Spinning

Chapter 34: Don't be an idiot

Everyday, I stare at the tiny square paper, so ominously folded at the opposite end of my room. Do I open it? Can I handle its contents? I am consumed by it, day and night, at work or at home, awake or asleep. Consumed by Eddie. Not again, for Christ's sake. The wind pulls at my hair as I muse on the rut I've fallen back into. I light a cigarette, pick up my beer, and ignore the frostbite creeping into my fingers and nose.

            Why am I here? Am I really this stupid? Do not answer that, subconscious. It was rhetorical. And yes, I know the answer. I'm sure he notices my absence, but what was I to do? Hang out like nothing is wrong? I take another drag, ending with a tough cough. I'm not cut out to be a smoker.

            There's movement below me. Creaks of a step, followed by shuffling footsteps. I hope it's not him. Clouds roll in front of the full moon and I shiver involuntarily. I see a shape take form at the top of the stairs, his silhouette made possible only by the moonlight. Why am I here?

            It all started yesterday at work. I had my normal gear on – lab coat, gloves, goggles – and I was working in my biological safety cabinet. Code for sterile work environment. I was sterile from my elbows to my hands, happily listening to Pusha T's Daytona on my 10-year-old red iPod nano.

            I felt my phone vibrate through my pocket.

            "Fuck." I looked around quickly to make sure I was the only one in the tissue culture room. I was. Do better, Jordan, I thought.

            With my iPhone, I could've just answered the phone through my headphones using my chin, maintaining my sterile hands. Not with a goddamn flip phone. I cursed again, removed my hands from the sterile cabinet and ripped off my gloves, before whipping open my phone angrily.

            "Hello?" There was certainly an aggressive tone in my voice. That's what Pusha T does to me. I can't help it.

            "Are you in a goddamn tornado? Jesus, what's that sound?"

            Stone, naturally.

            "Yeah, hold on. Let me just drive my souped-up F-150 out of this vortex."

            "Seriously, are you standing in front of the world's largest fan?"

            "Stone, I am a highly skilled scientist trying to cure cancer. It's our air filtration system, you dumbass."

            "Oh, silly me! I forgot the key to curing cancer is clean, springtime air!"

            "To remove the microbes! I need a sterile work environment! How else would we be able to grow— you know what? Nope. Never mind. Not worth it. Yes, I'm standing in front of the world's largest fan. It's loud. Now, what do I owe this pleasure, my perfect storm?"

            "I am the perfect storm, aren't I?"

            I rolled my eyes and refused to respond.

            "Well, dear Jordan, I need your opinion on an album."

            "Oh...," this was not what I was expecting, "wow, your second album is done already?"

            "Uh, yeah, sure... anyways, will you come over tomorrow after work? Dissect it with me?"

            "Sure, why not. See you tomorrow, Stormy Stoney."

            "Call me that again and I'll shoot a poison dart into your eardrums."

            Yes, I was excited Stone asked me to come over. Yes, I've always been drawn to Stone and his dry, witty personality. But more so, I was excited that Stone valued my musical taste enough to get my feedback on their album. We had never discussed music, not in any depth anyways, so now was my chance to prove myself.