Short Story: Breakfast At Tiffany's

*As this year's Christmas 'gift', I present a comedic short story I penned this year. It amuses me, and perhaps it will amuse you as well.*

The morning calm glossed over the rough waters flowing under the surface, the silence so loud cries for help couldn't be heard. As the sun rose, it cast new light on the day, revealing the erasure marks on the blank slate that still bore the remnants of a past that cannot be forgotten, no matter how hard we scrub our memories clean. Even letting those memories out through tears does not work, as the salty streaks will remain visible when we look from the right angle.

Dillan hated the silence of his morning walk nearly as much as the questioning voices he would hear once he arrived. There is no proper balance of being seen and ignored, or perhaps it was a manifestation of his frustrations with the only reasons his presence was ever noted. Being laughed at was preferable to being ignored, because at least he felt someone would be there to keep the feral cats from eating his face should he have stopped breathing out of boredom.

His hand paused on the handle, his body almost unsure if he wanted to enter. Whether he did so willingly, or if he merely fell forward against a push door, the familiar tone of the bell filled his ears before he could register anything else. The light was dim, but he already knew what the scene would be. The store was empty, save for two figures sitting at the counter, a pile of records slowly disintegrating in the sleeves.

As the door closed, the background came into focus. Gordon and Jess were in their usual places, their faces lost in the search for a topic worth talking about. Dillan knew he was about to give that to them, which would be a welcome distraction for all of them from the fact Morrissey's voice would get intolerable even before the embarrassment of this moment would.

Gordon was the first to look toward the door.

"What did you do this time?" he asked.

Dillan waited to answer until he stepped closer, taking the other seat at the counter. They formed a triangle that Dillan would often say was his way of staying in shape. Though he did not care that much for people, he liked to have more than one around at a time, if for no other reason than to alleviate the pressure of being responsible for conversation. He reckoned he had the personality of two-thirds of a person, and if that was true of each of them, they amounted to a full friendship between the three of them.

"Just why do you assume it must have been my fault?" Dillan asked in return.

Jess rolled her eyes in perfect rhythm to the music. A born performer, she made detachment a must-see effort.

"Has a woman ever done anything to put you off?" she asked.

"Put me off or get me off?" Dillan responded, in both seriousness and jest.

"The answer's 'no' to either one," Jess offered as a retort.

Dillan raised his finger as if to protest, then thought better of it. His head dropped as his hand did, finding the familiar posture of defeat.

"So what happened? How'd you scare this one off?" Gordon asked.

"Besides being being himself?" Jess quipped.

"It's the same old story. Desperation is cute when you find it abandoned on the street, and less so when you bring it home, clean it up, and see what it looks like in the light.

"So it wasn't a 'too much of a good thing' situation?" Gordon asked.

"Has anyone ever considered me a good thing?" Dillan asked in all seriousness.

"A good thing? No. Too much? For sure," Jess answered.

"I just have to face the facts. Some people have magnetic personalities, and I'm one of them. But instead of attracting people, I'm like when you put them the other way and they push themselves apart. Perfect metaphor right there," Dillan said.

"It would be more perfect with a little less science involved," Gordon challenged.

"Yeah, if people don't want to think about you, they don't want to think because of you either," Jess agreed.

"I haven't had any more success with the ones that don't think either. It turns out, the problem is that I'm the one who thinks too much, not them," Dillan said.

"We keep telling you being drunk would solve that problem," Gordon reasoned.

"You're nothing but inhibitions," Jess added.

"Alcohol isn't going to help me in the morning, when I have a head full of regrets," Dillan argued.

"That's what day drinking is for," Jess snarked.

"If that's what it takes, I guess I don't have the bladder capacity for happiness," Dillan said. "The point is that some of us simply don't seem to be wired to be happy, or be with people, and I'm one of them.

"You've just got to get back on the horse," Gordon reassured him.

"Yeah, there's nothing getting ridden wouldn't solve," Jess added.

"Um... I think in this metaphor he would be the one doing the riding," Gordon reasoned.

"No judgment," Jess responded.

"I can do without the pep talk, thanks. Getting back on the horse is just going to lead to me getting hurt even worse. Once you get thrown off, trying to ride in a full body case isn't exactly going to go very well," Dillan said.

"Hmm... full body cast... is that the only way you can get hard around a woman?" Jess joked.

