Read Part 1.1 and then Part 1.2

Part 1.3
Avery started to jog through Victoria station. He was much hungrier than he had previously thought. The desire for a smoke had subsided, and instead he found himself in the Whistlestop Food & Wine looking for a sandwich to wolf down. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato. Excellent. He grabbed a bag of salted Walker's crisps and a plastic bottle of Lucozade to wash it all down. Meanwhile, Gus Moustachio was sweeping up near the WHSmith. Sometimes known as Gassy Moustachio to his workmates, it was not an ironic nickname. A curly moustache did drape his upper lip and, against employee policy, a pair of headphones rested on his head. Nobody complained because Gus was always keen to work and never complained. The tapes on his walkmen were audiobooks (novels) and Gus found them relaxing. His logic was simple: the work wasn't hard, the hours were long, and boredom was a constant threat. Gus would essentially meditate and travel the globe while all the while he was not giving his union boss any headaches. And because he kept to himself, his co-workers had no fuel with which to entangle him. On this particular day, though, Gus was struggling with the logical conclusion of his lifestyle. His mind could wander but his body was a prisoner to his financial poverty and all of a sudden it depressed him. But, in a way typical of Moustachio, he turned this depressing thought into a challenge. Maybe he could leave. He worked in a train station, after all.
 
Avery was finished his sandwich (which was excellent) in under five minutes. He wiped his lips with his knuckles, kissed the bottle of Lucozade, emptying it of all liquid, and discarded his refuse. The crisps turned out to be wishful thinking, but he was happy to have a snack saved for later. Hands on hips, outside on Buckingham Palace Road, it was now time for that cigarette he'd been craving. He took his Guardian, ripped out the wanted ad, left the rest of the paper on a park bench, took out his packet of Marlboro Lights, and and lit a smoke. It was time to see what this artist had in mind.

Labels: AveryHutch, Fiction, UK, Vague

¶ 2:30 PM

Read Part 1.1

Part 1.2
Avery examined his reflection in the train window while the midlands whipped by. It was bright and cloudless and windy. About Avery's mental state: the plain and simple fact is that he'd lost his confidence the day he was fired and it took him six weeks to get enough of it back. Yesterday held some serious promise. First, there was a Christmas cheque that finally arrived. Then, the radio play that blew him away. Those two unrelated events were the final moments of Avery's self-pity. It was something about the actress' novel cadence that sealed the deal. He was instantly attracted to her personality by way of her voice. It made him feel like turning his life around! Something purely beautiful and still it had a real world impact. While the play was still on in the background he created a pile of clothes to give away to Oxfam, made his bed, organized his papers, and vacuumed his carpet. He even cleaned his bedroom mirror with Windex and took out the trash. After the play was over he deposited his cheque into the automated teller and got a haircut. By then he was near campus and decided to grab a pint at the student pub and watch the sun set. And you thought turnaround happened with the breakfast and the newspaper.

"Coffee or tea, sir?" said the fortysomething cart-wielding blonde. Her eyes were kind. Another coffee would be great.

Avery's mind raced as he charted out his day. First thing to do would be to give Jen a ring and perhaps arrange some lunch. She worked near Victoria Station. After lunch he'd walk toward Soho and see what this "Turner-candidate artist" wanted, anyway. Avery rummaged through his blazer and fished out a pen and pad of paper. He started crossing off the low hanging fruit. Shave. Clean room. Donate to Oxfam. The list went on from there. Avery looked back at his reflection. The smile was still there, but his face was more serious. He was starving for a hot lunch and he was dying of curiosity.

The train pulled into Central London and Avery was visibly excited. He grabbed the fateful newspaper, discarded his coffee cup, and reached for his to-do list which was still resting on the seat next to his. In all caps at the bottom: APOLOGIZE TO MAXWELL.

Avery felt like a cigarette. He was in the city.

