i'M FuCKeD---eTHAN

Brand new "At the bottom"

Chapter V: Killa ToFu

Ethan crossed [insert street], slowly jogging as the red hand went from blinking to stagnant. He had yet to return any of Philip’s calls. In fact, he purposely blocked his number for the past two days.

 He was coming from lunch with Darlene so he was in the area.  He decided going to Phil’s office in person would pull the band-aid in a quick swoop.

He strolled up to the office casually. “Hey Skyl—“, he started instinctively before seeing the new secretary.  A clean cut Korean guy sat in her place. “Hermes” according to his gold name plaque on the desk.

“How may I help you?” he inquired with an effeminate voice.

Ethan leaned against the wrap-around desk and tapped his fingers on the counter. “Phil? He in?”

“Mr. Weinstein", Hermes austerely corrected, "is in a very important meeting. If you’ll please have a seat.” Hermes gestured to the seats behind Ethan, whom didn’t mind waiting if it meant avoiding the inevitable. “Your name sir?” Hermes asked, eyes averted to a computer screen.

“Ethan Campb—Matthews. Ethan Matthews.”

Hermes’ eyes widened and he looked back at Ethan, “Mr. Matthew’s! My sincerest apologies. I didn’t know; we weren’t expecting you”, he referred to the computer in blame, “but Mr. Feinstein specifically said to get a hold of you a.s.a.p. And you’re here!” he excitedly threw his hands up. “I’ll let Mr. Feinstein know immediately.”

He punched a button on the phone intercom, “Mr. Feinstein, Mr. Matthews  just arrived.” He smiled and nodded at Ethan.

“Send in the son of a bitch in five!” Ethan heard Phil’s distinctive voice on the other end. “Wait, did he hear that? Am I on speaker?”

Hermes cringed, waiting for the fireworks, “Um….yes?” He whispered.

“Good! Hey Ethan, FUCK YOU! You think you’re all that and a bag of potato chips? Fine! But when daddy calls, you better pickup. You would be nowhere without me and look how you treat me.” At this point, the phone was unnecessary as you could hear him from behind the closed door.  Heads popped up like prairie dogs from the cubicles in the adjacent common space. “Help yourself to some donuts and coffee!” Philip ended before the line went dead.

Hermes was covering his mouth in shock.  “Don’t worry”, Ethan reassured, “This was nothing. You should’ve seen him when I went off the grid on a backpacking trip. He hired a P.I. to find me. True story”, he gave the counter two gentle knocks before back pedaling towards the chairs, pointing back at Hermes assuredly.

Office of Philip Feinstein

Ethan slouched in the oxblood Corinthian leather chairs. The office was on the colder side; low 70s. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing an assortment of books from Ethan’s contemporaries. He would've be surprised if Phil  had even read half of them. He had a team for that. The books were simply novelty aesthetics for his office; first-edition collectibles to represent his legacy. Phil sat behind a stained redwood desk in a high-backed chair made of the same material as the one Ethan sat on. He was laughing and carrying on the conversation he was in before Ethan sat down. Ethan stared at a family picture facing outward on the desk: two daughters and a son; the eldest probably in her mid-30s and the younger two in their early to mid twenties.

“I’ll have my underwriter draw something up.” Phil concluded the phone call.

He redirected his attention to Ethan, “So, Mr. Hot-shot-writer! I read your manuscript.” He said, teetering the pages back and forth with his thumb and index finger.

“Where’s Skyler?” Ethan asked, ignoring the comment entirely, “Who’s that guy?”

“What? This guy?” Phil pointed in the general direction of the secretary desk outside, “He’s my son’s….” Phil thought carefully about his word choice, “partner or whatever. It was a favor.” He shook his head indignantly, “It’s like you have to buy your kid’s love these day, amiright?”  

“…So no more Skyler?” Ethan was slightly upset.

“No no. I have that guy come in for Skyler for a week of the month.” Phil dropped two Alka-Seltzer tabs in some water.

Ethan had an outlandish thought to why Phil would do this. I mean, he wouldn’t put it past him. But he hoped he was wrong.

“Why?” He decided to humor Phil.