Gordon covered his mouth with a hand to stifle his laughter. There was a point at which friendly banter would cross the line, and Gordon couldn't afford to lose one of the few customers to enter his store. No matter how funny the joke, he had to make the effort to appear as if he cared about his friend's feelings.

"You know what the worst part of this whole thing is?" Dillan asked.

"Is it us?" Gordon asked back.

"Close. No, the worst part is that as she was slamming the door in my face, she told me she would do 'that' for love, just not with me." Dillan said.

"So you got the front and back door slammed on you," Jess said.

"What? No, she was paraphrasing my favorite song. Now I'm never going to be able to hear it without thinking about her. She ruined it for me."

The bell broke up the conversation, the presence of another person a jarring enough development to disrupt their attention. They turned to the door, blinded by the corona of sunlight poking through just enough to know it wanted to venture no further.

Paizley stood in the doorway, her arms outstretched as if she was glad to see the sorry lot. She would be the only person with such a reaction, the shock of color that reminded the others how dark they were, but served as the light to remind them the coffin lid had not yet been sealed shut.

She moved closer, her smile strong enough to stay on her face as she reached the counter.

"Welcome back. How was your tour?" Gordon asked.

"The shows were great, but the travel was a nightmare," Paizley answered.

"The clown show kind, or the clown kind?" Jess wanted to know.

"I went to check my bag for the flight, and the guy thought my microphone was a sex toy," Paizley said.

"I mean... I can see it," Jess said from experience.

"So he tells me I can't check it, I can only carry it on, which I barely got closed as it was. So I shoved it in my cleavage and said 'I guess we know what these are for'. Except then he tried to do a mic check, and I had to tell him I'm not a drive through, and you don't have to speak into the mic," Paizley recounted.

"Eww," Jess let out.

"It's like that everywhere. The only thing worse than the people you know are the people you don't know," Paizley philosophized.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Gordon said.

"Well, I did come back to you guys," Paizley responded.

The bell was faintly audible over the volume of Paizley's voice. Her personality had filled the store enough that no one noticed Dillan retreating into the background, slipping out as his friends forgot about his misery. Paizley noticed first, her curls bouncing as she spun her head around to look for Dillan. She exchanged a look with the others, then bounced over to the door. She waves as she stepped back into the sunlight, her eyes trying to focus and find his outline on the empty sidewalk.

Dillan was sitting on his couch, his guitar on his lap, when Paizley knocked on the door. He paused for a moment, surprised she had chased him down. He wanted to be alone, but his insecurity could not let him pass on unearned attention.

Paizley walked in already in mid sentence, assuming she was welcome anywhere.

"You didn't say hello down there," she said.

"I didn't want to ruin your homecoming."

"And just how would you do that?"

"Come on, I'm sure you can smell the sadness in here. You don't want to have to put me back together again."

"Are you doing ok?"

"Am I ever ok?"

"Jokes aren't going to get you out of tough conversations forever."

"Who's joking? Have you ever seen me happy?" Dillan asked.

"That might be scarier than the clowns. So what happened."

"I've tried being myself, and that always failed, so this time I took people's advice and tried to be someone else. Turns out I'm not much of an actor, so fake me is even harder to stomach than the real thing."

"Look, someone..." Paizley started to say.

"Please don't tell me someone will come along who appreciates me. It's kind of you, but I don't need to be lied to right now. I did at least get a new song out of it."

"That's something. Can I hear it?"

Dillan walked to the couch, picking up his guitar and clutching it against his chest. He took a deep breath, more of a sigh, and strummed a single chord.

"I suck, I suck, and not the way with a happy ending," he sang.

Paizley cocked her head at an angle, lowered her brow, and punched Dillan in the arm.

"You know you're a jerk, right?" she asks.

"Yeah."

The door opened, and Gordon and Jess walked in as if they were invited. Dillan took one step toward the door, then realized the futility of trying. He turned back to Paizley, who was sliding the guitar out of his grip. She positioned it against her own body.

"I suck, I suck," she sang, winking to the beat.

"We're not interrupting, are we?" Gordon asked.

"Pity parties do have a maximum occupancy," Dillan answered.

"But your life is a clown car, so we can all fit," Jess said.

"Ha ha, ha ha," Paizley sang, caught up in the moment.

