Maybe I'll Get It Right Someday

I was roused from sleep on a Saturday morning when the phone rang. I looked at the clock at my bedside. "9:00 in the morning," I mumbled to myself. "Who the fuck is calling me at nine?" I put on my glasses and slid out of bed, my destination being my kitchen. "Hello?" I said groggily after picking up the phone.

"Hey, Justin! It's Josh," came my bandmate's voice on the other end. "I'm just checking up on you again, okay?"

"Okay."

"Did I wake you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. Have you had any drinks lately?"

"Nope."

"How about drugs?"

"Other than what's prescribed for me to take, I'm clean. Thanks for your concern, Josh."

"All right, I'll let you get back to sleep. See you later."

"Uh-huh." I pressed the "End" button on the phone and put it back down.

Josh calls or comes over to check on me all the time. He means well, but it gets annoying when I'm trying to sleep. Since I can't get back to sleep after being jerked into conciousness, I started a pot of coffee for myself. Yes, just myself. Nobody lives with me, I have terrible luck with women, and three of my bandmates live out-of-state while one is happily married.

I went outside while my coffeemaker was hard at work. I had to pick up the newspaper. I took one glance at the front page, decided the news was too depressing, and chucked it in the green recycling bin next to my front door. I bet my neighbors think I'm crazy. September in Minneapolis and I was outside in boxers and a ratty old tee-shirt.

I went back inside and poured a glass of water, then gathered all my meds. I take vitamins, because I eat fast food like a fat man. I have a depression medication, though I was pretty sure writing lyrics and going to therapy were enough, but apparantly not. There's the cute little pill I take for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have an antihisthamine for allergies, and my inhaler for my asthma. I'm thirty-two years old and on more medications than someone three times my age. At least I don't need Viagra yet. Not that I'm having any sex lately anyway.

My coffee finished brewing and I poured some into a mug, sitting down at the table with two pieces of toast and my coffee. It's boring and a little sad, but it's my morning.

There were loud noises from next door, so I peered out the window in my kitchen that conveniently faced that direction. I saw that, finally, someone was moving into the house next to mine, which had stood empty since a few days after I moved in. There was a thin brunette, not sickly skinny, more of a healthy weight. She looked to be about five years younger that I was, but I could be wrong. Then, a young girl. Her daughter, maybe? They had the same hair and the same way they carried themselves. The woman struggled with a box. I should go out and offer to help, I thought. I went to my room to put on pants, remember I was only in my boxers. I didn't bother changing my shirt; it wasn't that important.

"Excuse me," I said loudly, approaching the house. The woman turned and gave me a puzzled look. "Hi. Are you moving in?" That was a fucking stupid question.

"Yes," she said, flashing me a dazzling smile. "We're just moving here from Seattle. My name's Lori."

"That's a nice name," I commented.

"Better than what it's short for." I tipped my head to the side, the way I nonverbally say that I'm confused. "It's Lorraine."

"That's not half bad, either. Who's the girl?" I gestured to the young girl who was carrying a purple backpack and walking in our direction, probably to see what was going on.

"This is my daughter, Matilda."

"Okay. Hi, Matilda. I guess I should introduce myself now, huh? I'm Justin, and I live next door." I pointed to my house. "I was eating my breakfast when I noticed, through my kitchen window, that you seemed to be having some trouble over here. Can I give you a hand?"

"Please do."