Oliver is a subtle man, one that enjoys walks on the beach, cold glasses of water, and occasional social gatherings, when he feels valiant enough. But not today. Today, Oliver is anything of an optimistic creature. The place he sat bothered him. The metal bench beneath him angled a certain way, a way that would be designed to make people endure the longest and coldest wait possible. His shoes reeked, not from any activity he had done recently, but from many months of wear and tear. Why I am here? He asked no one in particular, as no one did listen. He stood up, stretching out his aches and habits of cracking his neck and knuckles. Oliver cracked his neck too much. His neck and his knuckles, both(cracked) very much excessive. He grunted every time he cracked something, and for moments he would notice the grunts, the same exasperated “aahh.” He didn’t understand that. Move on, Oliver. He tried to check his watch, through the thick glove that covered it, but only succeeded in getting fat flakes of snow placed on his bare wrist, like a problem child. He started moving, in a direction away from his usual bus stop. He headed down towards an independent coffee shop. The coffee shop’s name was JAVA, and was owned by an older Italian gentleman, named Frederic. Frederic was a dishonest but lovely person. Oliver ordered a coffee. The coffee, well, tasted like shit. That’s what Frederic was famous for, horrid tasting coffee. But lovely gentleman none-the-less.
Oliver, was bored. Bored with having horrid coffee, bored of having to take the bus, bored of talking to Frederic. He was bored of work, his friends, routines and, salad. Oliver never eats salad, as only the respectable places serve salads, or fast food places pretending to be respectable. Oliver was not respected by the acquaintances’ in his life, nor needed. He was an extra puzzle piece in a finished picture. He ran out of thought. He ran. Neither I nor, very well Oliver, knew where he was going. He ran through the busy streets, green lights, and slippery ice patches. His shoes and feet weren’t meant for running or in the condition to do so, but, he kept running. His breath was low, and his speed, was, rather miniscule. He stopped to catch his breath for the first time, on a very quiet street, unplowed with no one near. The next was a friendly neighbourhood, with beautiful glistening houses and untouched snow yards. After that was a Construction area, abandoned for the winter. He made many more stops, never indoors, along the way. He made it all the way to the outskirts of town, before turning around and watching his life. The lights, the cold, the apathy. All that will be left behind him now. Oliver, will now live a different life.
Though not on this highway. The highway was quiet, and whenever someone did pass by, they would not slow down. Who would pick up a man in a fancy suit, but gluttonous and as crazed looking as a taxidermist gone postal? Not many slowed down.
Oliver doubted himself in these moments. Whenever the world would snarl at him, telling him to turn back, go lay down, sleep, watch reality shows, buy new shoes; admit defeat. Many times before did he attempt to skip town and life, but every time, the boredom called him, begging for a second chance. Not this time. This time Oliver will leave the metaphorical phone hung, and stay true to the goal. Staying true to the goal, however, is much harder than picking up the phone.
Oliver made it about two and three quarters or so miles, before Bill stopped. Bill owned a car, a normal car, one that, drove quite fine. Silver coloured, to be specific. Oliver wasn’t much of a car fanatic, and never took the time to tell the difference in a Toyota™ and a Chrysler™. He stuck with the bus routes. Oliver never met Bill before, he was sure of it. Bill was an older man, wearing a plaid tucked in shirt with glasses that helped Bill see the moon’s surface, with an overly awkward smile and very smooth hands. Bill welcomed him in the car.
Bill was a boring guy. Bill listened to a radio station that played only pop-country music, and only talked of the TV shows he was currently watching. Those included all the CSI shows, with a mixture of TLC programming thrown in here and there. Oliver wasn’t a television sort of person. He enjoyed books, adventurous books, magazines of faraway places, and, occasionally golf. Oliver really felt like golfing now. It may have been well over a year, but he remembers times where he would lose his balls and be forced to finish early. Maybe it was the green. Damn, Bill. Still talking. Never shuts up, does he? A metrosexual town crier of miscellaneous means. Oliver grew tired of Bill’s torturous conversation. Bill’s squirrely voice was like a sleepy lullaby, though it would never allow Oliver to sleep, because Bill was one of those people that needed confirmation from the people he was preaching to, showing that they are listening. Bill also scratched his crotch frequently, very frequently.
Bill dropped off Oliver, or Oliver left Bill, at the next gas station. He just couldn’t bare Bill’s presence any longer. Bill and Oliver shared Facebook information, and spilt ways. Oliver went into the shanty gas station, bought one ordinary coffee, and just that. He continued down the street, and waited at a bus stop.
