Thankfully, work has been so stressful that I don't have time to dwell during the day. Vance has been an intuitive, graceful listener, and Joe has tolerated my see-saw moods with patience, compassion and love.
I thought I'd take a break and write something assigned. Try it. It's fun.
Write one page containing the following elements:
• A character named Simon MacCall
• Someone saying, "How dare you!"
• An event that happens at 6:00 PM
• Something that happens in downtown Wyandotte, Michigan.
I knew my being there was a mistake the moment I walked into the party. It wasn’t just the thudding Coldplay that blared from the tinny speakers stretched beyond their capacity, but it was the boozy smell of the first guy who bumped into me by way of introduction.
“Are you Simon?” he asked.
“No.” He staggered off, his stench stayed. I looked around for David, my friend who promised me an awesome time with “tons o’ chicks,” cursing him and his entire family under my breath. What was I even doing out of bed? My head pounded with Nyquil. My car skidded most of the way here on glare ice sheets of street, the wind blowing my Focus from side to side. I didn’t even know Wyandotte existed until this party, but most towns in Michigan were still foreign to me as was my ability to be this frozen.
I stood there in the doorway still bundled up in my scarf and gloves, looking around for David. People packed the single room toe-to-toe, yelling their conversations; some of them were actually sweating. My head swiveled to see a girl with beautiful long red hair and an unfortunate nose approaching me.
“You must me Simon.” She had such confidence when she said it that I was tempted to agree with her.
“I’m afraid not.” She turned on her heel, her hair almost slapping me like a plate of spaghetti. I clomped the snow off my boots, unwound my scarf, and took off my gloves. Just as I was wiggling out of my fake down coat, I felt my arm knock against someone’s back. I saw two hundred and fifty pounds of football player staring down at me. I smiled meekly, said I was sorry.
“Whatever, Simon.” I started to correct him, but it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t see us huddling anytime soon. Who the hell is Simon, I wondered, weaving into the kitchen to find David. He wasn’t there. I grabbed a Sprite out of the fridge. Leaning against the counter, I drank the Sprite, its bubbles burning my raw throat, and I felt a sneeze working its way to the surface. Panicking I scrambled toward a roll of paper towels three feet away.
“Simon McCall?” It was too late. I covered the small British voice with a fire extinguisher full of snot, looking at him with bleary red eyes. “How dare you!” was his response, and who could blame him?
“I’m not Simon,” I croaked. “Who is Simon?”
“Certainly not you. He would have had the good manners to cover his mouth.” His tone was as effete as the stripes on his trousers. I apologized, went for a handshake, but my hands were dripping with mucus. He pursed his lips and left.
My head pounded, I didn’t care about a chick, let alone a ton of them, and I started to gear up for outdoors again. I looked at my watch. It was six. My car might still be warm, I reasoned, as I slid back through the crowd toward the front door, back to my bed where I belonged.