Keeping Up With the Jones

I was polishing the glass case where I kept the decapitated corpse of a decomposing pigeon when the telephone rang.

The telephone was stored on the bottom shelf the refrigerator, where I normally keep the meat. I picked up the receiver and pressed the cold earpiece to my skin.

'Hi Jack!' said the caller.

'Who is this?'

'It's Phil! Just calling to see how you were doing?'

'Not bad Phil, hope you're okay.'

'I don't have much time to chat right now; very busy with work. I was wondering if you'd like to meet up for a drink tomorrow night?' said Phil.

I had met Philip Jones a year ago on a part time writing course. He was the youngest student, only seventeen when he started and turned eighteen when we finished the ten month programme.

Everyone who joined the programme had little or no previous writing experience, we all began from scratch. From the start, Philip worked harder than everyone else, and it proved fruitful when our final assignment, a short story, earned him the honorary title of 'Outstanding new writer' in a prominent writing contest.

I have always admired Phil's ability to consistently write ingenious prose, although I admit that I have been jealous at times. The man hardly ever slept, he worked tirelessly and always completed his projects.

I had agreed to meet Phil at a bar beneath the hotel where he was staying. The lobby interior was a luxurious affair with plush velvet seats and crystal chandeliers. Adjacent to the elevators was the entrance to the bar, 'The Mischievous Monkey'. I found Phil seated at a table inside a booth, smoking a cigarette while busy scribbling in a notebook.

I quietly sat down on the opposite side of the table; I knew better than to disturb a writer in the middle of his thoughts. He finished writing and looked up at me, 'Hello Jack, it's good to see you!' He shook my hand feverishly.

'What's that you're working on?' I asked motioning towards his notepad.

'This,' he stabbed a forefinger at the page, 'is an idea for a commissioned short work, it's already absolutely amazing, if I do say so myself!'

'You get paid much?'

'A lot and with recognition! But that's not what I'm concentrating on at the moment, I came to town to talk to a major publisher, they're interested in the novel that I've just finished.'

I pulled the corners of my lips into a tense smile and widened my eyes to feign a polite amount of interest, 'That sounds awesome! You're doing well for yourself!'

'I sure am! I've also got a few other projects on the go, and I'm getting paid for all of them!'

'Great!'

I gazed at the man who was ten years my junior with a measure of disdain. Here was a bright young lad with an even brighter future ahead of him. What had I achieved when I was his age? -absolutely nothing. I had wasted my youth being a hedonistic party animal, constantly getting drunk and high, then finally dropping out of university.

To add insult to injury, not only was he young and talented, but he was charmingly handsome; a well proportioned face with perfectly attractive features. He was always spoilt for women, the girls would often talk about how gorgeous he looked, yet he would treat them like objects. I looked at the mirror on the wall next to me, a pair of unevenly set eyes perched upon a bulbous set of nostrils over dried flakey lips stared back at me.

'So how are you doing?' he asked, 'Still writing?'

'I'm actually working on...' His mobile phone rang.

'Hold on a minute!' He took the phone out of his pocket and apologized with his other hand.

I sat with my shoulders slumped as I was forced to listen to his conversation. I looked around the room, and noticed a couple of girls sitting at the bar. They were whispering behind their hands to each other, giggling childishly, preening their hair, and all the time looking at Phil. I sighed.

He finished his call and smiled at me, 'So sorry about that,' he returned the phone to his pocket and began to collect his belongings in a bag, 'that was my agent, he's invited me to an impromptu party, so I can't really stay long.' He zipped the bag up, and looked at me, 'So what were you about to say before the phonecall interrupted?'

'Oh, it's nothing...' I conceded.

'Oh really? Well, on that note, I'll take my leave. Stay in touch, we'll talk soon...' He stood up, hastily shook my hand and hurried out of the bar.

Wanker! I thought to myself.