One of the other things that had kicked his anxiety, and bouncy leg, into gear the other night was that the movie's protagonist also had his name, Doug. It had been a bit too much. It was bad enough that it reminded him of that-which-he-did-not-do, but then the same name. And suicide. Fuckin' hell, he thought, and now he's sitting here waiting for Godot. Maybe life really was a stage, he thought, and us the players playing our many parts: Son, sibling, student, lover...however that went. He'd be at the lover stage now if he had a girl to love. No girl wanted an unemployed lover though.
Doug sat thinking for a while more, thinking about his parents, his sister and her kids - his nephews - about his friend who was supposed to call. What would they talk about today? The air in the room was stale, he thought that he should pop open the window, but he kept thinking instead. They could talk about how fucked up it was to try and get a job in this economy, even with a good college degree. Or how Chromeo dropped a new single the other day and the view count showed how grossly underrated they still were. Would making an agenda for their daily call be too formal? A good conversation wasn't about ticking subjects off a list, it had to flow and it had to be organic, like those popular Salvadorean coffee beans.
He took another sip from the dregs in his empty cup, just for a hint of a caffeine hit. It was rank now and he instantly regretted it. It reminded him of Mr. Carr back in junior high. He'd come to class fresh and peppy from his breakfast of champions and walk between the rows of desks in the classroom to check homework or comment on the day's assignment. When he leaned over to make a suggestion, or to ask if he'd understood the task correctly, Doug could almost taste the sour pungency on his breath. He was never sure if it was the cigarettes or the coffee that made it worse, but he'd developed a reticence to both well into college. The irony. He shook a Camel out of the pack on his desk, opened the window, and lit it with a Lucky Strike zippo that his uncle had gifted him years ago, back when the smell of cigarettes still repulsed him. He'd liked the lighter all the same, but only in the past year did it finally reach its raison d'etre. He'd quit eventually, Doug knew he would, but, leaning out into the breezy summer air, elbows on the windowsill, exhaling a plume of grey smoke, and taking in the view of the neighborhood below, he knew it wouldn't be anytime soon. The phone rang.
"Son of a bitch!"
Doug sat thinking for a while more, thinking about his parents, his sister and her kids - his nephews - about his friend who was supposed to call. What would they talk about today? The air in the room was stale, he thought that he should pop open the window, but he kept thinking instead. They could talk about how fucked up it was to try and get a job in this economy, even with a good college degree. Or how Chromeo dropped a new single the other day and the view count showed how grossly underrated they still were. Would making an agenda for their daily call be too formal? A good conversation wasn't about ticking subjects off a list, it had to flow and it had to be organic, like those popular Salvadorean coffee beans.
He took another sip from the dregs in his empty cup, just for a hint of a caffeine hit. It was rank now and he instantly regretted it. It reminded him of Mr. Carr back in junior high. He'd come to class fresh and peppy from his breakfast of champions and walk between the rows of desks in the classroom to check homework or comment on the day's assignment. When he leaned over to make a suggestion, or to ask if he'd understood the task correctly, Doug could almost taste the sour pungency on his breath. He was never sure if it was the cigarettes or the coffee that made it worse, but he'd developed a reticence to both well into college. The irony. He shook a Camel out of the pack on his desk, opened the window, and lit it with a Lucky Strike zippo that his uncle had gifted him years ago, back when the smell of cigarettes still repulsed him. He'd liked the lighter all the same, but only in the past year did it finally reach its raison d'etre. He'd quit eventually, Doug knew he would, but, leaning out into the breezy summer air, elbows on the windowsill, exhaling a plume of grey smoke, and taking in the view of the neighborhood below, he knew it wouldn't be anytime soon. The phone rang.
"Son of a bitch!"
