Next Door Neighbors

"Yeah," he resigned, leaned back on the chair; his lips trembling softly, his limbs shaking from the desperate desire for another hit of gin.

"So, is that client of yours, the author, one of those who don't pay you?"

"No, actually," he said tremblingly, "he's one of the very few that still do pay... it's thanks to him, and a couple more, that we're not in immediate danger of... yeah."

"Do I know him?"

"Probably not..." he sighed. "He's written some cult novels about heroin, alcohol... really dark stuff. I've read one of his novels; it was one of the most depressing things I've ever read; made Kafka seem like a comedy writer."

"That bad, huh?"

"He's not bad; he actually has quite some talent; he's just... well, he spent too much time in the gutter and he's convinced living in the gutter is the only way properly to live."

"Then, why does he want you to invest his money?"

"He wants to secure his future; he wants to know he'll be able to afford to buy booze and drugs for many years, decades, to come. He likes the cheap dive-bars, but, doesn't like being a factotum; he wants to have savings, which he'll spend on drinks, drugs, and strippers."

"No wonder his novels didn't make it to any bestselling list, if that's what he writes about," she remarked.

"Yeah..." he nodded, frowning. "It's too bad, too... he really does have a unique voice; but, he refuses even to listen to suggestions of trying to write something more cheerful, more... marketable. I've tried to change his mind—actually, I first started going to that bar with him, hoping I'd make him write something that would sell—but, it's completely pointless.

"After years of drinking, abusing drugs, and living in tiny, dirty apartments he shared with cockroaches and prostitutes, he does not even want to hear about writing something that does not have to do with the gutter, with alcoholics, with people in the bottom of societal level."

"Sounds like a nutcase," she said.

"Might just as well be..." he agreed, reluctantly. "And, he may also be a future classic, as long as some open-minded publisher gets a hold of his manuscripts, before he burns them during a meth-trip."

"Isn't he dangerous? I mean, if he abuses drugs..."

"He's harmless," he reassured her, "at least to those he likes; yes, if he doesn't like someone, he has no inhibition whatsoever to punch them; kick them while they're down, too. But, if he likes you, you're safe. And I really do think he likes me."

"Until he decides he doesn't and tries to bite your carotid off..." she scoffed; then, they both burst into genuine laughter and felt as if they've been magically teleported back to the happier times of a decade prior.

* * * *

Saturday came; Lana woke up with anxiety swarming her unsettled soul. When she got to the kitchen, coffee had already been brewed and was waiting for her in the can. She poured some in her mug, sat opposite Robert, who was reading the newspaper with an expression of impending doom.

"Anything interesting?" She asked, after they had exchanged the routine (and quite mechanic to them both) morning pleasantries.

"Nah," he shook his head, "just the same old... yeah. I did promise I'd cut out on the swearing, right?" He smiled at her broadly.

"It's not the swearing that worries me," she said, sternly.

"I know..." he agreed, drank some coffee. "It's hard, you know?"

"You act as if you've been an alcoholic for years!" She protested vividly; she lit a cigarette.

"You know, George—the author I told you about—seems so damn happy, you know? He lives in his own little world; he's not affected by the poverty around him, by the devastation..."

"Drinking like him won't magically turn you into him; you do understand that, right?" She said, unable to erase the sarcasm from her voice.

"Yes, I know," he said, heavily. "It's just... I don't know. I envy him, sometimes."

"Why?" She asked; Robert was clearly caught off guard, his hand began to tremble in a despairing need for alcohol.

"Well," he said in a broken voice, "I envy his... freedom; I guess," he said, in a shaky voice, fearful of every word he uttered.

"You mean, that he's not married and can do whatever he wants, with whomever he wants?" Lana pursued, quite scornfully.

"No, no," he quickly corrected his words, "I didn't mean that... by freedom, I meant that he's not afraid to go against the grain; he's not scared to do things most people would find... immoral, illegal, wrong."

"In other words, drugs and..." Lana sighed deeply. "From what you've told me, that guy lives on the edge, pushing his luck every minute of his existence."

"Exactly!" Robert erupted. "That's what I'm so jealous of! He's not afraid to remain on the edge; to push himself beyond it!"