Labels: AveryHutch, Fiction

¶ 3:44 PM

Part 1.1
As large as the weekend Guardian can be, especially when spread out, there was still oodles of room on the kitchen table. To his left, a club soda mixed with grapefruit juice in a tall glass on ice. To his right, a steaming cup of black coffee. Crumbs from the croissant already eaten were dusted here and there. Delicious. It was exactly 8am. Clean-shaven and freshly showered, Avery was dressed in a pressed white Oxford, charcoal slacks, and a pair of black shoes with black laces. His silver socks were new. His blonde hair was handsomely combed and shining. He was using a new wax product that he forgot he owned when he was cleaning his room the night before. A gift from Holly. The coffee tasted great on his lips and the anticipation of downing his citrus cocktail was building. By now you might have a pretty good image of Avery. And you wouldn't be wrong. But as recently as yesterday he was falling out of bed around noon or later. Usually hung over. He'd been barely showering, let alone shaving. Just yesterday Maxwell told Avery that he looked not unlike a bum. Six weeks ago Avery was laid off from his first job out of university. He'd been there four years. The minute Mack Jr. broke the news, the four years vanished into nothing, all at once. He drank the last of his coffee and turned to the careers section. The first ad he saw broke the mold: Serious young intellectual required for Turner Prize candidate. Must have post-graduate degree. 16a Broadwick Street, Soho, London. Excellent compensation and full benefits. 6 months. Interviews today only at 3pm. Bring only your person. The strangeness of the wording alone piqued Avery's interest. Fuck yes, he thought. The smile on his face was now permanent. He'd been meaning to get down to London anyway as there was a Whistler exhibit at the National Gallery which he'd heard some good things about. Avery hadn't been to London since his affair with Louise, a foolishly snobby but dangerously sexy account supervisor he'd met through work. That was before Christmas. It was now nearing April, and it felt like a lifetime ago. There was no time to lose. He jumped out of his chair, cleaned up his paper, crumbs, gulped down his sparkling juice, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and finally reached for his blazer. Maxwell had already left the flat so Avery found himself talking outloud to himself. "Yes yes yes. I'll call Max from London, maybe I'll stay with Jen for the night, yes! I should have thought about going to London weeks ago!" The Guardian, which was now underneath his left arm, felt good. He brushed his teeth too quickly, fished around his room for his keys, wallet, and a week-old pack of Marlboro Lights. He closed the light and flew out the door. He walked to the train station, which wasn't far from Max's Leicester flat. As he was purchasing his ticket for the 9:10 train to London he noticed Louise across the way. God, he hadn't seen her since the night he strolled into the Prime Minister's Mistress and saw her on Charles' lap. It was the same day he'd been let go from Mack and Son. Today she was wearing a tan suede skirt and blazer. She was tanned herself from the Spanish sun, Avery imagined. She looked awesome. Avery ogled her legs as she walked through the station and he beamed. As he looked down to his train ticket, he smiled for what seemed like the tenth time that young morning. She'd been fun but that was yesterday. He was off to London.
 
To be continued...

Labels: AveryHutch, Fiction

¶ 3:30 PM

For a day that ended with a warm hug and a pleastant boozy sleep, it started out as pure horror. The minute Art woke up on that day his stomach was tied up in a knot so large that it seemed simply to replace his stomach. The sad reality was that Art had woke up this way for months now. It had a familiar pattern. He'd try desperately to fall asleep (not a good start), would move to punching his pillow, and then eventually he'd simply grab a t-shirt and squeeze it in his right fist until sleep did its work. Or at least tried to. The dream train was blowing through Art's mind so loudly that sleep always seemed a distant second. The nightmarish images of distorted faces, superloud yelling, bites, and of course, the cackle of her laughter. The sun was bright on this morning, and Art kidded to himself that things might be looking up. He was right, but he'd said this on countless occasions before. And on all of those occassions he was wrong. Unhinged. Manic. The sort of ride that if you aren't on it, you don't understand it. The kind of ride where, at the end, you get such a good picture of yourself that religious thoughts squat the brain. And so when he bumped into a vision later that night, a vision he'd met before at a bus stop, she saw him on that day and not the days previous. She saw three important things: the knot, the sunshine, and a promise. His boozy sleep was solo, but the t-shirt was on the floor and the dream he didn't remember had something to do with soda pop and french fries. The warm hug moved to his lips and if you were looking at Art that night, you'd almost see his eyes smiling behind his closed lids.

Labels: Fiction, Vague

¶ 3:57 PM

There was once a kid named Patrick who rode his bike to school everyday. He'd begin his morning with a tea and a lightly buttered scone. The sun would usually shine through the sink window in the kitchen. 'A nice touch', was a thought he had on most spring mornings. His parents worked the night-shift at the local auto plant (she, on the assembly line, he, as a janitor). Patrick had one older brother, Seamus, who was away at university and a younger sister who was on March break with her grandparents in Ohio (another story). Patrick was on March break, too, but he was still going to hop on his bike. He was working on a science fair project and needed access to the Physics lab. After next year he'd have to think about university himself. For now, though, his world at St. Damien's High School was enough. A bunch of girls liked him and he had a crush on almost all the pretty girls. No girlfriend, but that was just fine with Pat. He had plans for tonight. Big party at Ben's where the private school girls would be and so would he and his best friends. But first, his project needed work. His brain was clear on this morning and as he locked his bike up near school, he looked up to the street to see a flashes of light bouncing off cars. The halls were empty and this was how Patrick liked high school. He opened the door to the Physics lab. It was Friday and he was working on his March break. But he was smiling because he wanted to be there and tonight he would grab a few beers and celebrate.

Labels: Fiction

¶ 11:42 AM