Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part III

Even though half a pitcher of Sake was probably more than Dormitan should have sucked down (hell, it was way way more) the fact was, there really hadn’t been that much else for him to do. Being as patient as he could, Dormitan had sat cross legged (uncrossing and re-crossing them every few minutes so that his legs didn’t cramp or fall or sleep and get that irritating pins and needles feeling people get when that happens) while liking random Facebook posts from Witty Hilarious and Ridiculously Funny as well as using FB Chat to go back and forth with some bi-sexual stripper in Baltimore who was apparently a constant frequenter of his blog (she had even gone as far as to offer him a free lap dance if he was ever in the Tri State Area) for more than forty-five minutes and Bryce still hadn’t turned up.
For a moment there Dormitan had considered asking Blondie Dread for a pair of chop sticks (he might as well use the time to try and learn himself something new he had reasoned) but had remembered that chop sticks were from China and not Japan just in the nick of time. He was pretty sure that Miss Blondie Dread, who’s real name he found out was Yuuka Hinata, which literally meant “Gentle flower facing the sun” (she had been wearing a name tag the entire time) would have stabbed him in the eye with the blunt end of a fork if he had been ignorant enough to ask her for them.
Uh-huh, yeah, gentle flower my foot, Dormitan had mumbled to himself and so instead he had drunk. And drunk. And drunk. And even though Dormitan never quite got to the point of actually getting drunk par se, he was, however, at a level of inebriation that quite facilitated the loosening of tongues as well as turning his limbs into curiously curious explorers making the fact that he was seated all by his lonesome a quite fortunate one indeed.
Pouring himself another cup of Sake (which was like an oriental version of a shot glass) Dormitan, toasting to no one in particular, sucked the stuff down, emptying his cup in one go. Smacking his lips Dormitan set the empty cup back down onto the table. Damn it was good.
This particular variety of Sake was sweet and creamy and still had unfiltered particles of rice in it. Dormitan loved it. So much so that even though he knew he had already had like three cups too many he decided to pour himself another. Before he could, however, there was a crash of china (or would it be Japan?), a woman’s yelp, some male shouting and grunting and the sound of a scuffle. Swiveling on his cushion Dormitan looked to see what all the commotion was about. From his vantage point (which wasn’t a very good one in any case) what Dormitan could make out was that two men were fighting and it seemed as if it was over some woman who was busy screaming and carrying on and trying to break them up.
Not really caring for it but still intrigued by the hullabaloo, Dormitan got to his feet to get a better look. There were two men going at it all right. Rolling around on the floor like a couple of school kids fighting over a few shillings at break time. They had disrupted the entire restaurant and now just about all of the patrons had stopped eating and most were standing, forming a wary circle around the two men, watching, like people at an underground fight club. Like a celestial mass being pulled in by the gravitational field of a much bigger, much meaner, totally inescapable one Dormitan found himself moving closer towards the uproar and the people who had gathered around them to watch. Finding it slightly amusing, slightly appalling that no one was trying to stop the fight. That no one felt enough to step in. Not that he would, he was a writer, a watcher, an observer…and this was some mighty good fodder for some material if he did think so himself.
While the two men continued to roll around (one was now straddling the other hammering Thor like blows down on the guy while the other held his arms in front of his face in an attempt to fend off the punches) the woman, pretty with a pretty black dress, was using her pretty black clutch to hit the straddler on the back demanding him to “Stop it! Stop it! You’re going to hurt him!”
But wait, wasn’t that the point? Dormitan mused to himself.
And then the cavalry arrived. Two mountain sized bouncers in black trousers and black muscle t-shirts with the word “Security” stenciled in white on the back. Like kids sweeping toys up off the ground, the one bouncer plucked the straddler off the other and the second bouncer plucked the other up off the ground. As the two combatants were placed on their feet Dormitan got a good look at them for the first time.
W…T…F...
Dormitan felt his breath catch in his throat. He couldn’t believe it. He really couldn’t.
Why?
Because one of them, one half of the pair of men who had been rolling around like a couple of juveniles was none other than D.C. Bryce. The D.C. Bryce. Literally idol, genius and prolific wordsmith. The very reason for Dormitan’s life long love affair with books and pages and words. And not only that, D.C. Bryce had in fact not been the walloper and not the wallopee. His face looked like the end of a Rocky movie.
What the hell had he done?
And although Dormitan’s mind was still reeling, as the bouncers forced the two men towards the entrance, Dormitan, making a snap decision, followed in their wake.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part II

