On S'appelle
Saturday.
“You’re amazing.”
“Okay, Mr. Eames.”
Arthur’s reply wasn’t an affirmative, wasn’t a write-off. It was a simple acceptance that this was Eames and he was drunk.
His ballpoint pen didn’t make a sound as it came to rest next to the thin red marker he had been using to circle errors in the paperwork.
“You’re really, truly ‘mazing,” Eames was saying, repeating, reiterating. “The way you do…stuff. The plans an’ the paradoxes.”
Arthur was lost in the amazement that Eames could, in his state, pronounce paradoxes better than he could pronounce amazing.
“Have you called with a point in mind?” Arthur asked.
“Tha’s you!” Eames sounded like a grinning child. “Always t’th’ point. Tha’s why we made you Point Man,” he explained solemnly. “Tha’s why you’re amazing.” He paused. “And the hair.”
Arthur very distinctly remembered each and every time Eames had made a point to muss his hair. He wondered briefly if he should be recording this conversation.
“D’you remember our first job together?” Eames’ tone made it sound like he was asking about their first date. That was, in every sense, ridiculous. Arthur had never been on a date with Eames, had never expressed direct interest of such a thing, and certainly was not going to go about asking for dinner now; Eames was too drunk and Arthur wasn’t nearly drunk enough.
“Yes, Mr. Eames,” he answered instead and clicked the pen four times, frowning when he missed a beat and it ended up open.
“Told you that I thought you were th’mark. That Cobb’s’too cheap to gi’me a photog—photograph.”
“I recall quite clearly, Mr. Eames.”
“I had like…five,” Eames admitted between slurred syllables. Arthur didn’t have the heart or mind to inform Eames that he already knew that. He had, after all, immediately confronted Dominic Cobb about the lack of professionalism in such an action, only to be answered with a glare of hardly wounded but surely crackling pride.
“You were j’st really fun t’look at.” Arthur was vaguely aware that any tint of Eames’ unprofessional vulgarity had left to hide somewhere under the snow. He was also very resolutely ignoring this.
Arthur wasn’t sure what kind of drunk he had expected Eames to be. Certainly not an emotional one, maybe an angry one. His skills, though, were purely in paperwork and extensive nights spent digging up unsavory secrets long buried under mud, concrete, and dirty bribes. The actions and mannerisms hidden only by skin and shy awareness were the other man’s specialty. As it turned out, Eames was the talkative type. He was the kind to get everything off his chest and out of his mind in one long, slippery waterfall of fairly heart-breaking confessions, lapping their way over a stuttering vocabulary. Not that Arthur was counting the slipups.
“You hated me,” Eames concluded, drawing out the middle word for unnecessary emphasis. Arthur got the picture.
Arthur didn’t know if he should accept the truth of the statement or deny it in preference to his more recent state of mind. He creased his lips and clicked his pen. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
There was a slow hum vibrating against his eardrum and Arthur wondered if he was going to get an actual answer or just the breathing that he imagined smelled of gag-worthy alcohol.
“D’you remember that movie?” Eames asked suddenly, quietly; like it was a secret between the two of them. “The one with’e girl and th’guy ad—and th’other guy?” Arthur didn’t feel the need to justify this description with a negative response.
“You know!” Eames insisted after a silent moment. “An’they fall ‘n love an’ shit.” The summary was a far cry from the romantic setting which Arthur was sure the screenwriters of the movie wanted to be conveyed. Still. It was an effort.
“Eames, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” There was no need to hide the growing smile of amusement that dimpled Arthur's face. The pen had ceased to draw his attention. “About half of the movies produced today are of the exact plotline that you just described.”
“Nononono,” Eames rushed forward. “’S not th’same as others.” He nursed a pregnant pause; the kind of stop in the road that Galileo took before revealing Saturn was, in fact, sporting rings to rival every and any woman’s tiny bands of gold. “Th’ two—two—whatchamacallits…”
“Eames, you really will feel better if you get some sleep. I can get you some medicine for the morning. I’m sure not even you could find a hotel that doesn’t have some Aspirin somewhere in their drawers.”
Eames was already interrupting. “’S really impoter—imporn—import’nt, Arthur. Somethin’ ‘bout a hotel er—or el’vator or – ”
“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”
Eames’ words had become considerably more broken, had shifted askew and started to slur into vague twists of his tongue. But he did manage to register the farewell said quietly over the line and return his own goodbye. “G’night, da’ling.”