“Well, you see, women are different than men. Every month they have this cycle, you see.” Ethan waved his hand, cutting Phil off. Exactly what he thought. He knew where he was going with that biology lesson.

“You’re telling me you don’t let her work when she’s on her period? Mr. Feinstein, that is extraordinarily offensive!” Ethan couldn’t believe that he had to make that clear.

“What? It’s P.T.O! Everyone wins! Besides, if you asked her if she wanted the P.T.O. or to stand for some feminist malarkey, I guarantee you, she’d take the check.”

Ethan hated to admit it, but Phil did have a point. He was just glad that Skyler was still hired.

“Anyway, business: This book of yours. What is it?” Phil didn’t waste any time. Ethan kinda hoped he would drop a hint for him to work with. No such luck.

Shit you tell me.

“A consequential multiverse involving Hitler’s son”, Ethan repeated the same description as when he dropped it off last week. That’s all he really did know about the prose.

“Smart guy, ay?” Philip was far from bemused, “Listen you prick! Buy a couple of weeks, a month even; I’m fine with that. Couple of advances on your bonus, no sweat.” He leaned in and folded his hands together on top of the script lying on the desk, “But you plagiarize Hilsenrath and arbitrarily throw in pieces from your old college work THAT I REJECTED BEFORE, then I have to fuck you in the streets!” Philip sipped on his seltzer water. Again, way to calm for what he was saying.   

The mention of Hilsenrath triggered Ethan’s transitive memory. He remembered pouring himself a triple of Crown Royal before he started writing. Realizing he knew very little about the Third Reich, he went for the only Holocaust narratives he owned: Night by Elie Wiesel and The Nazi that lived as a Jew by Edgar Hilsenrath. Is it wrong to quote half a book? I’ll cite it! He didn’t know what to say. He felt his depression and anxiety set in with the realization of another Ethan Campbell classic fuck up.

Phil pulled Ethan away from his internalized self-loathing, “Look, kid. I heard about your girlfriend and the accident. Talk about your case of the Mondays, amiright?” Ethan rolled his eyes and threw his head back in annoyance, but Phil continued anyway, “I know you’re not in the best state of mind. I’ve been there….sorta…not really. But I can imagine.  Anyway, being the gracious god that I am, I’ll give you 3 more months to get your shit straight.” Phil nodded heavily, giving Ethan a single option to work with, “I better have something on by desk October 1^st that gets me rock hard. Not October 2^nd; the FIRST… or you’re through.” He pushed the manuscript toward Ethan, sliding it off the desk and right into his lap.

“Yeah, I will...um, thank you for understanding.” Ethan got up to leave but Philip stopped him at the door.

“Nuh uh uh! Not so fast, 'Boy Meets World'." Phil wagged a finger

Ethan dreaded what was about to come next. He closed his eyes in a wince as he slowly turned back around to face Phil.

“The card, pretty boy.” Phil meant the company debit card with Ethan’s bonus and per diem, “You’ll get the keys to the castle back once you bring me something to get my rocks off to.”

Ethan pusillanimously walked back over to Phil’s desk, dragging his feet. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his new Gucci wallet and dug out his card. He stared at it for a moment.It was still immaculate and unweathered; the raised numbers on the front still retained their silver paint.  Without you, I’m literally broke. We had some good times, ol' friend. Phil promptly confiscated the plastic and in one motion, instantly executing it with office-sized scissors. Ethan vicariously felt the cut.

“Now go fetch daddy a story.”

Ethan stepped out of the office building for the second time in two weeks. His elation from the former was replaced now with despair. He had gone from riches to rags quicker than it takes a virgin to climax. I’m not even back to where I started. I’m in a worse boat.  

