Gone Fishing

Entered in South Island Writers' Assocation Open Short Story Competition 2007.
Who knows who you might reel in if you give it a go.
"This is a good story with heaps of potential. All it needs is a bit of tweaking here and there."

Sam rushed home in a break from the video shop she worked at. Pie and soft-drink in hand, the plan was to scoff her lunch down on the couch while she watched Oprah. Yet the minute she stood outside the door, jangling her keys, something caused her to pause. The front door was slightly ajar, and the pearls of laughter emananting from inside the apartment hit her right in the guts. Sam and her sickened stomach should have just backed out then and there, since she knew what was coming - she had seen the cheesy scene played a hundred times before. Yet some overwhelming need in her beckoned her to inch closer towards the laughter. Sam drew her breath and whipped the bedroom door open wide.

And there they were.

Not completely unclothed like she might have expected, but intimate enough. Sam shook her head, and walked out of the bedroom, clutching her stomach. It was too much, and she was sure she was going to hurl. Outside she gathered herself together for a minute as really she didn't want to come back here again to this tainted apartment, ever. So she sucked in her breath, grabbed her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and walked quickly around the bedroom as the awkward couple watched, packing her suitcase, pulling her clothes out of the wardrobe straight off the hangers and stuffing them into the suitcase – there was simply no time to be standing there folding clothes. She flung her tampons, toothbrush and the toothpaste from the bathroom into a toilet bag. Yeah, he could go and buy another tube of toothpaste. Surely it wasn't a bad deal from his end– one tube of toothpaste in exchange for sleazy behaviour. Incredibly, she managed to pack within minutes. Or so it seemed. Amazing what a bit of adrendlin could do for a girl.

And him in the background. “Wait, let's talk this over. We can figure this out...” all the usual excuses. Even he was embarrassed at how unoriginal and cliched he sounded.

“Thanks” Sam said, suitcase in one hand while she smoothed her hair with her other hand while she
caught her breath “For our time together. This ending sucks. But oh well, it's over then. So I'll just leave you and...thingamajig to it then...” Thingamajig let out a nervous giggle. Sam wanted to slap her, oh-so-badly, but she managed to restrain herself.

She turned on her heels and breezed out of the bedroom.

In the seconds it had taken Sam to walk out of the warehouse apartment they had briefly resided in together, and onto the street, their relationship was now history. Just like that. Funny how one minute someone could be your everything and then they were - your nothing. She shook her head in disbelief for a second. It was time to move on – then and there.

Sam walked fast, dragging her suitcase, trying so very hard to fight back the tears in public. Dammit, it was lunchtime and she felt just a bit conspicious as workers on their breaks took in the sight of a mid-twenties woman, dressed in her video store t-shirt, dragging a suitcase down the street. Damn the staring. Sam escaped into a public toilet and her insides welled up like she couldn't believe and she exploded into enormous sobs that came from the depths of her being. She blew her nose loudly with the scratchy toilet paper often found in public loos and her mind wandered back to that first night, wondering how she'd gotten from there – to here...

It was a hot summer's night in the mid-nineties, and Sam was the first to admit she'd had a few too many. Beer, wine, and a couple of shots. Okay, maybe more than just a few too many. She'd had her hair cut that day and was relishing the confidence her new look gave her. Her jeans fitted her snuggly, her t-shirt showed off her toned arms. She felt hip and trendy and proud to be twenty-five.

The bar was packed, and the music was pumping loudly. Coloured lights playfully twirled on the dance-floor and Sam was on fire. Moving On Up by the M People played, one of her favourite
dance tracks, and she was having a ball. She was dancing with Mr Two-Step, one of those guys who didn't know how to break out of the old side-to-side move. And he was slightly out-of-time. Ok, very out. Kind of cute though - in a bank teller kind of a way.

The song ended, Sam thanked Mr Two-Step and looked around for her friends. There they were. Lola at the bar, chatting up the barman. Again. Sonya standing nearby sipping a drink, coolly surveying the surroundings. Sam ordered three shots of black zumbucca. She threw one down the bar to Lola, gave her a wink and then handed one to Sonya. Sonya nodded thanks. And then the lights came on. Curse those three am curfews. And why did the lights have to be on full? Everyone knew how hideous the average person looked at that hour. The girls with their unstyled hair, melted foundation, exposed zits, smudged mascara, and non-existent lipstick. Then there were some whose bodysuits leaked out of jeans that the drunken wearer had forgotten to tuck in during her last pitstop to the loo. And the guys didn't look so great either at that hour with their greasy hair and sweaty underarms. But then the majority of the patrons left at that hour had their beer-goggles on. Small details like that were overlooked.

So Sam, Lola, and Sonya joined arms together, wondering what they might do next as they wondered along Courtenay Place like the rest of the partiers in Wellington, searching for something else to do. It was late yet these three ladies had only just begun. They'd been dancing up a storm and weren't ready to slow down.

They turned around a corner and literally bumped into three guys who also seemed to be having a good time. A little bit of chit-chat on the street and then they were drinking dacquiris in a downtown warehouse-style apartment. Sam couldn't believe it. It was so glam, so american sitcom. Like being Gone Fishing Page Four
on Friends or in Seinfeld's apartment. Except this was Wellington, New Zealand, not New York. Still, close enough.

“I like your hair” he said. She turned and there he was. Schwing! Dimples, tanned skin, long hair and a brown leather jacket.

”Thanks” she said “You know a few hours ago it was down to here...” she said touching the middle of her back. And with that he touched the exact spot her hand had just left and she knew then, in that moment, that she was screwed. She may as well have pulled her heart right out and handed it to him on a platter.

From the start it was all too good to be true. She got wooed in ways she'd never been wooed before. Flowers, wine, and many a dinner out. Romantic nights in at his warehouse apartment listening to Van Morrison. Weeks turned into months and before she knew it, Sam had moved in. Why not, he said, you're here most nights anyway. She didn't own much, since she'd always claimed to be materially-adverse, so it wasn't a major deal. Just Sam and her toothbush, tampons and a few changes of clothes. She'd just naturally assumed that moving in meant that things had changed gears a little. How wrong was she...

There was a loud knock outside the public loo door. Sam came back to reality. She dabbed under her eyes, got out her compact to check her face, then closed it deciding it was just not that important. She opened the door and a guy stood outside. For a moment she was taken aback. Oh yeah, unisex public loos – it was so Ally McBeal.

The guy looked vaguely familiar. Oh yeah – Mr Two-Step! She smiled, he smiled. “You going to be hitting the town this Friday? “ he asked. “Why not? “ she shrugged and as she walked out, dragging her suitcase across the road into the video store she worked at, her co-workers with questions written all over their faces, with Mr Two-Step watching her all the way, she knew was going to be okay.

Seemed there were plenty of fish in the sea. She just needed to go out fishing again. Soon.