[from the diaries of Stephen Garrity]

I awoke abruptly this morning to what I was convinced was a rogue train slamming into my building with the force of several nuclear warheads. Upon gaining total consciousness, however, I realized with a sinking feeling that the source of the ghastly din was that wretch Gurney upstairs, easing his insomnia with overdriven guitar riffs in an unidentifiable key. Yes, at five o’clock, A.M.. Again.

My life has taken all aspects of a personal hell, complete with its own death metal soundtrack. I’ve been to see Mrs. Nguyen more times than I can recount, but she’s insisted that, as long as he pays his rent on time and keeps his apartment in order, she has no grounds for evicting him. I know I should find some way of increasing the pressure – maybe rallying similarly annoyed tenants (but, with the rent being what it is, would they bother?), or writing to the council – but at this point I’m exhausted, and all I want is a new place that isn’t infested by aspiring musicians with a marked deficit in the talent department. Preferably among that sect of monks who practice a code of absolute silence.

Perhaps it was the morning’s bad start that cast a shadow over the day’s activities; brooding over my accommodation woes, I was almost smeared across so much asphalt by a charging truck on the way to work, got into a row with the technical officer and misplaced Cartwright’s copy, all in the space of an hour. Needless to say, I wasn’t in particularly good humour thereafter, and wound up lunching alone at the deli again. James and the guys had been talking about checking out that new bistro opposite the bank, but when those two geeks from the IT department decided to invite themselves along, I made my excuses and left. Perhaps I’ve been more antisocial of late (or was I simply looking for a way out?) than usual, but I didn’t particularly relish the idea of enduring an interminable hour listening to talk about coffee and computers, and pretending not to notice Phil’s advances to that new typist, the old lecher.

There was a special on the BLT today but the lettuce looked pitifully limpid, so I wound up with the same turkey sandwich I’d had yesterday, and the day before last. The redhead girl was there again (I’ve mentioned her before: average height, wavy hair, always wears the same pink outfit). She sits at the same table every day and – as far as I’ve observed – eats alone, with a book for company. I think she was reading Blake this time; she probably finished that Shelley book at home yesterday. It’s struck me as a rather lonely way to spend lunch (and there was the passing impulsion to find an excuse for conversation, but the last thing I need is for James to walk in on me, and then tell everybody that I’ve been chatting up girls at local diners), but then I remembered just who’s been going out of his way to get out of spending time with his colleagues, and wondered if perhaps, like me, she had her reasons for avoiding company.

Curiosity, it must be admitted, got the better of me. I discreetly followed her out of the deli after lunch (the boss isn’t due back until Monday, and the oppression of work has been inducing me to seek out distractions). She walked two blocks south – with a slight limp; I wonder if women’s high-heeled shoes are actually bad for posture? – before turning into the Regency Hotel, an establishment I’ve never had reason or inclination to enter. I strode right past the place, at a pace quick enough not to draw the doorman’s attention, but allowed me, at the same time, to observe that there were more pink-uniformed people inside. It explained a great deal about her need of a retreat away from crowds. I felt for her. Some of us live lives that fit around us like badly misshapen gloves.

James and the lunch group were still missing when I came back to the office, which meant several minutes of peace and quiet for me at my desk – those precious moments of clarity when I can actually make sense of my work. And then the rambunctious bunch returned and the bustle began anew, leaving me to desperately clutch at whatever shreds of concentration remained.

I got back home late in the evening, utterly drained. There was little of interest in the mail – a couple of bills and a letter from the Reader’s Digest telling me that I may have won a million dollars (utter bunk!) –, but I’d picked up the latest copy of Down Beat on my way back, and it granted me some reprieve from the dismal drone of life. I fell asleep in front of the television set after dinner and woke up halfway through a news item about a massacre involving some unemployed shopkeeper, which reminded me that I’d better call it a night before the psycho upstairs pulls out his infernal guitar. There’s work to be done, but I’ll probably be up early again tomorrow. I’m putting off my search for a new apartment until the weekend, assuming my sanity holds.

A girl like that should have a traditional name. Something old-fashioned like Margaret or Florence, but without that forbidding air of austerity, and doesn’t sound mildewed. Maybe… if I were to sit around in the hotel coffeehouse long enough, I might hear somebody speak her name?

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100 Pictures Challenge #71: Obsession.

[snort] Given that I've been wangsting over this for yonks, I'm beginning to think that 'obsession' more accurately describes my condition than Stephen's frame of mind or the theme of this drawing. But bah, the longer I mess with this, the more dust it's going to collect in my HD, so here's the next installment of the Garrity series... come what may!

Taking you much farther back into Stephen's past. Back when life was ah, relatively normal.

A confession: Stephen's psycho neighbour was inspired by my two freaky roommates in college, who had the annoying tendency to play the guitar (thankfully acoustic) at two in the morning, when everybody should be asleep. A talentless musician seemed like the perfect neighbour from hell for Stephen, LOL.

Other Project Garrity Pictures

True Love is
In Shadows I Await
dA High: Garrity
Permanence
Aftermath
Summer Harvest
A Passing Flash of Red

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Stephen Garrity, and all characters and fictitious locations named in The Diaries of Stephen Garrity are the property of Farlander.