“Okay, Mr. Eames.”
Arthur’s reply wasn’t an affirmative, wasn’t a write-off. It was a simple acceptance that this was Eames and he was drunk.
His ballpoint pen didn’t make a sound as it came to rest next to the thin red marker he had been using to circle errors in the paperwork.
“You’re really, truly ‘mazing,” Eames was saying, repeating, reiterating. “The way you do…stuff. The plans an’ the paradoxes.”
Arthur was lost in the amazement that Eames could, in his state, pronounce paradoxes better than he could pronounce amazing.
“Have you called with a point in mind?” Arthur asked.
“Tha’s you!” Eames sounded like a grinning child. “Always t’th’ point. Tha’s why we made you Point Man,” he explained solemnly. “Tha’s why you’re amazing.” He paused. “And the hair.”
Arthur very distinctly remembered each and every time Eames had made a point to muss his hair. He wondered briefly if he should be recording this conversation.
“D’you remember our first job together?” Eames’ tone made it sound like he was asking about their first date. That was, in every sense, ridiculous. Arthur had never been on a date with Eames, had never expressed direct interest of such a thing, and certainly was not going to go about asking for dinner now; Eames was too drunk and Arthur wasn’t nearly drunk enough.
“Yes, Mr. Eames,” he answered instead and clicked the pen four times, frowning when he missed a beat and it ended up open.
“Told you that I thought you were th’mark. That Cobb’s’too cheap to gi’me a photog—photograph.”
“I recall quite clearly, Mr. Eames.”
“I had like…five,” Eames admitted between slurred syllables. Arthur didn’t have the heart or mind to inform Eames that he already knew that. He had, after all, immediately confronted Dominic Cobb about the lack of professionalism in such an action, only to be answered with a glare of hardly wounded but surely crackling pride.
“You were j’st really fun t’look at.” Arthur was vaguely aware that any tint of Eames’ unprofessional vulgarity had left to hide somewhere under the snow. He was also very resolutely ignoring this.
Arthur wasn’t sure what kind of drunk he had expected Eames to be. Certainly not an emotional one, maybe an angry one. His skills, though, were purely in paperwork and extensive nights spent digging up unsavory secrets long buried under mud, concrete, and dirty bribes. The actions and mannerisms hidden only by skin and shy awareness were the other man’s specialty. As it turned out, Eames was the talkative type. He was the kind to get everything off his chest and out of his mind in one long, slippery waterfall of fairly heart-breaking confessions, lapping their way over a stuttering vocabulary. Not that Arthur was counting the slipups.
“You hated me,” Eames concluded, drawing out the middle word for unnecessary emphasis. Arthur got the picture.
Arthur didn’t know if he should accept the truth of the statement or deny it in preference to his more recent state of mind. He creased his lips and clicked his pen. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
There was a slow hum vibrating against his eardrum and Arthur wondered if he was going to get an actual answer or just the breathing that he imagined smelled of gag-worthy alcohol.
“D’you remember that movie?” Eames asked suddenly, quietly; like it was a secret between the two of them. “The one with’e girl and th’guy ad—and th’other guy?” Arthur didn’t feel the need to justify this description with a negative response.
“You know!” Eames insisted after a silent moment. “An’they fall ‘n love an’ shit.” The summary was a far cry from the romantic setting which Arthur was sure the screenwriters of the movie wanted to be conveyed. Still. It was an effort.
“Eames, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” There was no need to hide the growing smile of amusement that dimpled Arthur's face. The pen had ceased to draw his attention. “About half of the movies produced today are of the exact plotline that you just described.”
“Nononono,” Eames rushed forward. “’S not th’same as others.” He nursed a pregnant pause; the kind of stop in the road that Galileo took before revealing Saturn was, in fact, sporting rings to rival every and any woman’s tiny bands of gold. “Th’ two—two—whatchamacallits…”
“Eames, you really will feel better if you get some sleep. I can get you some medicine for the morning. I’m sure not even you could find a hotel that doesn’t have some Aspirin somewhere in their drawers.”
Eames was already interrupting. “’S really impoter—imporn—import’nt, Arthur. Somethin’ ‘bout a hotel er—or el’vator or – ”
“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”
Eames’ words had become considerably more broken, had shifted askew and started to slur into vague twists of his tongue. But he did manage to register the farewell said quietly over the line and return his own goodbye. “G’night, da’ling.”