[Insert brand here]

Chapter IV: Jesus is totes Transgender

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The libertine code...--Ethan Matthews

Aiden "Knife Blood Nightmare"

Chapter III: Spilled Spaghetti-Os All Over the Sofa

I was on a strict diet of an entire package of bacon a day; bacon because it paired well with my Brother Thelonius Belgium. This is the kind of life I was living: Sybaritic...deprave...lazy. The mornings were the worst.  There’s nothing more depressing than having to wake up up with nothing to get up for. It begins to make you weary, even moreso than the end of the day. I just want to go back to bed. Can I trade my dreams for reality? Atrocious thoughts for a young man with fleeting ambition. Oh but dreaming does little in the real world asshole! It probably doesn't help that I'm constantly under the influence of something. Whether it’s smoking a cigarette to kill the edge and clear my mind, taking a bar to kill the paranoia, rolling to be social, yay cuz it’s bomb and brings me up, weed to help the comedown, blotter or mush to evaluate my life, and drinking to numb it all away. I rely on the holy trinity, weed, alcohol, and Xanax on a daily basis to even attempt sleep (on the occasions I did). I sleep sporadically throughout the day or I would simply go without it. Conversely, my nights were always sleepless, stricken in a mania. Unclear thoughts; a reckless outlook. I just need something to help me feel…think. I prefer to pass out than to have a disciplined sleep pattern. Falling asleep is too hard, and I am too lazy. By early morning, I’m a cesspool of regret, lingering to the ethers of the night. I let my medicated mind drift away. I reckon that's no way to live. But it's the only way I know how. I feel like I've fucked up too much; backlogged on too many promises, giving up any sign of redemption. Regardless, these are underwhelming compared to my many other druthers. Can you bless a man for having such indolent behavior? Netflix was my religion and Breaking Bad, my communion. I should meditate more. My mind doesn't belong here. I like to pretend I am a writer, though my prowess often goes undocumented. For creative genius, writers have to maintain a clear line of focus. "Letting go" and letting the muses take faculty is fair and good for painters and sculptors. But for an art like writing, critical thinking is inherent. O me miserum to comment on the human condition.

Ethan caught himself vacantly staring the red spot on the sofa. That's all I have left of this child. He didn't know how to "feel" about the whole situation. His lack of extreme emotional output worried him. What if I'm a sociopath? Or, he was still struggling to wrap himself around the idea that he had a potential child, ‘til the bastard committed suicide all over his couch, god bless. That was on Tuesday. It was Thursday. He hadn’t left his apartment since he arrived home from the hospital. He called off work and put his phone on “airplane mode”. He needed to get away; disappear from public scrutiny and start fresh. I’m just in shock is all. Poor little guy...or girl. Must've read my last novel. Ethan chuckled out loud at his self-deprecation. If a joke was ever too soon, this was the one, but Ethan couldn't help himself. Darkness was comedy.

He was sitting at the bar top which split the kitchen from the dining room. He had a large salad bowl filled halfway with purplish milk; assorted colored orbs bobbed at the surface. Ethan absently stared past the jovial rabbit on the front of the cereal box. He was delliberating whether or not to call Alexis. But what would he say? "Uh, sorry for our loss, or whatever." ERH! Wrong. "Let's try again...maybe?" ERH! Two strikes ass-clown! "What did you do to cause this?" ERHHHHHHH! Silly Ethan, babies are for grown people! He looked down to his Welsh Corgi, Rufio, sitting patiently below, waiting for an offering or a catastrophic spillage. He found Rufio at a kennel he worked at briefly in New Mexico during his travels through the western United States. Owners dropped him off but never came back. Ethan and Rufio instantly had a connection that only a boy and his dog can understand. Weeks passed, and when Ethan was getting ready to  depart for the next town, he asked if he could take the orphan pup. The rest is history. He called him Rufio, named after the successive leader of the Lost Boys in the movie Hook. He would never grow up.  

“You think I should call her?”

 Rufio cocked his head to right, as if to say, “Fuck do I know? I’m a dog. So is there any chance I’m getting some of what you’re having or am I wasting my time here?”

“You’re right boy!” Ethan rubbed Rufio behind the ears by his chubby neck rolls, “She does owe me an explanation. It was mine as much as hers.” Ethan’s mind was infested with questions that only she knew the answers to: How long has she known? Did she even know? Why didn't she tell me? Wait...was that even mine?

