Life treats me
well, always has. I grew up with rich parents and—at the risk of sounding vain,
good looks.
My mother
encouraged me to get into modeling despite the fact that every college wanted
me (the ivory leagues for my brains and everyone else for how accurately I threw
a football).
I spent some time
as an underwear model (though few people believe me when I tell them that
online). A talent scout eventually contacted me, wanted me to work as an extra
in some movie that took place on the beach.
The gig paid
nicely, didn’t require that I remember any lines, just stand in the background
with my shirt off. Piece of cake, really.
More gigs followed,
to include a commercial with a few lines of dialogue. I soon after landed a
real role in an actual movie. I ended up in a few starring roles thereafter.
The acting bug
ceased to sting me once I collected a few academy awards. I redirected my
focus, pushed myself physically, climbed mountains, lifted weights, and learned
martial arts.
I won tournaments,
became the heavyweight-champion of . . . some division or another.
I keep celebrates
and politicians for friends. I even dated an actual princess.
A lot of people
can’t understand why I remain best friends with Lloyd, but they don’t
understand him as I do. Nobody does, really.
He never found a
college that would accept him, so he caught a job at a drug store, which sits
close to his parents’ house, where he lives.
Lloyd feels
self-conscious about his bulk, his pimply face, his squeaky voice, and the fact
that he never kissed a girl. God knows, I offered to hook him up with any one
of the countless super models with whom I frequently parasail.
Lloyd never lets
me help him, but I respect that. He wants to be my friend, not my problem. He
just likes to talk with me.
He told me that no
one else ever wants to hear his ideas for new Star Wars movies. I find that
hard to believe. All of Lloyd’s ideas sound superb. I can sit and listen to
that guy all day.
Everything went to
hell yesterday, when I showed up at Lloyd’s house to split a pizza with him. I
pulled my Porsche into his parents’ driveway and knocked on his
door.
Lloyd, when he answered, offered me a tired, apologetic expression.
He hesitated, licked his lips, and asked me to sit in his living
room.
His expression
seemed so serious that all thoughts of pizza vaporized from my mind.
I worried that someone in Lloyd’s family fell gravely ill.
He sat across from
me. A pause stretched for miles between us.
He finally said,
“Tom, you always acted as my best friend. You helped me get through my
difficult, otherwise friendless, teenage years. It pains me more than you can
imagine to say this, but . . . we mustn’t see each other anymore.”
I could think of
nothing to say, so I merely said, “I can’t think of anying to say.”
A longer pause.
“Why?” I asked,
desperate. “Why would you push me out of your life, Lloyd? Did I do something
wrong?”
He shook his head
almost violently. “No. Our friendship must end, though.
It’s for the better.”
I imagined all
sorts of terrible ordeals that might corrupt my longest friend’s life, turned
his thoughts cloudy. I would respect his request for now. Once Lloyd
regained his senses, he would call me, apologize, and our friendship would
resume.
Except that call never came.
Days turned to
weeks. I left him several emails, a few text messages. I didn’t even remark
upon our last conversation. I wrote to him as if nothing changed between us. I
eventually left him a voicemail. Still, no response came.
I, unable to stand
the silence, headed towards the drug store to politely confront Lloyd at work.
Surely, Lloyd wanted our friendship to continue. He probably felt too
embarrassed to say as much, to welcome me back into his life.
I parked my
Porsche in the drug store parking lot and approached the automatic doors—only
to discover that they would not open for me.
I peered through
the glass doors and saw that, yes, the store stood open for business.
I knocked, but the
customers paid zero interest, and a queer concern rose in my stomach.
Lloyd finally materialized
from between aisles two and three. He stopped short and paled at the sight of
me. He then, of all things, ignored me, returned to his cash register, and
dealt with the long line of customers that awaited him there.
One such customer,
after she completed her transaction, headed for the automatic doors, and whatever
curse kept them closed against me held no effect over her. They whisked right
open at her approach.
I smiled at this
lovely customer who would surely recognize me, blush, and request my autograph.
This happens so often, after all. Instead, she glanced right though me and hurried to her car.
I entered the
store before the doors closed, waited for Lloyd to finish with his customers.
He, once finished,
headed towards the store’s photo shop to process several rolls of film deposited
by customers who, apparently, refused to join the digital age.
I approached him
and waved. “Hello, Lloyd. Have you been well?”
“Please.” He did not look at me. “Go away. I don’t need you anymore.”
Those words stung.
“Lloyd, please. Tell me what wrong I committed against you. I’ll set things
right. I swear.” I noticed how transparent my hands became. I could see
straight through them. I swallowed, tasted panic on my tongue.
Lloyd bent
forward, set his hands upon a counter. His breaths came deep and measured. “Tom,
I needed you in high school, but now I’m too old for this.”
I failed to
understand. “Too old for what?”
He sniffed,
refused to look at me. “Too old for an imaginary friend.”
I blinked, lost. A
strange weightlessness overtook me belly-first. “What do you mean, ‘imaginary’?
I stand as real as anyone else.”
Lloyd shook his
head before I even completed my sentence. “No, Tom. I’m sorry, but I made you
up. I invented you, and it’s time for me to make real friends.”
I started to
protest when he straightened with a sad smile. “Goodbye, Tom.”
I could see
through my arms now. I couldn’t see my legs at all. I vanished by the second.
“Lloyd, this is—”
and then nothing.
Thanks for reading.
Daughters of Darkwana received a sweet, succinct
review, which you can read here, http://www.thebookeaters.co.uk/daughters-of-darkwana-by-martin-wolt-jr/
Also,
the third book in my series, Diaries of
Darkwana, will hit Kindle just as soon as I find a new cover artist. I have
a few candidates already, thank goodness.
I might likely put my entire novel series on
sale soon to celebrate the last arrival of Diaries
of Darkwana.
I
publish my blogs as follows:
Tuesdays:
A look at the politics of the entertainment world at EntertainmentMicroscope.blogspot.com.
Wednesdays:
An inside look at my novels (such as Daughters of Darkwana, which you can now find on Kindle) at Darkwana.blogspot.com