Oliver waited on an ordinary half hour for the bus to arrive, and went on. IT was one of those massive buses, one that is far different from what Oliver would take usually take every day to work. It made him feel very awkward. The bus was filled entirely, beyond the chance of a head count. Oliver took a small seat in between an elderly Japanese lady, and another person who looked to be the lady’s grandson. The radio station played pop-country music, the same; all the same. Oliver attempted to close his eyes, but he was filled with excitement, and the sun was too bright to try. This lasted 8 hours.
When Oliver got off the bus, it was well into the night. He said goodbye(tried) to the Japanese family, and took a stroll down the city streets, unfamiliar and fatiguing. Oliver stopped. He had a thought, a brain clot of never forget-me-nots. A certain someone. Oliver let out a series of grunts and moans as he headed for the payphone.
“Hello, Jessie? Yeah this is Oliver. I don’t know where I am. The city. I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know. I’m just, tired of being who I am. I’m tired of being… Bored. Yeah, I know. I know. I know! I’m not running away. I’m not! Well I sort of am. This isn’t why I called. Yeah. This isn’t- Jessie! Listen, just, feed Max, alright? I’ll come back. I’ll come…. I’ll come back I promise. Bye.”
Now that was over.
Oliver felt, somewhat relieved, somewhat, more energetic after calling Jessie. Now that he could leave her, with some consent, he could finally sleep. His dog Max was also another leap. He went and rented out a room at the cheapest hotel in walking distance. The hotel had no name, but stunk in its own way, a mixture of fresh tar and rabbit pellets. The lady, or man, at the front desk, was balding, and was perhaps the source of the smell. What a lousy night.
A lousy night littered with dreams. When he woke, he was sweaty and filthy, but, ready. He made his way down the only stairwell, and onto the street. Oh, he thought. Shit.
Oliver realized his situation. He realized, it was already happening before he realized. He was stuck. Stuck in the hole of the never pleasing boredom. This was his own fault.
(SOME PARAGRAPH IN THAT LOST BOOKLET HERE )
Oliver made his way down the street, in seach of anything. He went into a starbucks, non of which was plesant, but still had coffee. Better coffee than Frederic, and nicer tables. He saw a newspaper, abandoned on a nearby table. His first intentions was to look at the comics, as any less productive adult would, but he searched for something more. But, this was not his newspaper. This newspaper was bought by someone else, and someone else read it, already taking out the spontaneity. Also it wasn’t in English. He decided to wait around for the owner of the newspaper, maybe that non-english visitor will bring some exictment with him or her. No one eventually came.
He had a lousy plan, where he would lie in the snow bank and hide, wait for the snow plow, and be killed. They’ll find his body in two pieces, buried in snow. That way, he could make the newspaper as an oddity, maybe in different languages. He does have a donor card. Maybe the middle pieces of his body wouldn’t be usable, but, some child in need could use his eye, and see things through a child perspective. Oliver wasn’t lucky enough, and after about twenty minutes of lying in the snow, he gave up. No snow plows were out that day.
Oliver, like most desperate and hopeless men, looked in the phone book for the nearest gentleman’s club, about a dozen blocks away. It was a rat hole, with two poles, irregular and unstable coloured lights, and private rooms secured by sheets with holes and stains. The one pole dancer, surrounded by a trucker, a sweaty mess and a perhaps off duty police officer, serenaded herself on the pole like a tired spider. Left arm, right arm, left leg, spin and bend. She repeated this dance number only. No one threw money and no one looked each other in the eyes. Oliver hung by the bar, facing the dancer. He was soon approached by a large lady, who appeared to look like a dominatrix. To Oliver’s surprise, she was. When he got into the private room with the black curtains, he was quickly slapped (very hard) across the face, tripped and was hand cuffed to the absolutely filthy couch. I’m not into this! Said Oliver, who she only called “The Baby Whore Boy”. Oliver was not enjoying this! Not only would she not listen to the safety word (Halleluiah), she never restrained herself from using any of the demonic tools of sexual destruction. Also, she wanted a tip. A very large tip. By the end of the hour, Oliver lost half of his pocket cash, his dignity, and a patch of his hair. (From where, he will not say.)
Thats just a start I guess, just wrote it on the moment. What do you think? Should I continue it? Let me know. This is updated! Longer, but updated!