I press the power button on the remote and relax on the couch. Victoria Paris appears on the screen dressed like a Roman goddess. She is not my favorite porn actresses. I'd rather see Scarlett Johansson in a transparent toga. Now, Scarlett Johansson—she is a hot number. Classy. And those eyes? You really feel like she is looking at you, like she wants to fuck you. But Victoria Paris, she's another story. Look at her, undulating like a snake and disguised as a goddess. Anyway, she has more life in her than most people I know. Vibrates. And it's still a good Sunday.
Someone bangs on the door of my apartment. This is the type of things I truly hate, someone banging on the door or knocking or ringing the bell when no one is expected. The real surprise. Fuck, it upsets me. It makes me feel bad, like I have secrets and they want to find out who I really am. I am clean. I have nothing to hide. Not even that I am toying with my dick in front of a stolen and bad porn movie. I just want to be alone.
I reach the remote and kill Victoria Paris' fake moans. The movie goes on in silence. Keep moving baby, I'll be back very soon. I gather my bathrobe around my waist and walk to the door to quiet whoever is making all that fucking noise. "SHIT, AREN'T YOU GOING TO STOP?" I ask through the door, "I AIN'T BUYING NOTHING. LEAVE ME ALONE." I hear a guy laugh and he rings the bell again and he bangs on the door again. I am in no mood to kick him back to hell. Standing up does not make me any good. I am drunk, almost sick. "Come on, open that door, Bobby, open that door." Do I really hear that? Do I really hear someone using my name? Do I really recognize the voice? Shit. Yes. It cannot be who I think it is. I open the door because I need to check, but, yes, it is. Or maybe not. I could be dreaming or dead. I raise one hand. I double up with sickness and I think I am going to puke. Yes, it's real. It is happening.
"Hey Bobby," he says "What's going on? You don't feel good, do you?" Do I have to answer to this one?
"Yes," I say. "I am fine. How are you, Dan?" It's Dan. Big Dan. We haven't seen each other for what, 15, 20 years? I know the exact figure but I don't want to remember. He was my best university friend. We shared books, shared ideas, shared dreams, shared clothes, shared love, shared bottles of wine, pizzas and hamburgers, cigarettes and weed. We were together, always together, two sides of the same life. I trusted him. I loved him. At least, until he vanished. He disappeared and left me behind and alone. He did not only deny what I had done for him, but he denied me. I hated him. I was sure I had done something wrong. I felt sorry for myself because of him and I hated him. It was a long time ago and there is no need to explain why seeing him in front of me could make me suddenly feel bad. Really bad. Dead. As bad and dead as I felt good and alive minutes before.
"Hey, Dan," I say again. I am not sure what he expects me to say. My mouth tastes so bad. I can barely move my tongue. I think I should have slept more these past 48 hours. Drank less, or no, drank more. I could not have opened the door.
He steps back and looks me over.
He says, "You may want to tie your bathrobe."
I lost the belt a long time ago. I can't do that.
I say, "Yeah, sure," and hold it against my waist.
I ask, "What's the necktie for?" He doesn't answer. He is that kind of guy, the kind who wears ties on Sundays. Ties and a $500 suit with a pink striped shirt and black, leather, perfectly shined shoes, and doesn't understand when one asks why. I am the kind of guy with an old stained bathrobe.
He flashes a toothy, white smile, like this is one of those great moments we have to be happy about, even after all these years. Dear God.
He asks, "Ready for a coffee?" as if he were thinking should we not?
I say, "Why not? Just let me put something on."
He says, "OK, I'll be downstairs in my car, the black SUV."
I close the door and walk back inside. Has Dan seen Victoria Paris being banged on the screen of my TV set? I turn the volume up. Victoria is crying out in pleasure. She has her way of doing it. It's cool and she's good. She likes it. The guys with her enjoy it too, in a peaceful and quiet way, but I've lost interest. I no longer enjoy it. I take a shower and leave the apartment. Victoria Paris is still moaning. Outside it's wet. It's raining. Dan is in a black SUV, waiting for me.
