stay in place just as I had kept my legs poised a few minutes ago.

As with all the men in my life thus far, I figure I ought to act flattered for him. I've found that that gets me places.

"That's nice to know." I giggle, grabbing my canvas bag from behind his desk and heading in the direction of the bathroom. I can feel his eyes on my back as I go.

"I'll see you soon, Professor Stewart," I promise.

"You as well, Miss Stevens."

I grin as I close the bathroom door behind me.

He's wrapped around my finger now, there to do whatever I might need him to in the future.

Dirty as it may sound, I am certainly no stranger to favors, – though they are much more often done in the spirit of helping myself rather than anyone else.

I drop my robe once again before reaching into my bag for my clothes. I pull every article on from my bra to my coat rather quickly. As I do this, I wonder why I could stand naked before Professor Stevens and his pupils, but couldn't redress while he watched.

Once I am once again fully clothed, I examine myself in the mirror, tying my hair back up and reapplying my lipstick.

With that, I step back into the classroom, waving at Professor Stevens on my way out. He waves back rather gleefully.

Once I'm back inside my car, I am surprised by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I stop before putting my keys in the ignition, reaching for my bag.

I pull the phone from its place at the bottom of the bag only to see an unfamiliar number displayed on the exterior screen. I frown, considering whether or not to answer. Finally, I have an ah-what-the-hell moment.

I flip the phone open and press it to my ear. "Hello?" I greet the caller primly.

"Uh, hi," a male voice responds. The guy sounds young, nervous, maybe slightly congested. "Is this... Summer?"

"Yes, it is," I reply. "And if you don't mind my asking, who am I speaking to?"

"Oh, shit," the guy curses. "I forgot to tell you... Sorry..."

Jesus. This dude is either made of social anxiety or high out of his tree.

"It's okay," I tell him. "Take your time."

"Oh, uh... Yeah. Okay." The guy seems to take a moment to compose himself. He clears his throat before speaking again.

"This is Conor," he says. "From the party and the café and the record store and... The alley."

Suddenly, recognition dawns.

Oh, yes.

Conor.

How could I forget him, with his bloodshot eyes and weak stomach?

"Ah. Conor." I smile to myself, leaning back in the driver's seat of my car. "So, I guess you decided you needed a drinking buddy after all, huh?"

He huffs out a half-laugh. "Yeah, something like that. Maybe just tonight, though. It's kinda lonely around at my place..."

I raise my eyebrows. "You want me to come over to your place and keep you company?" I ask. "Wow, Conor, what kind of girl do you think I am?"

"No, no, no!" The words leave his mouth quickly, filled with panic. I don't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. "Nothing like that. I actually feel kind of... Sort of stir-crazy, just stuck here... In my own house."

"Gotcha," I reply. "So, you want to get out for a while?"

"Um... Yeah. Yeah, that would be... nice."

Good God, poor kid. He can't even get through half a sentence without stumbling over his own words.

"Well, luckily for you, I've got a party I'm going to tonight."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yup! I'm on alcohol supply duty, too. Maybe you could meet me at Spirits and Things around 11:00?" I ask.

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Though it's apparent that he's nervous, I can't resist the urge to make him squirm just a bit more. "So... It's a date, then?"

He pauses. For a while, I think he's hung up. Hell, maybe he died with me on the line.

Then I hear his meek voice pipe up again. "I guess it is if you want it to be."

"Then it is," I say. "See you tonight."

I close the phone.

I smile to myself as I turn the key, the engine of my car coming to life.

A date.

That, apparently, is as far as drinking buddies can go.