Wait, are ninjas from China or Japan? Dormitan wondered to himself as he was led through a sea of tables occupied by people on blind dates and first dates and dates in an attempt to try and figure things out as well as people attending business dinners brokering big business deals and dinner parties for anniversaries and birthdays and job promotions by a six foot three inch tall, kimonoed Asian woman with a thick mane of blonde bleached dreadlocks that stopped somewhere between her waist and her knees. Sure, Dormitan could have asked Miss Blondie Dread over there who seemed to almost float across the room in front of him where (she would certainly know) but something told Dormitan that she might not take kindly to the question. Dormitan’s suspicions, of course, probably had something to do with the fact that she was almost a full head taller than him and although it is not at all my intention to make Dormitan out to look like a willy-nilly, the fact is, she intimidated the shit out of him.
“Is he already here?” Dormitan decided to ask instead as he unbuttoned his/Brian’s suit jacket and shoved his hands into his/Brian’s trouser pockets.
It was charcoal grey, the suit, pinstriped and looked as if it had been made for him, fitting his slender frame perfectly. I could get used to this. Dormitan had thought as he had stood in front of his full length mirror checking himself out.
I would totally let myself buy me a drink if I offered to buy me one. Dormitan had then mused a few minutes later as he had flagged down a boda-boda, climbing on, careful not to scuff up his freshly polished shoes.
“I’m going to Ninja.” He had told the boda-boda guy. “Do you know it? It’s in Kololo just after Phase 2.”
The piki-piki transporter dude thought about it for a moment and then,
“Yes, I know it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes I know it. We go?”
Dormitan plucked at the gap between his two front teeth with his thumb like he did every time he was thinking for a moment or two and then,
“We go.”
“Who? Mr. Bryce?” Miss Asian Big Foot threw over her shoulder. Although that is not entirely fair because although big, large, long feet are usually equated with tallness it’s not always the truth. So in an attempt not to stereotype maybe I’ll just stick with Blondie Dread.
She had a extremely strong Gaelic accent, Miss Blondie Dread did which gave Dormitan a moment of pause before he could answer.
“Yeah, Mr. Bryce. Has he arrived yet?”
Her snake like dreads writhed as she shook her head.
“Not yet.” Blondie Dread answered.
“Ah, here you go.” She added a moment later stopping before an empty table. In true Japanese fashion it was about three feet off the ground and instead of chairs the table was surrounded by cushions. It was the only table like that in the room.
Dormitan began plucking at his gap.
“Um, I’m all for the full Japanese dining experience but why are we the only people with a table like this?”
“Mr. Bryce requested for it. He’s all about authenticity you know.”
Dormitan rolled his eyes. Groupie…
“So I’ve heard.”
“Excuse me?”
Dormitan shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Suddenly, the suit seemed kind of impractical. Really impractical. Crap.
“Sir, is there anything I can get for you while you wait?”
More plucking.
“Um, yes actually. Do you guys have Sake?”
“This is a Japanese restaurant Sir.”
“Ok but--”
With an audible sigh,
“Yes, we have Sake…sir.”
Pause. Was it just him or was Blondie Dread being a little rude? A little condescending too. Dormitan thought about it for a hot second…she was, she was being rather rude.
Just let it go man, its not worth getting into. Dormitan told himself.
“Um…ok, can I have some of that then?”
“How would you like it?”
“How do you have it?”
“We have it in single servings and then in pitchers.”
Pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck.
“Bring me a pitcher…please.”
“Yes sir.”
Taking what looked like to be a lot of effort, Snobby Dread took a slight bow and backed away from the table.
After she was a sufficient distance away, Dormitan hitched up his trousers and rounding the table, sat down.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part I

