Don't Pull Out The Couch by John Patrick Robbins

 

I was at a party it was like most where you truly didn’t want to be there.

I knew the people that invited me and I had to pretend my antisocial nature wasn’t getting the
best of me.

I was the only writer in the room and when asked about what I did I simply replied.

“I’m not working at the moment I’m on disability “.

“Oh I’m sorry what happened”?

“I went insane tried to kill my co workers they never stopped asking me stupid questions “?

The woman looked at me not knowing if I was serious yet still mildly fascinated.

“What was your job ”

“Customer service “.

I moved on around the room always keeping the conversation as awkward as possible ever
since I was a damn kid I always preferred to never let people off the hook of a good inside joke.

I hated crowds and this was prime example why.
Give me a good one on one conversation with a good friend .

And some would dare say I could pass for sane.
But in a crowd the conversations felt mechanical and empty.

People had drinks and seemed more fascinated with what everyone else was doing .

I was growing tired of the bullshit .

But Bill and his wife were friends and their social asses had invited me so here I was .

I made my way to the back porch the noise of the party was more contained and I was alone
with a drink .

I stayed out there awhile and being I always kept a flask upon me I truly could wait out the party
for a bit.

Eventually Bill found me .

“Hey man you alright “?

“I’m aces bud although I am in need of a refill”.

“I know you’re uncomfortable man but i’m glad you’re here dude, hell it’s good for you to get out once and awhile “.

“Yeah well my hermit existence suits me bud writing doesn’t call for great social skills”.

Bill just shook his head taking my glass and returned with a refill .

“Hope I got it right there Frank “.

He said as he handed me my drink.

I knew full well it would taste like shit most everyone thought I preferred my cocktails mixed
strong as my words .

I took a sip it was almost straight bourbon.

Me and Bill sat out there awhile shooting the shit laughing over the past .

The party slowly faded and the drinks took their toll.

“Dude stay here tonight you really have had way too much to drive “.

“The spare bedroom is taken but we got a pullout couch in the living room “.

“Pull out what the hell’s that mean “.

“Jesus Christ Frank does everything have to be one big dirty joke to you”

Bill said laughing.

“Sadly yes , but you’re the one that invited the perverted drunk writer “.

“Shit man there’s more to you than writing and drinking”.

I looked at Bill and just shook my head .

There was no need to comment for if you didn’t get it there were no words that could explain.

To an outsider , writing was a hobby something for entertainment and nothing more.

I was an oddity they could not grasp like some damn animal on display at the zoo.

Unless you were known by all and had best seller attached to your name they didn’t respect you.

I called a cab and carried my ass.
There was no need to pull out tonight.

I drank till the sunrise and slept until late in the evening.
Most would be nursing hangovers from last nights party.

Cursing themselves feeling like death warmed over.

And for me it was just another day on the job.

Fucking amateurs.

 

©2018 John Patrick Robbins

 

Follow John

John Patrick Robbins is often referred to as an outlaw poet, whose work is a glimpse into life’s darker side and often barroom based. His work has been published with Inbetween Hangover, The Red Fez, Spill The Words, Ramingos Porch, Your One Phone Call, The Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Poets Community, And also read online at hello poetry. His work is always a hundred percent unfiltered.

 

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