He shot his glance back at the marooning circular spot on his floral print sofa. He had been ruminating whether or not to get rid of the sofa altogether; he felt he had to. But it was an antique from (you guessed it) an ex girlfriend of Christmas past. He couldn't just throw it out; mostly, though, because he was on a very fixed income at the moment. I could reupholster it he reasoned. Nah! Even if it was covered up, and I would be the only one--well one of two...and a half (and the “half” took the secret to the grave. HAHAHA...sorry) who knows what's underneath, it would still bother me even out of sight. And I'm the main user of the couch. His cogitation was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the sliding glass door of his terrace. He jumped, spilling the bowl all over himself and on the floor. Rufio immediately assumed custodial services, vaccuming up the colorful clusters from the ground into his mouth. Ethan reached over the counter and grabbed a dish towel to mop up what he could from the counter and his wife-beater. He looked around the corner and saw a silhouette to the backdrop of city lights. He instantly dropped down to a knee, putting a finger to his lip to shoosh Rufio who wasn’t even barking to begin with. He was more interested in the sugary cereal. Some guard dog he is. 

"It's Alexis. May I please come in?"

Ethan crept toward the door, skewing his head to the side, so as to catch his phantom visitor in better lighting. Noting his uncertainty, she reaffirmed her identity.

"It's fucking me, dumbass! Look, you haveeee...” She pondered upon a Snapple fact that only she might know about Ethan, “a little birthmark that looks like Texas at the base of your cock."

Ethan strode to the door and flung it open. He was greeted by Alexis, shrugging and waving with a cute smile. They just stood there in silence for what seemed like eternity.

"Are you gonna let me in?" she asked, already sidling by Ethan.

"I have a front door you know", Ethan replied the only way he could.

"Well if I buzzed the front, I dunno if you'd pick up or even let me in, considering..." She looked at the spot on the sofa through her bangs from the corner of her eye.

"Oh that!? Pshhh that's nothing. You shoulda seen what Mitch did to that sofa when he got plastered at the Made in America festival. We came back here and he was all--" Alexis cut him off with raised hand.

"That's not even close to funny!" she said through grit teeth, fighting back tears. Her face began to shake and her breathing got heavy, "CAN’T YOU EVER BEING FUCKING SERIOUS??? I MEAN FOR ONCE!” She fanned herself with her hand as she tried to breathe through the tears. “I...I came here to try to be with you during this. I didn't want you to be alone. I DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE!" Her face was flush and her voice cracked. Her eyes were fountains. “You know what?” she shook her head, "FUCK YOU ETHAN CAMPBELL! Go burn in the ghetto of HELL!" She turned to walk out the door, but Ethan grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

He wanted so badly to counter with the fact that she disappeared without a word to him. Or how he had to hear from someone else that she had a miscarriage. But he was walking on egg shells. If he wanted any answers, he would have to play his cards wisely.

 "I was just kidding!!! Can you relax?? Can we talk like civilized--OUCHH!! Oh bite me?? That's how grown people fix problems right?" 

Alexis broke free, falling to the ground and knocking over a drawer. Rufio started barking. Ethan instinctively dove to her aid but was promptly stopped.

"NO!" she muttered, her crying breaths turning to angry breaths, "Don't. You. FUCKING! Touch me." Ethan recoiled as she stood herself back up. "You know why I never told you? Why I didn’t even want you to know? Why I didn’t want to see you in the hospital?" Yes! Yes! Yes! Ethan responded in his head. It was like she read his mind, "Because you can't be a father. I mean look at you; Look at this place. You're a fucking child. How can a child be a Dad?"

Ethan, the novelist, the wordsmith, was speechless. He stood there taken aback. The air was thinner than Karen Carpenter. Alexis’ eyes were averted, still drizzling tears. 

She obviously wants me to say something. "So......That--I mean It--I mean the bab--", he took a deep breath "It was mine right?" The most anxiety Ethan had ever felt was the moment those words left his lips.

Alexis sniffled and wiped her eyes. “That’s all you can say to me right now? After everything I just said, you're just trippin' on whether or not you’re responsible for this mess?" She put her hand to her hip and peevishly licked her lips, "What if it wasn’t? Huh? You’re in the clear? You dodged a bullet? Or if it was yours? Then your life is over. This,” she gestured to his general living space, “this will be all gone and you’ll finally have to care for someone other than your sad, spoiled self. Is that what you want to know, you Maury fuck boy?” Ethan couldn’t even make eye-contact. He felt ashamed and embarrassed. He could tell himself any lie he wanted to mollify his motives, but she was right, even if just a little bit. He couldn’t hide from that now. Her lips pursed indignantly as she slowly shook her head, "Yup. That's right. A man child. Exactly what I'm saying. Can't see anything but all the outs. Typical black stereotype." She turned and stepped out the door.