Dillan collapsed onto the couch, the back holding up his head because he didn't have the energy to do it himself. The others took seats with him, settling in for the duration. Gordon pulled a bottle from his pocket. The smell was obvious to Dillan as the cap was removed; the smell of loneliness. Gordon took a sip, then passed the bottle to Jess. She did the same, then passed it to Paizley. She did the same, and held the bottle toward Dillan.

"You know I can't do that," Dillan said.

Paizley looked at him, her cheeks still full of booze. Her eyes popped open as she realized her mistake, little jewels that reminded him for an instant of how precious she was. She wiped the bottle on her sleeve, then offered it back to him.

"That wasn't the issue," Dillan said.

"Ooo," Jess cooed.

"Just humor me. I want to have a drink with my friends," Paizley insisted.

"One of us is going to regret this," Dillan said, resigned.

Dillan put the bottle to his lips and titled his head. It was unclear to the others whether they were parted enough for any of the liquid to pass through, but the act was enough to satisfy them. They let out a sarcastic cheer, and he passed the bottle back to those who needed it more than he did.

"Let's put on some music," Gordon said.

Dillan froze, his fight-or-flight mechanism short-circuiting like every other bit of his fractured psychology.

Gordon shimmied to the stereo, pressing the play button before Dillan could come to. Music filled the room, the familiar voice of Paizley crooning sadness.

"My record isn't exactly party music," she admitted, "but it's kind of you to listen to it."

Gordon picked up the case, holding it up to the light. Dust was caked on the surface, dulling the bright colors of her face.

"Have you listened to anything else in months?" Gordon asked.

Dillan remained silent.

"This is awkward, isn't it?" Jess asked.

"We should give them a moment," Gordon was smart enough to realize.

Gordon and Jess got up to leave. Jess tried to look back as Gordon shoved her out the door. Her fingers clasped onto the frame, her eyes almost making it back far enough to see. She lost her grip, and the door closed, leaving Dillan and Paizley alone.

"Is there something you want to tell me," Paizley asks. "Because you know you can, if there is."

"I'm not saying anything. Every time I open my mouth, I ruin something. There are certain things that aren't worth the risk of screwing up."

"You're not as clever as you think you are."

"I know I'm not. I'm always trying to be honest, and everyone seems to not understand what I'm saying, or they just refuse to believe the truth is the truth."

"By not saying anything, you're actually saying everything."

"So what can I do to seem like I'm shutting up?"

"I don't think there's anything you can do."

"Finally, we agree on something."

Paizley punched him in the arm again, with less of a wink this time.

"Why are you so afraid of having feelings?" Paizley asks.

"Because whatever they start out as, they always end up echoing as pain. At least if I don't feel anything, it doesn't hurt... as much."

"That's a terrible way to live."

"I can't change who I am. You can dye your hair, or try on a new outfit, but I can't re-wire my brain. I'm a living ghost, and anytime I've ever tried to be something more, I'm quickly reminded that some tastes are never acquired."

"And you're ok with that?"

"I don't have a choice. It's not like I can make people like me, and even if I could somehow manifest that, it would be cruel on my part to force people into thinking that want me around. Not to mention, if I knew it was merely my wish overriding reality, I wouldn't feel any better than I do now. Fake affection isn't any better than no affection.

"You've thought this through."

"For some of us, love is only a one-way street. If we're lucky, we get to spend a bit of time going parallel with someone we like. But even if it lasts forever, the lines are never going to get any closer, so it really doesn't matter."

"Someone really did a number on you."

"Petty much everyone. It's no wonder I hate myself."

Paizley cracked a wry smile. Dillan furrowed his brow, afraid of what was about to come.

"Hating you... maybe that's the one thing we've got," Paizley said.

"Did you just 'Breakfast At Tiffany's' me?"

"Doo doo doo doo doo doo," Paizley crooned.

Dillan closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't decide whether to laugh at the absurdity, or cry that this was as good as it would get.

"You know you're an asshole, right?" Paizley asked him.

"I do."

"So it's a good thing everyone needs one."

Paizley leaned over and kissed Dillan gently on the cheek. She popped up from her seat, winked at him again, and made her way out. Dillan watched her, she knew he couldn't keep his eyes off her, and she spun through the door so her flaming hair would leave a streak burned into his vision for the rest of the night.

"How am I going to fuck this up?" Dillan asked himself.