Vernon Downs by Jaime Clarke Page B

I could make a case for him being a talentless douche bag. Easily.”
    The bartender splashed the vodka tonics down on the bar. Charlie tipped a buck, like he’d seen others do, but the bartender didn’t notice, and when Warren didn’t follow, Charlie slipped the dollar back into his pocket.
    Warren hoisted his glass and said, “Sorry to disappoint,” before being swallowed up by the crowd, which had grown exponentially. Charlie cut a half-moon through the bodies to reach Vernon and Cyanin, who were in the corner, their backs to the crowd. A cumulus of cigarette smoke hungthickly overhead. The spiced fragrance of a clove cigarette filled his nose.
    â€œHave some,” Vernon said, palming a small chrome bullet into Charlie’s hand. The tiny cylinder felt hot to his touch, and he instinctively set his drink on the nearest table and unscrewed the top. Charlie had never favored anything more than drink, but reading Vernon’s work had been, among other things, a study in the usage of drug paraphernalia. He scooped a tiny pyramid of cocaine with the miniature spoon inside and held it under his right nostril, inhaling quickly. A searing sandstorm blasted across the back of his throat, and his tongue involuntarily clamped to the roof of his mouth. Heart palpitations drowned the whirring in his brain as he resumed possession of his vodka tonic.
    Vernon skulked in the corner, his arms crossed, striking the same pose he had at the Christmas party. Cyanin never strayed from his side, his animation contrasting violently with Vernon’s passivity. Charlie felt his spine straighten as the cocaine massaged his doubts and fears about winning Olivia back into confirmation that all would be well. Something within him vindicated all designs of his thinking, vanquishing the interior monologue that constantly reminded him that he knew nothing definitively and that his life was essentially a streak of guesses.
    Josh, the celebrated author, ducked into the bathroom in the hall. An acrid odor assaulted Charlie as he followed. His field of vision narrowed. Josh was at the sink, dabbing his wet fingers through his black hair. The phoniness of the assortment of bracelets on his right wrist struck Charlie as pathetic. Josh peered at Charlie in the mirror and Charlie tipped his chin. “Great party,” he said.
    â€œCool,” Josh said. The bracelets jangled as his hands dropped to his sides.
    â€œI liked your book,” Charlie said.
    Josh turned and edged against the sink to let Charlie pass. “Thanks, man.”
    Charlie’s heart raced and he stifled a cackle. “I mean, I liked it when it was called
Minus Numbers
.”
    The author grimaced, squinting.
    â€œSeems like a pretty poor imitation,” Charlie continued. “Actually, truth be told, it looks like garbage. I’m surprised there isn’t a stack in here to wipe your ass with.” The words issued from his mouth like gunfire.
    â€œYou’re entitled to your opinion,” Josh said. He pivoted, but Charlie barred his exit.
    â€œOh, it’s more than an opinion,” Charlie sneered. “It’s an established fact.”
    â€œCan I pass?”
    â€œFact,” Charlie repeated.
    â€œMay I pass?” Josh asked again.
    â€œSure.” Charlie acquiesced, stepping aside. “You can do anything you want,” he said. “Except come up with your own ideas, apparently.”
    â€œFuck you,” Josh blurted out as he lurched out the door.
    Charlie lunged at the sink, his pulse quickening until his vision was permeated with bright constellations. He pressed his forehead against the mirror and watched his eyeballs shimmy in their sockets. He drank ravenously from the rusted tap, splashing the cool water on his face. Back in the bar, Vernon and Cyanin were sitting at a table, drinking and smoking. Charlie took the steps two at a time until he reached the street, the humidity lashing his forehead