A Free Man In Preston

I had a bad night. I couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about stuff. Then to make matters worse, Dave my music publisher rang at three o‘clock.
“Babe, I can’t talk for long, I’m at a really wild party.”
There was the usual sound of laughter and clinking glasses in the background.
“For fuck’s sake Dave, do you know what time it is?”
“Mm nyyul agdad nngr and she was pissed as a fart.”
“Dave, I can’t hear you for all the cocktail party merriment.”
“Sorry Tim mate. I’ll just turn it down a bit.”
There was a moment’s pause, followed by the sound of a hi-fi being kicked.
“I can’t switch the fucking thing… hang on, that’s got it. Can you hear me now?”
“Loud and clear.”

Silence, for at least a minute. I examined the holes in my dressing gown.
“So. Have you managed to get any of my masterpieces published lately?”
“It’s always a quiet month, August. Everyone‘s on holiday.”
I took a deep breath.

“I’m starting to lose my patience here buddy. Do you even know your own name, Dave?”
“Course I do, Babe. It’s… No, hang on, my name is… Not fucking Michael Caine, that’s for sure. Ack, ack ack!”
“You’re a shit publisher, Dave.”
“And you’re a shit songwriter, but you don’t hear me Russell Crowing about it.”
“Yeah, well at least I‘m real, Dave.”
“Oh here we go again. You always have to come back to this, don‘t you?”
“Dave, you’re just a literary device. You didn’t even exist six weeks ago.”
“A literary what? You’ve taken on a few airs and graces lately, haven’t you Tim?”
“You were supposed to be some… Oh I don’t know, some shitty way for me to… Bloody hell, you know, some fucking great whatever.”
“Am I supposed to be the mechanism by means of which you finally receive the validation that you so desperately crave? Is that what I am to you, Tim?”
As I looked through the window I could see my own reflection twice. Once in my own window, and then a much smaller reflection, more difficult to make out, in the window of the house across the road. The ghostly blue light of a television flickered behind the curtains.
“Oh crap. You don‘t have to be so brutal about it. Or wordy.”
“Not my problem. You created me, ass-hole.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.

More silence. It seemed to last forever. When I looked at my watch it was still three o’clock.

“And anyway, what is your problem? Your job’s OK. Your girlfriend‘s great. Blog’s doing alright. Too fucking weird for my tastes, but it’s passable. Ack, ack, ack! When you’re not messing with words, you’re messing with music. Life has been worse. Enough with the bleating.”
“You’re a tosser, Dave.”
“And you’re a knob. Now look Tim, you’re really knackered and clearly a bit emotional. I’m completely out of my tree. Must have been those cocktails. Crazy party. Go back to bed and I’ll call you later on, yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ll speak to you later, Dave. Just don‘t leave it so long next time, alright?”
“I’ll try not to. Goodnight Tim.”
“Yeah. Goodnight. We had some good times though, didn’t we, Dave? Me and you, you big imaginary tosser.”
“Imaginary my arse. I’m not going to take this lying down.”
“Yeah. Goodnight Dave. And thanks.”