Cassie brings us what we have ordered: a decaf with a shot of whiskey in a second coffee cup for me, and a coffee for Dan.
"So," he says.
So, I think. But I don't say anything because I don't feel like saying anything.
Dan starts a conversation, which is not an actual conversation. He does not feel like listening to me. He speaks about his life, but not all of his life. Just bits of it. How recent? I don't know. He does not give dates. The marriage with Lise-Ann and the divorce with Lise-Ann. The marriage with Sandra and then the divorce with Sandra, and the marriage with Sylvia. No divorce yet. They are happy together, with him working hard, very hard, and making a lot of money, big money. They have three cars, a black Lexus SUV and a dark-blue Bentley that he almost never uses and remains parked, waxed and polished next to Sylvia's own SUV. It is black, too. Shiny and classy. He does not say which brand it is and it is not a problem because I don't give a shit which brand it is. I don't know anything about cars. He does not say, either, what Sylvia does with her life. I might have asked but I don't. It's too late. I lose track. My concentration softens, weakens, and vanishes away. I see Dan's lips moving, but his words get lost. I am completely out of it. My mouth smiles against my will. My mind is away. I remember that last night I had a dream . A sad dream, one of those I never could mention to my psychologist. I was discussing a new version of Titanic with James Cameron and I was supposed to be the male lead role and I was telling him that Scarlett Johansson would be a rocket choice for the female lead but Cameron warned me that she wanted to have a baby with my father. Technically, he would be my brother or she would be my sister. My mother was hysterical. My brother was jealous. The dream is sad because I never had a brother in real life.
I say, "Cassie, bring me another one." I need another shot. The question now is: Did I really think once that I owed him an apology or something? Dear God. I wave the empty cup like a white flag. Please Cassie, don't forget me. Please. And Dan resumes his lecture. He leans towards me—maybe he realizes that I am no longer following him—and he puts his hands on my shoulders and holds me tight. "I am doomed", he says. "Women and cars and money. I am doomed." He says that he has always missed me. All that we did together. The parties. The girls. The ideas. We were idealists, but that was good. That was life, and he has lost it. All that happened after me was nothing. Artificial. The death row. I was life. Now that he is back in town, back home… we were friends. Friendship never dies. He shouts, "FRIENDSHIP NEVER DIES!" like he is singing a Bon Jovi song. That's ridiculous. I never had a real friend. Mum always warned me not to lose oneself in friendship. That's useless. And I did what I was told.
Dan loses control. His voice slips slowly out of tone. His eyes are turning red, brightening. He starts crying like a woman, like a baby, like a child. Like a shit. When was the last time I cried and begged for help? I don't know what I am supposed to do. I could envy those who already have a word ready for such circumstances. I am sick. Sickness has replaced everything in me. I am just a big mass of sickness. A big, solid mass of sickness. I put my hands on the table. I stare at Dan. I hear him saying "I'm sorry." I don't even hear how I am replying. "I'm so sorry". Again. I'm not sorry, you asshole. That's what I think. Asshole. I think, Oh my, will I go back to my world, ever? I stand up and start walking quietly towards the exit. One pace after the other. I move farther from him. A split second, an I-wish-I-was-a-better-man kind of thought creeps though my mind. It is not made of words, just of impressions, feelings I feel because I know other customers are looking at me. The cute blonde. Cassie. Dan, too, probably. All of them. Reproaches hidden from their eyes, in case I notice something. But the thought vanishes as rapidly as it came. I don't want to be a better man. I just want to live with my meanness. I walk out of Denny's. It will only take me a few minutes to be back home, back to my life, back to Victoria Paris, all beautiful flesh and hot blood as she is. She is not that bad. Maybe there will even be some wine left. I would come back to my world. It will take just a couple of minutes. I just have to cross Coles, turn left once the light turns green and walk, what, a few hundred meters? Now, I understand the point for good. Don't mess with them anymore. They are just a mess. Just a few minutes and I am back to my life.
"Dead or Alive" was previously published at Pif Magazine.
Alain Marciano is French and writes in English. For years, he wrote essays, articles and books in English and it was a substitute to writing fiction. Four years ago, after a class in creative writing, he decided to switch to fiction and poetry. He is working on a collection of short-stories. He is also an illustrator. Check all that at alainmarciano.wix.com/dfp.
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