Chapter 8: 6

I figured a few things could happen at this stage;

1. I could wait patiently for my invisibility super- power to kick in and vanish into thin air. Although the chances of that happening were pretty slim, if not completely non- existent.

2.  I could hope to be beamed up by the probing, DNA resequensing aliens.

3. I could play possum, like those animals that pretend to be dead so their prey leave them alone.

4. I could pretend I didn’t hear him and start walking away as fast as possible and hope he didn’t call out again. Or worse, be inspired to get up and walk after me.

5. I could jump into the pool and swim away- although that might some across as slightly suspicious.  In that same vein I could also sprint away, but with sore feet and burnt knees, I probably wouldn’t get that far.

6. Or I could turn around, smile and pretend I was really happy to see him. Like long lost friends catching up after a day in the sun…

“Heeyyyaaa there stranger”, I mentally slapped myself the second the words were out of my mouth. Way, way too enthusiastic.

He looked at me with a blank expression, at least I thought it was a blank, it was difficult to tell though the beard that obscured the bottom half of his face and the shadow that obscured the top half.

“Hey.” His greeting was far less enthusiastic.

“Hey”, I countered with such cool, calm and collected indifference. “So, nice night… or whatever. Maybe it’s not actually.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice night… or whatever, I guess.” He smiled at me.  “Can I get you a drink?”

NO you can’t you sarcastic prick head, “Sure. Thanks. That would be nice.”

“Nothing with Rum in I’m guessing?”

“God no! Something with no alcohol would be great.”

He slammed his laptop shut again and ordered two Cokes.

“I’m Chris by the way,” He said, extending his hand for the obligatory shaking. I shook it.

“Anne, or Annie, some people call me Annie.”

“Nice to meet you Annie Anne.”

The bar tender placed the glasses on the bar and the sound of the clinking ice as it knocked against the glass and the pop-fizz of the bubbles, was very inviting. I made my way to the bar and pulled out a stool, but as I was lowering myself onto it I winced in red-hot sunburnt pain.

“Looks like you really got too much sun today.” Chris said eyeing me up and down.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Yeah,” (It’s so American to say ‘Yeah’ isn’t it?) “I thought about waking you up earlier, but I didn’t want to come across as pervy or anything.” He said sipping his drink.

“Why pervy?”

“Well, I didn’t want you to think I was staring at you ….not like you were.”

I felt my cheeks go hot- hotter than they already were. Thank God I was bright red from the sunburn, because if I wasn’t, my cheeks would have flushed a neon crimson color.

“Sorry about that. I was just wondering what you were doing. It sort of looked like you were talking to yourself.”

He smiled again, and I have to admit that despite the Sasquatch style facial hair, his smile was nice.

“Occupational hazard.” He said.

“Oh really?” I wondered what occupation lead to talking to yourself in public.

“I’m a screen writer, it’s always best to write dialogue when you’re saying it out loud. It’s more natural that way. So I find I talk to myself a lot.”

A mental light bulb switched on and I wondered why I hadn’t guessed it earlier. Of course he was a writer. Those clothes, the unkempt hairy face and shirt that looked like it had been accidentally re colored. Writers are always so intense- well all the ones I’ve met anyway. He probably smoked way to many cigarettes too and drank copious amounts of coffee- all the features writers at the magazines were like that.  They always look stressed, had a cigarette hanging from their lips and dry splashes of coffee on their keyboards.

“So what are you working on at the moment?” I was intrigued, it’s not everyday you meet a screenwriter.

“Now that’s the million Dollar question isn’t it?” His tone was sarcastic now, “Lets just say, I’ve got a bit of writers block. Which is a big problem, since my script deadline is in two weeks time.”

“How much have you written?”

“Not a single word. Literally. Not a word.” He said swigging his Coke down as if it was hard tack and he was hoping it would calm his clearly jittery nerves.

“I kind of noticed you weren’t really tying. So what can you do to get over the block? Get inspired again?”

“You’re looking at it.” He said leaning back in his bar stool and indicating his surroundings with open arms. “That’s why I came here. I’m supposed to be writing a romantic comedy about a couple who meet at a tropical resort—yeah, yeah I know it sounds terribly clichéd. ‘Getting over Sarah Marshal’ meets ‘Just go with it’, but it’s what people want.”