"What is there to admire in that?"

"His whole demeanor, I guess..." he apologized. "Look, honey, I'm sorry I mentioned the whole... I'm sorry," he said, resignedly.

"It's all right," Lana sighed. "I just don't... it just seems wrong, you admiring someone like... George, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "And I don't admire him, I just... don't know. I simply find his way of thinking fascinating."

"As long as you don't try to embrace his philosophy," she scolded him.

"I'm not," he said, apologetically, his glare fixed on the table, his mind fixated on a good hit of gin.

"Good," Lana said coldly; her mind concentrated solely on Stan's gathering and whether she should attend.

"You know," Robert said, after a few minutes of complete, and rather awkward, silence, "I think I'll go out tonight; George invited me to something he called beer-bar..."

"Are you going to come home drunk out of your mind?"

"Probably not..." he shook his head, desperately in need for just one sip of gin. "Anyway, I thought you should know... don't know... you can tag along, if you want, but..."

"No, it's all right," she said, quick to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity. "Some friends of mine asked me if I wanted to join them in an outing; they're going to hit some clubs, dance the night away... thought it could be good for me."

"Definitely," Robert said, with relief evident in his voice. "Go dance the night away!"

"I might just as well," Lana smiled faintly. "Especially if you're going out, too..."

"It's funny, huh?" Robert chuckled dryly. "After all these years of marriage, we're only now discussing, and planning, going out separately."

"Yeah," Lana remarked in astonishment. "I guess, Jenna had to move away from home for us to do something separately."

"Well, better late than never; right?" He shrugged his shoulders.

* * * *

Evening came; Robert had dressed up—wearing his good black jeans and a light blue shirt—and headed out. Lana kissed him passionately at the door, made him promise he wouldn't drink too much; he said "I won't, I promise", but, to Lana, it seemed like hurried words of a hasty child.

At any rate, Robert was out and she was all alone; she heard the elevator door opening and closing a couple of times, as well as cheerful greetings coming from the hallway. The gathering was taking place, Stan's friends were arriving. She was still wearing her sweatpants and crop-shirt, yet, she contemplated going over, merely to check out what the gathering was really all about; curiosity was eating her up on whether Stan had withheld from her important details regarding his gathering.

Lana was trying to concentrate on the television, but, nothing good was on; nothing to take her mind off the happenings next-door, the gathering she was certain was something more than just a home-warming; would she mind, if there was something special planned for her?

She couldn't tell; Lana, at that moment, was highly confused, unable to comprehend either Robert's behavior—especially his newfound fascination with that author client of his—or her own thoughts, which were strangely fixated on her having being used by Stan a few days earlier.

In the end, and despite all the second thoughts that did cross her mind, she decided to make an appearance at Stan's, if only to discover if he had been entirely truthful to her.

She put on a nice, strapless mini-dress and high-heels; Robert was already out and, given the reputation of his drinking buddy, he would come home in a blackout condition, despite all his promises, which, consequently, meant she could enjoy herself, at the least in terms of attracting the attention and gazes of the male guests of Stan's gathering.

She walked out of the apartment, her heels clicking on the marble floor, feeling vulnerable and sexy in her underwear-less state, and knocked on Stan's door; he answered the door and in an instant his face beamed.

Chapter 5

She ought to have seen it coming; and she had, partially, deducted the lay of the party. Stan had invited her simply to show off, to impress his friends. Lana was the only woman amid a group of twelve men, who were, however, vastly different than how she had pictured them.

When Stan had mentioned a gathering of his friends, she had instantly assumed, falsely as it turned out, she'd mingle with guys his age, all of them graduates of sport academies, or, in some form and fashion, athletes and/or trainers.

Instead, his friends—though indeed around his age—did not look like athletes; they did not have muscled, athletic bodies, nor were they as debonair as Stan, nor were they discussing sports over the fruity cocktails they were sipping.

Lana moved back and forth between the various small parties of two or three, with her margarita in hand, listening to the conversations taking place, feeling completely at loss for what to say, or, to understand why Stan's friends were discussing social media technologies, or, new patents within the video gaming industry.

