Fugitive Motel / The Greatest Excuse

The phone rings and I'm lying on the motel bed, sprawled backwards and picking at a fingernail with my eyetooth. The phone clutched in my hand, pressed to my ear, I can hear the other line and all I can hear is the sound of chewing.
"It's about time you called. I'm bored to tears here. So anyway," I say. "I've started wearing glasses. I mean, well, I had them for two years, but I never wore them, but now my vision's getting so bad I kinda have to. I put them on and I never even noticed how dim the world was getting. With these glasses, I have something like 20/15 vision, which is perfect. Everything is beautiful again, and I'm not even high."
The motel TV is flopped on its side, tuned to the Travel Channel, some B-roll footage of boring people visiting beautiful places I've never heard of and I will never visit. Not like they will, anyway. It's not the same. Never the same.

Those little green lamps that most motels have, it's broken on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles and cigarette butts extinguished right in the carpeting.

"I'm just wondering why I'm slowly going blind. I'm really worried about it you know?"
"Maybe it's all the dope." The phone says. "That's supposed to make you go blind."
"Maybe. Could be staying up late and watching TV." I glance over at the set. Beautiful beaches and cobblestone streets and art and shit.
"Maybe it's masturbation. Or have you been eating enough carrots?" I can hear crunching.

"Anyway, I heard from Laura. Turns out she's got six weeks."
"Why did you bring her up? I don't want to hear anything about her for SEVEN weeks, OK?"

"She just crossed my mind. Do you even know her? Wait, before I forget, there's something I think you should know."

"Shoot." The sound of crunching popcorn.
"Today, I am depressed and I like it."
"The big come down, eh? Of course you like it."
"It makes me feel important."

"Most drugs do, as depression is just one of those."

"I've heard that about happiness, too." I sneeze, suddenly and I'm seeing spots. My hand is covered in blood and snot now, so I wipe it daintily on the mattress.

"On my end," The phone says. "I'm thinking of the great irony in birds taking down jet planes. Kamikaze-style. The beauty of loose screws dismantling an entire space shuttle. Poisonous pets devouring a careless owner. Building on advancing fault lines. You know, other staples of the anti-suicide society."

"Big deal. That's what I don't get about existentialism. What's the point?"
"If there's no point to anything . . ."
". . .What's the logic in bitching?"
"Like most widely held beliefs, it lessens the hurting. Also, it gives a great excuse to be a pretentious dick."
"And you like that?"
"You like being depressed."
"I like being a lot of things, and today, I don't mind much."
"You mean you mind everything."
"Sadly. That's the whole reason I'm blue. Can I ask another question?"
"Shoot."
"Is solipsism any fun? I'm a little afraid to try it."
"Only if you like killing people. Try chaos theory. It's more logical."
"How? Chaos theory is just another pretentious douchebag jumping onto a water tower and crying, 'I've figured it out!' The world needs less theories and more . . ."
"More what?"
"I don't know, I forgot."
"So that's basically how the party went last night?"
"More or less. A few girls, a few guys. I realized, tragically, I became the guy who brought drugs to the party."
"Stop saying tragic and sad. You're far from it."
"Stop saying shoot every time I ask a question."

"Why?"
"It's violent. It. . . bugs me."

"Can I ask a question?"

"Shoot."
"Har har. Did you sleep with anyone?"

"I don't know who invited her, but some chick was over and she kept hitting on me. Her age changed like five times, from 19 to 16 to 17 to 18 to 15. Never did break 20, though."

"That didn't answer my question."

"I turned her down. I don't want the clap from a 15 year old."

"Pleasant thought."
"I'm full of those today."
"I'll bet you are."

"I'd wager you are too. Tell me another." I pull back some skin on my finger. It starts to bleed. I clamp down on my fingernail and suck.
"I've been cloudwatching."
I laugh.
"Wait, it gets better. All I can see are dead things."
"Sixth Sense?"
"Not people, just animals. Puppies, ducks, cute things like that. I watch them and the wind blows and rips them to ribbons. Slow-motion, terrible and silent."
"Perhaps that's the winner. That's the greatest excuse."
"Perhaps."

I pause. "Who is this anyway?"
The phone clicks dead.

Through the blinds, the sun is reflecting off the pool so harsh I'm seeing spots. I can barely make out all the patio furniture sunk to the bottom of the pool. A cop car is parked nearby and one officer is talking to the hotel manager.

I realize what time of day it is, and how the room must look, with the peeling wallpaper and a busted window. The clogged toilet, the needles littered around the sink. The TV is now some documentary on head lice.

I go to the motel room door and make sure that little knocker is on DO NOT DISTURB. I go back and turn the TV right side up and adjust the rabbit ears. Then I pick up the phone and dial room service and vow to not answer the door.