Ethan was too in shock and mixed emotion to take offense to that. This is it!  I'm never seeing this girl again AND she probably isn't going to tell me now.

Alexis turned around to face him. She had stopped crying and she wore a thin smile. She kissed her index finger, looked back at her brilliant writer endearingly, then immediately swapped for the middle finger and a scowl. Then she was gone. Just like that.

Ethan stared through the empty door. The sky was starting to turn a bright magenta, crested with a yellow horizon. Rufio stopped barking and started to whine.

Soon after, the lock to the front door clicked, followed by a long, extended squeak as the door glided open. A series of thuds from heavy luggage being dragged over the threshold broke the silence of the early morning. Ethan kept his eyes glued to the horizon. He knew it was just Keith, back from Vegas.

“DUUUDE! EDC KILLED!!!” Keith peeled his shirt off and threw himself on the sofa. “I was rolling on that bomb molly the whole time bro. Ay, how’s the whole, you know, thing? You talk to Alexis yet? AWWW DUDE! Who spilled Spaghetti-Os all over the sofa!” He shot up and looked over his shoulder at the back of his board shorts, examining for damage. “That’s not coming out…”

Ethan held his gaze, “You hungry?” he asked solemnly.

From behind him, “Hell Yeah man! Going into serious catabolic mode for sure! What are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling pho’cked”

Story of my life--ethan campbell

 Current mood

Hasley "Colors"

Chapter II: One Problem, and Yes, It's a Bitch

Ethan stepped out of the building and into the open air. He breathed in a sigh of relief, immediately coughing it out. The pollution in Santa Monica was dense, even for the morning. It would be one of those summer days where you wonder, "Is that smog or the marine layer hovering over the city?" Regardless, it remained a beautiful day  for Ethan because his bonus remained intact, and he didn't have to write again for a while. 

You see, in his formative years, Ethan always dreamed of making it as a writer. He loved everything about it: from creating a world of words which he could manipulate, to the tawdry and unkempt persona of a writer, to the alcoholism. He wanted it all and he didn't waste any time basking in his new found revelation. He wrote everything down. Diary entries about his life grew to short prose and eventually he got the momentum to write a novel. His first attempts at the art were met with disaster however. Seemingly well written by his standards, rejection left him dejected and discouraged. In a fury of frustration, he wrote his breakout novel, You're All Bitches, I Hate You. Thoughts on paper were received as "Literary art, transcendent of the regular shit! Badass in a bottle; a pacifier for your pussy!" by Rolling Stone and other ubiquitous periodicals with similar acclaim. Drugs, sex, and redemption. A juicy read, let alone written by a 14 year old freshman in high school. Ethan's divinity began there.

13 years and 3 novels later he’s here, scraping the bottom of the barrel to survive. He began to despise his once only love: writing. It used to feel this good after finishing an entire novel. Now I'm celebrating to the same caliber for finishing a draft about…wait. 
What the hell is my book about? 
Nazis? 
Oh shit...What DID I write!? 

Ethan yanked his headphones from his ears. Kendrick Lamar reverted back to the cacophony of the city. Somehow the ambient sounds of Los Angeles was easier to think over predictable rhythm. He paused in his steps and closed his eyes, trying to draw upon his fragmented memory of the night before.

You ain't got nothing. I know what we wrote, but I don't feel like finding that for you.

His mind was a blank. 

"Christ, I hope I pulled something off...this is what it must feel like to be roofied"

His heart dropped as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing was worse than a pissed Philip, except for maybe a Philip misled into believing a prose at a fourth grade level was the next flash grenade from a dying star.

“Hello?” Ethan answered timidly.

 "Ethan! Where the fuck have you been?? I've been blowing your phone up!" On the other end was Ethan's girlfriend Alexis. 

