The phone rings. Crap. It’s still dark out, and it’s a Saturday morning; who the hell calls at 6:15 on a Saturday morning? Who calls at 6:15 on any morning?
No number on the caller ID. I only know three people with legitimately private numbers, and there’s no way in hell they’re up this early; it’s gotta be a wrong number. A wrong number on the east coast, I’ll bet. Or east coast telemarketers. Part of me wishes mobile phone numbers were prefixed on a state-by-state basis instead of company-by-company so the east coast knuckleheads could figure out a three hour time difference when they see one. Probably wouldn’t help. Jackasses. How many times have I been woken up by some assclown from Assclown & Company’s head office in Sydney who figured business hours were just universal? It’s Saturday though… Assclown & Co. tend to shut down on the weekend. Jackasses.
OK, not a wrong number. Sounds like Dave though, and Dave doesn’t have the longevity to have been out all night like this. Working nine to five has taken all the party right outta that boy; why would he be up at a time like this? Reminds me of that time Scotty called me up at six AM telling me to get dressed because we were going on a road trip. Heh, those were the days… rolling down the coast listening to Clapton, trying to figure out which of the Dunsborough bakeries was ‘the famous one’, spearing fish, hitting on country girls, taking advantage of the ‘no speed limit’ zones. Ahhh.
Shit, it’s Scotty.
“Scotty? What the fuck? It’s like, six in the…”
“Clarko!” He hums to himself for a second. “You’re a good egg, mate”
I scrunch up my face and let a little burst of air through my nostrils; not sure whether it’s laughter or tears that I’m stifling. It’s too early for this shit. I try to figure out the time difference between here and London… it’s gotta be just after ten on a friday night for him. He’s drunk, or stoned, or both. Either way, what he isn’t doing is going out to some dive London bar with his roommates, so he’s sitting in his room getting homesick and calling his friends. At least I was half right about the whole ‘jackass calling from another time zone’ thing. Poor Scotty.
“You’re a good egg, Clarko. Good egg”
He chuckles for a second and starts singing along to something playing on the radio in the background. It’s not ringing any bells, but since I don’t listen to the radio much these days I’m probably out of the loop. Then again, he’s in London. Wasn’t that annoying frog ringtone at the top of their charts a while back? Londoners. God save them.
“I can make any woman mine ‘cause I… look good in leather”
I’ve still never heard this song, but I know what he’s doing. He started singing this song to me after photos of me in my leather jacket started surfacing from the world trip. It’s a fucking jacket! The northern hemisphere is cold as shit! I don’t need to be hassled for wearing cowhide to stay warm in bullshit-freezing towns like Seattle. Sub-zero temperatures are not funny. Thank god there aren’t any songs about woolen gloves, I’d never hear the end of it.
Scotty takes his phone and holds it close to the radio. ‘Put on my poker face when I walk the street because I look good in leather…’
“Ah, you’re a good egg, Clarko. You look good in leather”
“Anyway mate, have a good one”
“OK, I’m gonna go back to sleep now”
“Cool, cheers mate. Goodnight”
“Oh, and Clarko?”
“Update your fucking web page”