stories from the city; damon albarn

1997- 2

Damon didn't know who to call when it had finished. He was sitting in his empty apartment, a few boxes of his belongings sitting on the floor. Justine had dropped them off. They hadn't said a word. She hadn't seen him. She didn't want to see him. Ultimately, that seemed to be the problem with their relationship, Justine had seen enough of him to last her a lifetime.

She'd seen him on the television, in the paper, on home, on tour, on books, computers, stages, pubs, grocery stores, her bed, her house.

She'd seen the world fall in love with the idea of him without ever having to know him like she did.

She'd watched people fall in love with them. And she didn't like it.

And ultimately she didn't want him. She didn't trust him to start a family with her, or she didn't want one at all.

Maybe Damon just didn't want to admit that she didn't want him at the end. Even though he hadn't either, part of him missed having Justine around. He was used to having her as an excuse for everything. He missed the ambiance of her home on Notting Hill.

Damon hadn't been broken up with in a very long time, he didn't think his various flings counted, as they were just people he got attached too. Besides, he was still friends with most of those people too.

Back to his main dilemma.

He didn't know who to talk to.

He couldn't call Graham. As Graham wouldn't exactly care and would tell him that he saw it coming from a mile away. That was Graham. He was consistently an asshole and at least Damon knew what to expect from the drugged up bastard.

Alex was a no as well. He probably had someone over, and the last thing he wanted to do was have Alex answer the phone while participating in his X-Rated activities. Besides, the situation was familiar to Graham, Alex wouldn't care unless it meant they would go out and play some stupid game.

It would be humiliating to call Dave as he'd immediately have pity and sympathy for Damon, and it would feel more condescending than helpful. That wasn't something Damon wanted or needed at the moment.

This was when Damon realized he didn't have as many friends as he thought.

As he was left with slim pickings now.

He didn't want to phone his parents, that was for sure. Nor any of the random celebrity phone numbers he had. He didn't even want to call Avery. She'd be too spunky for this particular type of call he needed.

So, in a moment of desperation he called someone he hadn't spoken to in years.

"Hello? Who is this?" An older voice asks

"Damon, er Damon Albarn. We met at Glastonbury in 1994. You gave me your number if I ever needed someone to talk to sir."

"I don't believe that's when I gave you my number Albarn.." the voice says,  chucklingly a little bit. "I believe I gave it to you for emergencies only, after you showed up to my home high on smack."

"I didn't know if it was appropriate to say that Sir."

"Don't call me sir. It's Maxis, please. Don't make me feel like more of an elderly. Now, why are you calling Damon?"

"I have a bit of an odd request, humor me if you will. I need your daughter's phone number."

"Which one?"

"Chloe. Obviously not Joan. I barely know Joan." He says, trying to be funny. It wasn't working.

"May I ask what for?"