OOC: Had a discussion about this with someone, and the urge to go through with it took over my body. Also, italicized text is written, non italicized text isn't. Heads up.

Notebook # 10

Entry # 9

Work Related

Date: 1/14/13

Profile

Name: Duane Chandler

Occupation: Physical Therapy Aide

Current Location: Duck Soup Bar and Grill, Seattle, Washington


Oh, Duane. Haven't you taught yourself not to have such an obvious schedule? You really aren't too bright, are you?

Sheesh, it's cold. Even in the building, which I'm sure has a working furnace (unlike my own place). Note to self, call Holmes when I get off the case for the night, he really needs to fix that thing. Where was I? Oh yeah, it's cold. I'm literally shivering in my seat, conveniently overlooking the bar itself. My eyes lock themselves on the back of one of the guys' heads. Yeah, that's Duane.

You're still wearing that brown leather jacket? Well, looks like I'm gonna have to hear you bitch about the hole even longer.

Oh shit, that's a server. I flip the notebook closed, making sure to keep one thumb on the page so I don't lose it amongst the umpteen pages of nonsense and observations that don't matter right now. The server, a Kurt Cobain knockoff if I've ever seen one, approaches my table, doing that scenetastic hair flip thing to get his bangs out of his eyes.

"What can I get ya, ma'am?" Pulling out his order notepad, it hits me; right, I'm in a restaurant. I haven't even looked at the menu yet!

"Um, could you give me a few minutes?"

"That's what you said the last time I came over."

Wait a second, he came over earlier? I should remember that, but he didn't! I just got here! Frustrated, he walks off to another table. Oh well, probably should look at the menu so I don't look like a creep sitting here, staring at the bar. You know what; even if I do order, I'll still look like a creep staring at the bar. I grab the glass of water that the waiter left for me the "first time" he came to the table.

Wait a second, the water is here, and he didn't just bring it.

Jeez, I'm oblivious.

Placing the glass back on the table, I open the notebook again, and after reading over my current notes, add something else.

Fourth round. I really hope he doesn't drive home.

Oh yeah, the menu. I flip it open and scan it, ugh. Why did he have to choose this shithole? I'll just order something to drink, and a plate of celery or something.

Fuck yeah, celery! I guess, most appetizing thing on this menu. Then again, regurgitated llama shit sounds better than this. Did I seriously just think that? Wow, that's odd...

Oh great, waiter's back.

"Have you found something yet, ma'am?" Wow, way to be condescending, douche. You must be so cool when you're not in that stupid apron. Heh, he wears an apron.

"I'll just have uh..." I point to some drink on the menu, not really caring what it is. He glares at the menu, then back at me, then back at the menu before ultimately just writing it on his pad and walking away, muttering under his breath.

"Do all the hot ones have to be nuts?"

Part of me wants to turn around and like, hit him or something. No, no. Don't do that. I don't need a scene.

That's more or less the last thing I need right now.

The familiar sound of some vaguely Hawaiian melody cut me off, and I take the ringing phone out of my pocket and flip it open, not really caring about who's on the other end of the line.

"Jess?" I'd recognize the voice anywhere...

"What do you want, Chris?" I say with a sigh, knowing that this isn't going to be good.

"Wow. Harsh much? Maybe I just wanted to talk to you..."

"You never want to 'just talk'..." Wow, that came out a lot harder than I meant it to.

"And I can't imagine why I don't, seeing as you're always such a joy to talk to!"

"Look, I, I'm just not having the best day..." Great, now I'm making excuses. Fucking perfect. The waiter comes back with my drink and I just glare at him. Fuck that guy.

"It's just, we haven't had like a real conversation in forever, sis," he begins while I take a sip of the drink and feel the need to spit it back out. Awful. Shit, shit shit shit shit.

He's on the move.

"Yeah yeah," I say, laying a ten dollar bill on the table next to the barely touched glass. He walks out of the bar, and I start to follow, trying to keep a steady pace. "You're right. How's dad been?"

"Good, good..." He says something else, but the wind is the only thing I can hear on the way to my car. I can hear him yelling into the receiver, each time I offer a "what" or a "huh" before finally reaching my car, unlocking it, and getting in.

I start the engine and take off, Duane's license plates visible in my headlights.

Jesus fucking Christ on the cross, is it fucking cold...