I

At twenty-seven years old Dormitan Cole had only ever owned one suit. It was a dark green, double breasted number that looked like it had been plucked off of the costumes rack of a 1970’s blaxploitation flick. It was the same one he had worn for his high school leaver’s party as well as for every other formal occasion he had been forced to attend ever since. It didn’t matter that the trousers were now two sizes too small and that the collar of the jacket was now faded and frayed from age, Dormitan Cole didn’t believe in suits, he believed that they were for monkeys and for the uninspired and so seeing himself as more than a mere primate as well as a rather inspired human being, Dormitan Cole had made an oath to himself that he would never under any circumstance indulge himself in the purchase of a suit. Ever. On the 15th of June of this year however, Mr. Cole was seriously considering breaking this very oath. Dormitan, you see, had earned himself, through a rather well written yarn about a boy and his guitar that he had sent to a rather prestigious stateside literary publication five months prior, a dinner with his favorite living author, D.C. Bryce. D.C. Bryce was an Ugandan born writer who had moved to the United States in his late twenties to pursue an MFA in creative writing at Syracuse University. During his time at Syracuse D.C. Bryce had completed and published his first novel Ssshhh, Can You Hear Them Screaming? Which was an instant success, not only garnering him a number of accolades but also a New York Times Bestsellers ranking. D.C. then went ahead to write five more books, each one more successful than the last, each one earning him a plethora of award nominations. He didn’t always win of course, because no one could ever always win, but being nominated still had its merits, right?
What it all boiled down to though, was that D.C. Bryce was the writer that Dormitan had always wanted to be and so to have the chance to break bread with his hero, to get a chance to pick his brain was more than amazing, it was a dream come true. This dream though, unfortunately for Dormitan, did not include him wearing a ten year old green suit that looked liked something Superfly might have worn.
At first, Dormitan had thought that the suit would suit the occasion just fine (pardon the pun) but as he stood in front of the mirror staring himself down he suddenly realized that he had grossly miscalculated. What the hell had he been thinking? Of course, if given the choice Dormitan would have been more than happy to wear his customary jeans and t-shirt but again, unfortunately for him, the dinner was supposed to be somewhere nice, some trendy Japanese restaurant where Reebok Classics and ratty Old Navy t-shirts were heavily frowned upon. He doubted he would have even been allowed to make it through the front door.
Ok, so now what? What now? What now? Dormitan thought as he slipped out off the suit jacket and struggled out of its trousers. Where on earth could he get a suit at such short notice? The dinner was only two hours away, it was a Saturday evening and most of the shops were closed and even if they weren’t he didn’t have the kind of money it would take to buy a brand new one. Or a second hand one, or even to rent one.
Ok, so lemme think, lemme think, lemme see…
Standing akimbo in his boxers and his just-as-tattered-as-the-suit blue button down, Dormitan ran through is options…there really weren’t that many.
Dormitan, then walking to his bed, ran his hands across the landscape of the mattress until he found his phone.
Ok, so now who to call? Who can I call? Who can I call…?
Dormitan thought about it for a moment and then Bang! He had it…Brian. Brian had like a gazillion Indian made, cheap as dirt but still designer looking suits, he would definitely be able to help Dormitan out. Hopefully. Because even though he was Dormitan’s best friend, Brian was still kind of an asshole.
Dialing Brian’s number, Dormitan put the phone up to his ear.
Brian picked up after the fourth ring.
“Who dis’ who be callin’ my phone?” Brian shouted into the phone sounding a little short of breath.
“Dude, you watch way too much Californication, you really need to stop with that. Anyway, I need to borrow a suit, can you hook a brutha up?”
“When do you need it?”
“Like right now.”
“Aight cool…Come on…through.”
“You sure? You sound like you might be--”
“Yeah…yeah I’m sure.”
“Cool. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Hanging up the phone Dormitan tossed it onto the bed, walked out of his bedroom and crossing the small hallway walked into the room opposite where he found Brian balls deep inside some chick who, after a perfunctory once over, Dormitan realized wasn’t his girlfriend. Brian had a bottle of Bond 7 in one hand and the right breast of the female he was jockeying in the other.
“Help yourself.” Brian wheezed, still pumping away, using the Bond 7 to point at his closet.
Dormitan nodded in the direction of the girl.
“Who’s that?”
Brian, without missing a beat,
“Does it matter?”
Dormitan could see the girl’s face from where he was standing and let his gaze linger. She was pretty with brown tinted hair cropped to a little less than an inch long. Her eyes were glazed over and her liner had run as if she had been crying.
“Guess not.” Dormitan shrugged. “Just make sure you send her home with some food in her belly man.”
“Yes sir.”
Brian said, mock saluting.
Shaking his head Dormitan turned away from Brian and his glaze eyed meal for the evening and turning towards Brian’s closet stopped worrying about what Girl X was going to have for dinner and once again returned to worrying about what he was going to wear to his.

Scribd Version of "Til I Overdose" A Collection of Short Stories by yours Truly

Hey, so I know I put up a Media Fire download link for Til I Overdose but it all honesty I think that A scribd version would be alot more digestable and so I decided to make a Scribd version of it. still downloable and stuff but yeah...so here it is,

Til I Overdose: A Collection of Short Stories

http://www.scribd.com/doc/99303092/Til-i-Overdose

Enjoy.

Til I Overdose...A Small Collection of Short Stories...

Hey, It's been a while...if I'm to be quite honest I'm going through a really bad bout of writer's block and so that got me thinking. Why not throw some of my stories together (most of which have appeared on this blog, but no matter) PDF the bitch and upload it...and so that's exactly what I did. And so here is "Til I Overdose"...

http://www.mediafire.com/?0uyppatg96d1ty9