Everyday Psychopaths Page 8

  ***

  Mike might have set me up on the date, but it's not Mike who wakes me on Sunday morning - it's Stephen, the father. Yes, Stephen is the only one of my friends who has a child, which might sound a bit strange considering my age, but it's kind of typical for New York - a place where dreams come true - not kids. Meaning my dreams don't have any kids in them.

  Stephen has been dreaming about kids though, ever since I got to know him back in university. He’s in a rock solid relationship and has been for many years, but along with the birth of his son, Jeffrey, that ship might slowly be sinking. At least according to Stephen.

  The problem is that baby Jeffrey doesn't like his father, in fact it appears he doesn't have any connection to him at all. He cries every time Stephen tries to carry him, play with him or any other fatherly activity and it's breaking poor Stephen's fragile heart. This strange emotional rift has created a lot of tension between Stephen and his wife Maria, and despite many counseling sessions, the key to their happiness seems to lay in Jeffrey's minuscule hands. It's an odd and sad situation and Stephen has been calling me at uncomfortable hours to talk about it. For some reason he thinks I know what to do, a guy who never had a relationship lasting longer than year, and who doesn't even like kids. I do my best and try to be a good friend and listener, although it's pretty difficult at times. I don't cope well with crying men, especially not those with a faint British accent.

  “Hello,” I mumble from my bed into my Blackberry. The sound of my own sleep-broken voice sends whips of pain to the back of my head. This is not the best way to start the day.

  “Hi Jack, sorry for calling you this early. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I really need to talk.”

  It's about now I realize Gwen Parks is lying next to me, snoring like a bus driver. I almost swallow my tongue.

  “Sure, I'll call you back in twenty minutes, okay?” I whisper, then I hang up and look at Gwen.

  I've woken up next to girls before of course - girls I like, girls I don't like and girls I didn't even know were there. I'm trained in these situations, I know how not to panic.

  I rise slowly from bed so as not to wake her up. You should never wake a sleeping one-night stand - be quiet as a ninja.

  But it's hard to be a ninja when it feels like you're walking out from a car accident. My legs wobble out into the kitchen, where the sun instantly hits me in the eye. It looks like a fine day in the Apple, but I think I just had a bite of worm.

  On the marble kitchen table stands evidence of last night's decadence, a half-empty bottle of 30-year-old, ridiculously expensive and tarp-tasting Scottish malt whisky I got for my 35th birthday since I guess they couldn't find a bottle as old as I am. It’s called Glen-something and it’s rich enough for you to coat your boat with it. How I managed to empty half the bottle boggles my mind and hurts it too.

  I silently open the fridge, take two Evian water bottles and head over to my renaissance-inspired Italian bathroom. I need to shower off the hangover, along with some of Gwen's body fluids. Yuck. I pray I had the decency to wear a condom.

  But condom or no condom, I need to focus on feeling human again and get the hell out of here before Gwen wakes up and thinks we should start a relationship.

  Or talk.

  After rinsing her smell from my body, I write a note to the snoring “granny”. My handwriting is shaky and resembles that of a five-year-old, but it's got nothing to do with the hangover, just my handwriting.

  “Had to go to work. Help yourself to what you want. Best, Jack.”

  My lies are usually better than this.