“Those are great movies. I love Jennifer Anniston.”

Chris did a weird little swivel on his chair and looked at me mockingly, “Don’t tell me you’re into the whole “A girl is left at the alter and goes on her honeymoon alone where she unexpectedly falls I love”. OR a guy who is in a plane crash gets amnesia and forgets he has a pregnant wife but lands up falling in love with her all over again because they are meant to be together. OR a girl falls in love with a guy just by reading his blog and she goes in search of him but as it turns out it was her best friends all along and then she realizes she’s been in love with him for years!”

“Um… those actually all sound great!”

Chris held his face in his hands dramatically, “You’re too far gone aren’t you. A hopeless case.”

I wasn’t sure whether he was joking, or whether I should be offended by his statement, “What do you mean hopeless?”

“I bet you’ve bought into the Valentines Day conspiracy too. You probably buy chocolate hearts and sentimental cards without realizing that it’s all just a money making scam. And I bet you fall in love without realizing that it’s all just an illusion, just the neurons in your brain firing in a specific way that gives you that warm fuzzy feeling. Chemistry, not love.”

I blinked for a few moments, trying to take in the full implications of his words, “So you write romantic comedies? But don’t believe in love?”

“Bingo!” Chris said clicking his fingers for the waiter to bring him another drink. “You don’t have to believe in something to write about it.”

“No wonder you’ve got writers block!”

Chris looked at me for a while as if he was really processing my words, “Perhaps. Maybe I’m finally out of soppy, clichéd-boy meets girl and has a cute funny happy ending- ideas. Maybe I’m just too damn cynical.” He gave a small chuckle.

“And you? What does Annie Anne do?” He looked at me with genuine interest as he ran his fingers through that salt and pepper hair. His hair tumbled back into place and for a moment, I saw Bradley Cooper again. I wondered what he looked like under that beard? Probably really good looking, but not like this, not with this hobo-esque look he had going on. I’ve always looked upon beards as either a sign of laziness, or hipster-ness. But he wasn’t wearing big-rimmed glasses or skinny jeans, so I surmised it must be the former.

“I’m a… well, no I was a stylist. Fashion. But that didn’t really work out.” I must have given something away in my tone or body language, because he was leaning in curiously

“Mmm, I can sense a story there.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically and gave a sigh, “You have no idea!”

Chris eyed me for a moment, “Okay Annie, you got me. I’m officially intrigued.”

There’s always something nice about talking to a total stranger. Someone who’s completely removed from the situation. So I opened my mouth, and it all just started falling out. The nipple clamps and live sex show with leather straps, the arrest and attempted murder misunderstanding, the broken (priceless- more than my annual salary) shoe and the camels that had been flown in for the photo-shoot. Getting fired, getting broke and getting an un-glamorous job. Being ostracized from fashion and finally, my nudist landlord and his obsession with recycling.

And the more I talked, the more Chris laughed. As if I were a stand- up comic and this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. By the time I got to the part about the vibrator crawling across the floor, I swear he had actual tears in his eyes. Up until that point I’d never seen any of those incidents as vaguely humorous.

But as I was telling the story- with enough distance from it all, emotionally as well as physically- I started seeing the absurd comedy of it all.  It happened slowly at first; a small chuckle, a little smile and then as if I'd opened the flood gates, I started laughing. And by the time I told him about Trev spanking me with the greasy spatula, I too was in the full-blown fits of crying laughter.

“Their names are actually Trev and Tess?” He asked in-between grunts and snorts of laughter, “How cheesy can you get? You couldn’t make that shit up. Trev and Tess. Wow!”

“Yes, it’s pretty lame.” I guffawed loudly, which only seemed to egg him on. But as our laughter tapered off our eyes met and a little flicker of something jetted up my spine. Attraction? Yes, it was definitely attraction.

Chris then raised his glass in a toast, “To Trev and Tess. May they enjoy many happy years of nipple clamping, arse spanking and introducing themselves to people with the most sickening couple name on the planet.”

I smiled and raised my glass, “To Trev and Tess.”

Was it weird that I was starting to kind of like Chris?