Starting Over by Thomas Lutholtz

A knock from the door interrupted me from my evening session of paper writing. “Come in,” I mumbled to the hollow sound not quite sure of who would be knocking at 4 a.m.. In floated my scantily clad ex-girlfriend bearing a sad face and holding large plate of cookies. Our eyes met and I dropped the keyboard to the floor and clumsily attempted to stand from my wheely chair.

“I’ve made a huge mistake. Please take me back.” She sobbed while holding out to me the dish of cookies. I moved to stand with arms outstretched to embrace her, but found I could only amble from right to left and was not able to approach the dark haired beauty and her confectionary peace offering. It felt there was an invisible fuzzy and numbing barrier separating me from her. She didn’t seem to understand that such a barrier existed and began yelling at me, “Damnit, Robert! You are being colder to me than the British Parliament was to the demands of the Chartists during the 1840’s.”

“Vanessa, I didn’t even know you felt so strongly about the plight of the Chartists.” I confusedly answered. Suddenly a siren went off and a bright flash of light filled the room. Vanessa threw down the cookies with a look of sheer terror and fled my apartment into the night. “Baby, wait!” I shouted after her still unable to move. The alarm grew louder and the invisible barrier began hurting my face.

I awoke bathed in sunlight sitting at the living room computer desk with my face pressed flat against the keyboard of my roommate, Tyrone’s, computer. A harsh error message sound was blaring from the machine’s speakers. Everything was so blurry and confusing. Sounds of cheesy sports theme music blasted from the corner of the room. “Don’t you fuckin’ drool on that laptop!” I heard Tyrone’s voice humorously warn from a nearby chair. “It might blow up in your face or something, man. I’d say you’ve definitely been more entertaining than this boring pre-game show.

“How long have you been watching me?” I replied while lifting my face from the keyboard. On my cheek I could feel the small imprints left behind by each button.

“Well, that beeping error noise woke me up two hours ago. I’ve been sitting here ever since. Holy shit! Your face looks like a checkerboard.”

“Do you remember how I got here?” I asked. I had no recollection of how last night had ended. I remembered the party. The beer. And then I remember being so drunk that I actually danced. Something I usually don’t even do. Not that I have anything against dancing. I just realize that I’m a terrible dancer. As soon as the dancing began that’s about the time my memory stopped functioning.

Tyrone paused at my question and scratched his head for a while before answering. By the look on his face I could tell his story would be a bit strange. “Well you came in round five with a very proud grin on your face. I was watching an infomercial on frozen steaks at the time and enjoying a micro-waved bagel. Oh yeah I broke the toaster last night, sorry. Anyways, you didn’t make much sense and mumbled something about being over that bitch, Vanessa. Then you said something about the Chartists and a paper. Then you sat down at the computer and started typing. That’s about the time I went to bed.”

“Oh yeah the paper.” I looked at the screen and saw a string of unintelligible sentences on Chartism followed by pages of a strange language without spaces most likely created by the pressure of my comatose face against the keyboard. “I guess the paper didn’t go so well. Oh, alcohol the things you do to me,” I moaned resting my head this time on the desk.

“Well, the paper was a failure, but how about the rest of your evening?” Tyrone asked with true interest in his eyes. “Did ya talk to any ladies?!”

“I guess I danced with a few. You were there. You’d probably know better than me. I can’t remember much.”

“Well I left around one in the morning after the keg died. It wasn’t really my scene at that point. You were talking to some girl in a corner when I left though. It seemed to be going pretty well. In fact I was proud.”

Tyrone’s talking quickly jarred open memories of a short brunette. The memories were all patchy of course. I remembered a smile, a laugh, and my arm around her shoulder, but not much else. I think we might have watched a movie. I’m not sure what happened though. Then I thought about where I woke up. “Hmm….I don’t know how that turned out. I’d say the checkerboard pattern on my face suggests it didn’t go that well.”

“That’s not true.” He yelled at me while rising from his chair. “You came in at five. You had to be doing something if you came back that late! Check your wallet. I bet you’ve got a phone number.”

I found my wallet on the floor next to me and opened it. Sure enough I did have a phone number for a Gretchen written with little hearts, flowers, and squiggly lines surrounding the digits. A mixture of joy and shame flooded my thoughts. Sure, I had a phone number. But I also had no memory. Anything could have happened between the time I got the number and the time I made it home. Then I thought about how odd it was that Tyrone thought to check my wallet. “Man, you looked through my wallet! That’s low.”

Tyrone’s face immediately dropped from its pose of genius and into a slight grimace. “Whatever, it was sticking right out of the fucking thing! You can’t blame me for wanting to sound brilliant. That doesn’t change the fact that you got a number, man. And you looked so happy as well. I think its finally time you did something and got over Vanessa.”

That last sentence cut a little too deep for me. Of course I was over Vanessa. But I will admit that I was a bit terrified of just throwing myself back out there. There were too many doubts crowding my mind. What if I did something horrible after getting the number? What does a phone number mean anyways? What if it wasn’t even her number? Why couldn’t I remember what happened?!!!! “I bet I gave her my number. She’ll call me if she’s interested. I’m too busy today anyway. I got this paper to write.”

“That’s the lamest shit I ever heard. You could write that paper in your sleep. Actually you nearly did,” he pointed at my drunken text. “Robert, grow some balls and do something about this. Just go take a shower, put on some nice clothes if you have any, shave your face, and call up that girl. You know you can always write any paper at three in the morning, especially on Sunday.”

After a cold shower, painful shave, and treasure hunt for clean clothing, I found myself staring at a phone receiver with Tyrone seated next to me attempting to coach me through the process. “Just punch the numbers into the phone and say something along the lines of eating lunch.” He said it as if it were really that simple. He didn’t understand the confusion, doubts, and shaky hands that made it hard to hold the receiver steady. I’m just not that suave a guy.

“I’m too hungry to think straight, Tyrone. Why not just wait til’ dinner? I swear I’ll call her then,” I’m pretty sure I meant that at this point.

“You miserable fucker! I want you to do it now so that I don’t have to put up with your moody ass while I watch football today. You’re obviously not over Vanessa and I’m getting sick of it. Every day you sit here and look bitter and creepy. Get over it and just call the girl for lunch. After this I swear I won’t bother you again.”

After hearing this rant I was furious. I hadn’t been moody. I’d been doing fine for a guy that got dumped. Who the fuck did he think he is telling me how to run my life? “What the hell, man?! You haven’t even had a steady girlfriend for over a year. Just let me handle this myself!” That’s about the time the phone started ringing. Tyrone beat me to it and nabbed the receiver from my hand.

“Hello,” he said with a dry grin. “May I ask who’s calling…Yes, just one moment, miss,” with that he turned and gave me a punch in the arm five times while covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “You just let her beat you to it! It’s Gretchen.”