Why Me?

Why'd I answer? Placing the phone down my digital clock got my attention. 7:19 it read, far to early in the morning for conversation. I was annoyed for even picking it up. All I had to do was let my answering machine take it. I speculated on what message he'd have left then. Would it have made more sense than what was communicated to me? His ranting left me with only wonder and idle speculation. Damn, it was too early for this kind of reasoning... although actually, looking back, it was too late.

Having a few cups of coffee and a cigarette hadn't cleared anything up either. What was it that bothered me? And why did it trouble me so? Something in the way he sounded. It appeared as if what he was saying was scripted, like it was being read off a page, as if it was rehearsed! That called for another smoke. I kept thinking why pay him and his conversation so much mind. But I had to. I suspect he knew that also. So emphatic he was saying more than once how he just had to see me and as soon as possible. But why call me so early in the morning? Though he doesn't know me well, he knew enough about me to know I dislike talking to anyone before ten. What could he possibly want from me? I knew I'd soon find out. Curiosity was prodding me on.

All through my shower I kept playing back what he said, more importantly, how he said it. He wasn't what one would call a close friend. Why not even a close acquaintance if there be such a thing. All we shared ever so briefly was some sort of civility - suppose that's what one can call it but yet, we didn't really ever share - anything. I recall only once my returning one of his calls and that was it. Yeah, go on I told myself, play his words all back again running them through this mind of mine. Over and over it was the same; "I know you're busy but I have to, need to, see you as soon as possible. It's vital to me- and for you as well." Ah, first clue. He knew damn well I'm not busy- at all. Haven't been in years and not for my lack of trying.

Being a screenwriter, in a time it seems that film money only seems to show up to produce another high-tech adult cartoon adventure tale. No one wants anything character driven. Instead, the powers that be chose a story where in every other reel of celluloid a few cars are blown and a high body count rises in direct proportion to how many millions are to be spent making another film most intelligent people could easily miss.

Well, I'll see him, but I promised myself to let him do most of the talking. That wouldn't be the time to be my usual glib self. Sounded good to me except, I thought, were my days so uneventful that I must now, spend it conjuring a motive for the likes of Dave Sommers and, this drive as well? Will I get lost as usual? Out here fifteen years and I still can't figure it all out.