Collateral Damage

The One With Martha Stewart's Prison Sentence

When Ernest gets stoned on edibles, he starts talking to his dead father. It's pretty morbid and the only type of conversations he has are the ones that involve his father pointing out his incompetence and lack of potential from beyond the grave. Ernest cries about how his father was as good to him as tampons are to a guy and then promptly passes out on the foot of my bed. While Ernest continued to angrily mumble under his breath as if his father still, somehow, had the ability to beat his ass for talking back, I decided to research more on Leonardo Cortés. When I'm high, I tend to be more productive. 

I suddenly heard a sour note behind me only to find Ernest hugging my ukulele and strumming it absentmindedly. Ernest was also notorious for fidgeting when he was high. He once solved a Rubik's cube that I had spent the whole year trying to solve. Needless to say, I gave up. I quickly snatched the ukulele out of Ernest's hands. He gave me a cold glare. 

"Sure, take it," He shrugged, "You're just another person that took away my shot before I even got to try. Get in line, Gilbert." 

Ernest only calls me Gilbert when he's high because he doesn't have the balls to do it sober. The horrendous name has unfortunately been passed down through my family, landing right in between my first and last name. I shudder every time I hear it leave someone's lips. A knowing smirk spread across his smug face. I decided to sit back down at my desk. 

I looked up any information I could get on Cortés' Modern Love and found things ranging from local blog posts to skeptical announcements, all emphasizing that the production wouldn't have been possible without Cortés' musical prowess and daddy's money. I especially liked how one article described Cortés as a "spoiled prodigy who peaked when he realized he couldn't keep his training wheels on forever", but later wrote that he "anticipated his debut with an objective mind". I laughed for a good minute or two. 

Usually, when Charlotte assigns me underground shows to review, I try to keep an open mind. The shows are usually low-budget, poorly acted, and hardly maintain a large enough audience, so my expectations are relatively low. I find that's the best way to watch student-run/undiscovered plays, because now, they have the ability to surprise you. With Modern Love, however, I found it hard. Here you have this musical prodigy who was literally bred for the limelight and now wants to produce/compose a play that his father has agreed to pay in full. No bake sale, no car wash, nothing; just a guy who happened to have the right kind of connections. Needless to say, I had high expectations. Besides, I've listened to his album and it wasn't half bad. 

Ernest had been silent for a while now. I figured he had passed out by now and decided to turn around and check up on the guy. But, Ernest wasn't sleeping. He was staring quietly at my ceiling as he laid on my bed. His thumbs twirled like gears always in motion. 

"You okay?" I asked. Ernest enters the occasional existential crisis from time to time and noticing the empty gaze in his eyes, I figured he was currently experiencing one. It was important not to let him spin too much out of control. Ernest had a tendency of doing that and as his RA, I was responsible for pulling him back to Earth. 

He looked at me and suddenly jumped onto his feet in one single motion, "Yup. I'm hungry. You hungry? I'll go get food. Chinese? Yeah, Chinese." 

Ernest raced out the door, forgetting his shoes and losing his mind. I reluctantly went back to my research. 

/ / /

I was watching the Office while I tried to learn Three Little Birds for the ukulele. Every year I tried to pick up a new thing to learn, like the Rubik's cube last year and chess the year before that. It keeps my mind sharp and my time busy, two things I have a lot of trouble doing. Ernest tried to help me pick out this year's niche, but all his ideas consisted of Legos and food. 

A rule for being an RA is that my door has to be open for most of the day, especially during my leisure time. Karin has warned me about playing the ukulele past eight numerous times, but she always gets distracted and remembers she has to go be a bitch somewhere else. Tonight was no exception. Her red hair almost made it seem like her whole head was on fire, which was a nice thought before I realized she was screaming at me. 

After she threatened to report me and I jokingly told her to eat a dick, she left and I suddenly felt really lonely. It was half past 11; I decided to give Clark a call. It took three rings before he picked up and loud music blasted on the other end. I instinctively flinched and cursed. I heard laughing and shushing before I heard Clark's voice. 

"Um, hello? Hugo?" He asked, a hint of amusement bubbling under his tone.

"Yeah." 

"Hold on." 

I waited patiently, watching as two students walked past my door in the midst of their light-saber battle. I had my bets on the taller one. Slowly, the other end got quieter and finally, I heard a door close. 

"Sorry, the house decided to throw a party." 

I raised an eyebrow, "It's Wednesday." 

"Time is an illusion," He proclaimed in a mystical, airy voice. I put a finger-gun up to my head and cocked the trigger. 

"So I figure that Philosophy 101 class is teaching you a lot of useful, practical things?" 

"Literally any argument I'll ever have can just be won by saying 'time is an illusion'. I'd say that's pretty useful and practical." 

I contemplated his theory, "Martha Stewart should have served a longer jail sentence."

"Time is an illusion. What even is five months?" 

My jaw dropped, "Well, I'm shocked." 

"It works, doesn't it?" 

"No, I'm shocked that you knew Martha Stewart's prison sentence. You did watch that documentary!" 

Clark chuckled before he was interrupted by a knock, "Oh, I gotta go. Only one bathroom in our house works now and I can't stay here forever." 

"People are just gonna have sex on your sink, you know that?"

"We got condoms." He assured nonchalantly. It was a typical Clark-answer; passive-aggressive and entertainingly crude. I frowned of boredom when I realized our conversation was coming to an end. "I gotta go." 

"Fine," I muttered, "I'll be waiting for your bi-monthly text." 

"Look, I'm sorry, but you know how college is. Everything moves so fast and there's so much going on. I can't remember the last time I had a weekend all to myself." I looked around my empty room and saw the whiteboard tapped to my door. It was a way to let people know where I was, being the RA and all, but for as long as I can remember, I've never once had to erase and change it. Every night, you can bet, I'm "inside, doing nothing". I suddenly felt worse than before. 

"Yeah, I know," I lied, "don't worry 'bout it. I was just joking." 

"I'll call you tomorrow. Bye." 

My phone laid limp in my hand, somehow heavier than I remember it. I knew he wouldn't call, but I decided not to think about it. Instead, I made a note to change the writing on my whiteboard to something less pathetic. Something like, "Currently jumping out of a four-story window. Excuse me" would be less sad. 

But then I remembered Modern Love and how this Friday night, I could say I was actually out. And suddenly, I felt better.