"Having a good time?" Stan approached her with a bright smile.

"It's not what I've expected," she admitted, in a low voice.

"See? You were being overly suspicious; it's just a small gathering of friends."

"Well, I was right in that you wanted to show me off... is there another reason I'm the only female in the apartment?"

"I just... I don't tend to make female friends; that's all."

"Right," she curled her lips. "Anyway, I like your place; you've done a good job decorating it and..." her glance then fell to a painting hanging in the corner, next to a bookcase. "That's not authentic, right?" She asked, unable to restrain herself.

"Hmm?" He hummed and looked about, confused. "Oh, that? It is, actually..." he said, half-embarrassingly.

"But," she asked, aghast, "that's a Van Gogh painting; they're..."

"Expensive," he finished her sentence. "I know... it was my father's, actually. He loved art... I think, he'd gladly go without food for a month, if it meant he could buy the original work of a great painter. And..." he cleared his throat. "This painting is one of the few things I have to remember him by, so...

"I don't like having it hanging around like this, you know, for safety reasons, but... I can't find it in me to sell it to a museum, even though I know it'd probably be for the best."

"You've got more paintings, or..." she caught herself short, not certain on whether she was being too intrusive.

"No," he shook his head. "Don't worry, it's not like we're discussing top secret subjects; my father had more paintings, quite a few actually, but, we set up a small gallery in his name. So that everybody can enjoy the paintings; art's meant to be shared, right?"

"So, you only kept one, for..."

"It was his favorite," he continued, "so... I decided, if I was to keep one as a memorandum, I'd keep the one he loved the most. It's just..."

"What's wrong?" She put her hand softly on his shoulder, as Stan wiped his eyes dry.

"Sometimes, especially during the night, when I sit alone, I look at the painting and I try, really hard, to understand the reason my dad was so fascinated with it; I mean, if you had even merely mentioned the painting to him, he would have talked about it for hours!

"He understood it, saw things in it... things which I... don't," he paused, cleared his throat loudly, and took a long sip of his beer.

"That's okay," she caressed his shoulder, while they both examined the painting from a short distance. "I don't really understand art, either," she then said, in a confessional manner. "I remember a friend of mine, who studied art history, who could talk for hours about just one painting.

"Some people have a passion for it, and therefore understand it much better than the rest; I can appreciate the beauty of art, but, that doesn't mean I'll dig deeper into it, to search for hidden meanings. I won't study it extensively, in order to develop a personal comprehension of what the artist might have tried to say."

"I remember I told my dad that, once... about," he quickly explained, when Lana threw a confused glance at him, "the meanings he attributed to paintings, the less obvious messages the artists had supposedly left. I had asked him how he could be so certain that these meanings were really there.

"And," his voice grew lower, heavier, "he told me that it doesn't matter; even if the artist had not intended for the message to be there, he was seeing it, and that that was the important thing. His developing a personal relationship with the work of art, which was the most important accomplishment of the artist:

"To make people feel, think; to make them want to understand the work, even if it means understanding it in their own peculiar way. I don't know if he was right, or wrong, but... I've always liked that way of his of viewing things."

"Sounds like a very smart man," Lana uttered, mostly to break the awkward silence that befell them.

"He was," Stan agreed. "So," he then said, far more cheerfully, "how about we stop with the sentimentalities for tonight? We're here to have fun, not cry!"

"Right," she muttered, caught off guard by his instantaneous change of humor.

* * * *

It was 4 in the morning and Lana was staring absentmindedly at the television, zapping through the channels, trying to find a program to occupy her mind enough so as to stop worrying too much; Robert had yet to come home and she kept jumping at every insignificant sound that broke the stillness of the night, believing it, wishfully, to be his key hitting the lock.

An advertisement came up, for a sex-line; she saw the models depicted on the screen wearing hot, barely-there outfits, promising the callers unforgettable experiences—she thought, momentarily, of calling, if for nothing else but for the quick distraction it'd offer.

She rejected the idea instantly; there was no reason to be charged an insane amount of money for something that wouldn't even be real, and most probably not very enjoyable, either.