Alexis was a gorgeous Filipino girl with a black girl figure: big ass and titties. Ironically, she came across as a total good girl: went to Sunday mass every week (Ethan's mom loves that about her, unfortunately), dressed modestly, and is a pediatric RN at The Children's Hospital of Los Angeles' burn unit. Talk about a saint. Behind closed doors however, she let the freak all the way out (something about devout catholic girls: they have a strong sexual tenacity). Kinkiest, most sensuous sex of Ethan’s young career.You couldn't hit ass this good in a Drake video. Even in Ethan's moderate fame, she was still far out of his league in all honesty. She was more than he deserved and he recognized that. But lately, he'd been taking that for granted.
They had met after Ethan wrapped his BMW M3 around a light post in Westwood. Those German beasts are rock solid; not a scratch on the beloved writer. Had it not been for the insistence of the paramedic to get checked out anyway, he would have never met or dated Alexis. At this very moment, he wouldn't have minded. Even though she is the best sex he may ever have, Ethan would classify their relationship as just 'talking', i.e. a companion for the rare occasions he went out, someone to bounce book ideas off of, and a sure fuck when he did want her around. Ethan preferred a solitary lifestyle.

Alexis, on the other hand, had punched the relationship into lightspeed in the four short months they've been "dating". She wanted to meet up at least once a day, surprise visits, surprise sleepovers, here are my parents, yada yada. 

Ethan let out a deep sigh. Just when my day was getting good.

"So???" She demanded.

"I had to meet with Phil", he answered casually.

"Phil? What Phil?" The agitation in her voice did not improve Ethan's souring mood.

"Oh, you know. Phil…my yay dealer. I ran out this morning, and you know I can't start my day not cracked out of my mind." Just a pro tip boys: sarcasm and an angry woman don't mix. Ever. Ever ever. Don't be reckless.

"Really!? I'm over here worried sick and you're trying to be all Aziz Ansari over here! (that's the only comedian she has ever seen ergo the only one she can reference to hi-light my incessant sarcasm and humor)

"First off", Ethan counted on his fingers, "It was Phil. Phil Feinstein my editor for, oh, I don't know, a decade or so." Once sarcastic always sarcastic, "Two, I just saw you yesterday night! We went to LA Live! Remember?" Going for gold, "Third and finally, you knew about this appointment. You were mad cuz I didn't let you sleep over cuz I had work to do. You need a cat scan bruh."

Silence on the other end. Just opaque white noise. Huh. She hung up. Wonder at which point.

Ethan shrugged, put his ear-buds back in and played "These Girls" by Gambino, and salvaged what was left of his good mood.

Casa del Ethan, Santa Monica

Ethan made his way up the stairwell two steps at a time to his third floor loft. The elevator was broken indefinitely, adorning yellow tape like a crime scene. Ethan had used the rest of the day flexing his new-found financial security. In the course of that time, he blew $4487.64 on ray-bans, an alexander wang wallet, Gucci by Gucci cologne from Gucci; a Burberry trench (which is completely unnecessary in SoCal weather); 2 pairs of Seven jeans; 3 pairs of expensive Cheap Monday jeans, a pair of limited release Air Maxes, and the Black History Month Kobes. On top of that, he had dinner and drinks with Keith and Darlene, his treat. The whole day had him spent (no pun intended). He didn't even bother unloading his financial irresponsibilities from his car, but he considered it a pretty good day. 

Rounding the final corner, Ethan stopped dead in his tracks. There she was, like clockwork; his manicured, almond-eye, copper-skinned amour.  He expected this much. He got ready for the verbal abuse.

As he approached, he noticed that she was smiling. An eerie chill went down his spine. This is it Ethan! This is how it's gonna be. Outside your apartment, disemboweled by your psycho boo. You just started a book too!
 "Can I come in, mister?” she said, drooping her bottom lip into a pout seductively. Her hands were clasped in front of her, hanging at waist level as she swayed back and forth. Her infamous naughty girl routine, oh and did it work. Needless to say, this was far from where Ethan expected this interaction to evolve. 

Dude. Get in there! Even if she does kill you, you'll go out like a champ!

