…she then in turn, was ultimately right. The truth of the matter was that Daniel loved the bottle, more than diabetics could love cake. The way he saw it, the bottle didn’t give the best blowjobs nor did it feel it had to stop time to shave it’s cunt once a week. It was honest, politically neutral, stood by him, never nagged, didn’t act different around his friends, and never asked Daniel to Google anything. Ridicule was meant for one to better themselves, but, to Daniel, there was nothing wrong with him so long as he was functional. The bottle looked good tanning at the polluted sunny beach, dancing in the moonlight, intoxicatingly, and was open to a three-way. Even a gang-bang and he’d be allowed to watch. When Daniel would have a bad day, it didn’t jab unnecessary words of consult, it just held his hand. He was smitten.
Daniel then wiped the mascara from his face and took a hit. “Some people have problems kissing you,” he thought as he looked into the mouth of the bottle, “but our kisses always feel like first kisses, making the grass greener.” Daniel didn’t believe in fretting over things that had no direct effect on him, it was much easier. Others would be surly and he wouldn’t mind, as long as they took care of their shit.
He rubbed most of the mascara off, but the remainder smudged. The shoot for the commercial had given him enough rent for half the year. He easily overlooked the smudged mascara that made him look like a heroin-addicted femme fatale in the music industry or a trashcan raccoon. Daniel put the rest of his belongings into his blue travel bag. Fitted t-shirts, a second pair of jeans, and a thin leather jacket for effect; as far as he was concerned, these were the essentials because they always had a wardrobe person that dressed you, a make-up person to paint you, and a director who did everything he could in order to not worry about his rent. All Daniel needed was clothing he could wear from the location back to his apartment, and just-in-case shirts for that renegade droplet of mustard or sweet and sour mix.
Daniel’s apartment was a duplex studio glued together in minimal fashion by exhausted paintings acquaintances had given him, an expensive infomercial cutlery set for limes and celery stalk, ashtrays with NFL logos, his double-sized bed on the second floor, and a bookshelf littered with classic titles he’d never intended to open. The apartment was on 5th and spring in Downtown Los Angeles, the Rovand building, a few blocks from skid row. Daniel took another hit from his pint of whiskey. The real crime, even he, acknowledged was his apathy. He didn’t care about the homeless, the view his apartment had, the T.V. commercials he filmed, his unread books, NFL ashtrays, or stainless steel cutlery set. The things Daniel cared about were how his hair looked on-screen, how much booze was left in his blue duffel bag, how many cigarettes were left in his pack, and a girl with legs who knew how to walk. A knock at the door.
“Mr. Daniels, your cab is ready.” said a male voice on the other side. Daniel zipped his bag, took a hit from the bottle, then placed it into the side pocket of his duffel bag. Daniel opened the door of his dressing room to find a short, blonde assistant wearing a “Duck Tales,” t-shirt. Bag slung over his shoulder, Daniel smiled in acknowledgement and walked to the elevator. He put on his trendy dark Ray Bans after noticing he had been squinting since the door opened. The assistant followed.
“It’s a great living isn’t it?” said the blonde assistant.
“If it works, I guess.” Daniel replied, not turning his head.
“I wish I could do it, but I get nervous in front of the camera.”
“The camera’s just an eye with a great memory. Don’t worry about how well it remembers.”
“You sound like a pro at this stuff.”
“I just didn’t want to worry about rent.”
“But you’re on T.V. People know you. Chicks love that.”
“There’s a script, I don’t really care about cellphones. Chicks will love anything for a while. Take it easy.” Daniel said as he entered the elevator. facing the assistant. He pressed the button for the lobby.
“Is that the secret? Not giving a shit?” said the assistant. The doors began to close.
“Maybe. How would I ever know?” When the doors closed, Daniel took another swig out of the tilted side pocket of the duffel bag. He disliked elevators. He disliked not being as curious about life as much as the short blonde assistant who wore a Duck Tales t-shirt.