A documentary began, right after the sex-line ad had concluded; for alcoholism. Lana's focus was immediately turned on acutely; she listened to the narrator explaining the perils of alcohol-abuse and how many people fail to notice they're on the trail of alcoholism until it gets too late, at which point they simply refuse to acknowledge their addiction.

It was an interesting program, quite nicely done, including several interviews with people who had once struggled with alcoholism (but, had all managed to kick the habit off, some being sober a couple of years, one proudly announcing his being sober for 30 years), as well as interviews with doctors and psychiatrists, who talked, respectively, about the physical and mental toll of alcohol abuse.

Despite the documentary's captivating structure and narrative, Lana could not help but find the subject too disturbing and intimate; besides, she did not like that the producers did not bother interview current alcoholics, and opted to talk only to those already recovered. It gave the program a sense of optimism that Lana found far-fetched and unrealistic—although, all things considered, it might also simply have been her own newfound prejudice on the subject that made her question the sayings of the narrator and some of the interviewees.

She jumped up anxiously, when a key hit the door multiple times from the outside; she rushed to the door, at first patiently waiting. Nothing happened; only the constant sound of click-click of a key desperately trying to find the lock. Eventually, she opened the door, more abrupt than she had intended, and Robert crashed down on the floor, giggling uncontrollably.

"What the..." Lana exclaimed, then tried to calm herself down through controlled breathing. "What did you have to drink?" She asked him, exasperated, after she had helped him up to his feet and sat him on the couch.

"Not much," he said, in a blurry mumble.

"Right," she scuffed, then headed to the kitchen and boiled some water; she came back to the living room carrying two mugs of instant coffee. "Here," she forcefully gave him one mug, "drink some; it'll do you good."

"Fuck," he spat the hot coffee as soon as he had tasted it, "coffee? Why'd you give me coffee for?"

"To sober you up?" She said and sat on the armchair opposite him, the coffee table separating them.

"I don't want to get sobered up!" He said loudly, and barely comprehensibly. "I'm fine jus' the way I am!"

"Don't shout," she scolded him, calmly. "It's late, people are sleeping."

"I don' ca'e!" He protested, as he leaned back on the couch and rubbed his face hard. "Do we ha'e a'yt'ing to d'ink?"

"No more drinking for you," she rushed to him, tried to drag him up from the couch by the arm. "Let's get you to bed."

"I don' wa'a shleep," he whined. "I jhust wan' a dwink!"

"Come on, don't be like that," she finally managed to get him up to his feet, but, it didn't last long; he lost his balance and Lana could barely hold him up with her thin frame. "Put some effort to it, come on," she encouraged him, panting. "Let's just get you to bed."

"I don' wanna go to bed..." he sighed, holding his forehead. "The room'sh shpinnin'..." he remarked.

"Yup, it's the room that spins," she dragged him to the bedroom, her arms around his waist. "There you go," she dropped him unceremoniously on the bed.

He laid down across the bed, face down, arms and legs spread wide; "shank zhou..." he muttered blurrily, the bed spinning around faster and faster, the rotation of Earth clearly discernible to him—in a few moments he was fast asleep, snoring like a tractor.

"Good night..." she whispered in disappointment; she returned to the living room, lit a cigarette and had a sip of coffee. "Maybe, I should call the documentary producer, ask them to interview Robert," she uttered to herself, and a dry, pathetic chuckle escaped her mouth.

She leaned back on the armchair looking ahead at a sleepless morning; exhaustion was already creeping in and she realized she wouldn't get a decent sleep for a long time yet; Robert'd wake up late in the afternoon, heavily hangover, and she'd have to be there to tend to him.

"Fuck," she whispered to herself and dragged long from her cigarette; the rising blue smoke withheld all her secret desires and frustrations. A heavy weight suddenly crushed her chest, as if an elephant had decided to use her as a seat, and breathing became nearly impossible; a sudden desire for a drink arose within her.

A desire she instantly drowned, for she recalled the documentary saying that's how alcoholism usually begins; a few innocent drinks during hard times and, before one really knows it, alcohol has a grip on one's very soul.