"Fuck it", he shrugged. "Say you've been a bad girl and need to be punished." Ethan toyed, licking his bottom lip. 

She crept closer and whispered in baby talk, "ohh daddy I'm sawwy! I was a bad whittle girl." She nibbled his ear lobe. "I didn't wear panties all day." 

He could feel her warm breath cascade around his ear. His cock began to swell and press against his joggers. He looked down and sure enough, no panties. Her extra small pencil skirt was hiked up to prove it. Ethan almost lost it. He pressed his lips against hers, feeling the rush. He fumbled with his keys and door. They grabbed at each other in the darkness of the apartment. Clothes came off in a frenzy until it was just flesh touching flesh; two bodies experiencing each other.  They somehow found themselves in the living room on an antique floral sofa. He bit her neck; she scratched his back. He eventually found himself inside her; he thrusted hard and deep. 

"I'm gonna cum!" Ethan said, feeling the buildup in his spine to his neck. 

"Wait! Wait! Hold on." Alexis stopped him

"Babe, I'm so close! Lemme just--"

"Stop!” she scolded, "Turn on the light. Something's not right."

Ethan reached to his right and felt for the lamp. 

The light flickered on revealing a big puddle of pulpy blood underneath Alexis. Ethan nearly passed out. He immediately stood up and began to evaluate what was happening. He scrutinized his penis. It was also covered in blood alright, just not his. He looked back to Alexis. She was cupping her hands under her bloody vagina, sobbing bitterly.

"Oh my fucking god!!! Baby are you ok?? We need to get you a fucking ambulance right now!"

He rifled through his jeans on the floor, found his phone and made the call.

The paramedics carried her out of his apartment on a stretcher. Her eyes were swollen and her voice was gone from crying. Ethan felt helpless. He looked on with concern. Did I do this? How? I hit it that hard often. This never happened before.

"So what happened?" A short female police officer interrupted. She sounded annoyed, like she was finishing up a 10 hr shift, cleaning up the shit that this godless city spat out, and now she had to deal with this fucked up situation. AND she probably has to take her kids to school right after she gets off cuz her good-for-nothing baby-daddy got axed from the oil-rigs off Long Beach harbor for drinking on the job, so he's been on a "job-hunt" which takes up all his time, BUT she knows he's just playing dominos and drinking in the park with Ray Ray and Tang at the park. (Just a working theory)

Ethan tried to snap out of it. He pressed his palms against his eyes, figuring out how to say this, "Uhhh let's see. She was here when I got to my apartment."

"Inside?” the cop interjected without looking up. She hadn't since she started taking the report.

"Uhh outside. Outside ya."

"She lost her key or...” the she cop was definitely eyeballing him now. 

"She doesn't actually have a key to begin with", he explained rubbing the back of his neck, adorning a weak smile.

The officer held her stare and ceased taking notes. She adjusted her stance, "What, may I ask, is the nature of your relationship with...” she looked back down at her notes, "Ms. DeJesus?" (Based on the attitude behind that last question, that alcoholic baby-daddy back story may not be too far off the mark!)

The change in questioning set off alarms in Ethan's head! This is it! She's going to die and they'll execute me for sure.

 "Black man rapes to death extremely brilliant and extremely hot nurse. She saves burned babies for Christ sake! What an animal. So, will they lynch him or let a nigga live? More on that story after a few brief messages from our mostly white republican sponsors." 

His heart was pounding through his ears as the panic set in. He said the first thing he thought of to restore his seemingly defamed name. "She's not a hooker. Err. I don't pay for sex."

 Everyone stopped in their tracks to judge Ethan; firefighters, paramedics, some guy dusting the lampshade (really? forensics? Is that really necessary?).

"She's my girlfriend!" Ethan immediately assured the room. 

"Mhmm" the she cop hummed under her breath, rolling her eyes and writing more notes. 

Cedars Sinai hospital

Ethan never drove this fast on LA city streets. They’re perilous even at the speed limit. He didn’t care. All he could think about was getting to Alexis. She must have said something to Officer Judgemental cuz he went from a potential domestic abuser to a buster nobody who wouldn’t hurt a fly. In any case, they cut him loose on sight, warning him not to travel anytime soon.

Like I have anywhere else to be.

He screeched into the parking lot, stopping on a dime at the Cedars-Sinai E.R. drop-off only zone. Without hesitation he left the car and ran inside.

    It was bright and smelled of latex. Ethan always had a morbid fascination with hospitals. They were romantic; where we are born and where we die.  He stood in line at the check-in desk behind a Mexican guy clutching his hand wrapped in a bloody towel, then a mother trying her best to tame her rambunctious toddlers while  trying to sooth her youngest, wrapped in a sling close to her breast, yelling in her ear. Ethan tapped his foot impatiently, flicking his phone screen on and off, waiting for a message…or something.

 Finally he got to the front, “EXCUSE ME! I need to find my gir—“; he caught himself. He knew they wouldn’t just let a ‘boyfriend’ see someone. They have a privacy protocol. He thought fast, “—wife! My wife. She got brought in by ambulance. Alexis DeJesus.”

The secretary lazily punched a few keys on her computer. A couple mouse clicks. Then her brow rose; the only facial expression he saw her make since he got there.

She looked up at him, “One moment sir. I must consult with the physician.”

“NO WAIT! I—“ She had already gotten up from her desk and disappeared through a door. Ethan checked his phone again. No messages. No missed calls. He slammed his fist on the counter before regaining his wits, and looking around to see if anyone saw.

The secretary returned, “I am sorry Mr…?”

“Uh Dejesus.” Ethan might as well keep up the subterfuge.

“Right”, the secretary patronized, “We have no record of your "wife"(did she really air quote "wife"? What a bitch!) checking-in. Maybe call her?”

NO SHIT LADY!

“That’s not possible! The medics said they were coming here.” Ethan reasoned, mostly thinking aloud, “Can you check again please?”

The secretary punched a few more buttons, stared at the screen and shook her head.

How did she just disappear?

    Ethan’s phone began to ring. He hoped for a sign of relief. It was his roommate Keith. Ethan couldn’t imagine why he called at this hour. The only thing he could think of was Keith had some update on Alexis. They knew each other way before Ethan and her dated. They were in nursing school together at West Coast College. Ethan punched the redial.

    “YO DUDE! ARE YOU OKAY?” Keith answered the phone after only one ring, “THAT’S SOME CRAZY SHIT BRO!” Loud music in the background prompted him to shout. Ethan cringed and pulled the phone further from his ear.

What did Keith know that I didn’t?

“Alexis?” Ethan asked after a moments pause.

“A MISSCARRIAGE BRO? I didn’t know you guys were even expecting. Thanks for the clue in. Thought we was boys.”

Ethan tuned out everything after "miscarriage".  The sound went off; the room went dark.

His eyes fluttered open. He didn’t know where he was, why he was covered in sweat, or why he was on the floor or why these strange people were hovering over him. It had to be bad if the Paisa with the hand was trying to help you.  He recognized the secretary who, he realized, was slapping his face as his color came back. He blocked the last slap, “Thank you. Thank you. I’m fine. Sorry sorry.” He was embarrassed to say the least.

Did I pass out? I’m sure slaps to the face aren’t an approved medical procedure. She should know that. She works in a fucking hospital.

Then it came back to him: the sofa, the blood, Alexis; MISCARRIAGE?? He felt sick. He stumbled outside and leaned facing the wall, his forehead resting on his arm.  He focused on taking deep breaths; breathing through the nose and out through the mouth. He felt his pocket vibrate again. He grabbed his phone without hesitation.

It was Phil Feinstein. Ethan was so caught up in everything that was happening he completely forgot about his original concern: the contents of his mystery novel. Phil was definitely calling to tear him a new one.

    Ethan let the call go straight to voice mail, then opened it up and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Ethan. Phil here. Uhh this draft…it’s different. Gimme a call back. You might know something I don’t.”

Doubt it, Ethan thought pocketing his phone. He just wanted to go home and sleep now. Sleep a day or two if the need be. Ha! if only.

He turned to where he left his car. Gone. Towed by the LA public works. Might as well throw this on top of the shit show that was now Ethan’s life. He was too tired to get upset again. That’s all he did today.

He pulled out his phone and requested an Uber.