The Leavers

3 (1)

June 15th, 10am, Somewhere in NY

Dry eyes flicker awake; heavy eyelids pulling Jon into a fatigued daze.
His stare blankly rests upon a peculiar image, perhaps of a psychedelic style butterfly on the ceiling. A tapestry. His eyebrows furrow.
I don't have a tapestry.

As he sits up in the bed, he allows his eyes to curiously wander around this strange environment. Dark walls with peeling paint at the corners and posters of various bands littered lazily around distract his focus.
Where am I??

Awkwardly, he climbs out of the double bed, finding himself in yesterday's clothes, dishevelled and twisted, but his shoes are missing. The floor is trashed with piles of colourful and patterned clothes, Jon using the small gaps between them to creak towards the door.
The door, heavy and scratched, opens with a whine and reveals a small, claustrophobic hallway with pale grey walls and frail wooden floorboards. There are no working lights, just a heavy gloom hanging over Jon as he ambles through.
A murky, damp smell follows him as he makes his way to a closed door.
As he makes his way slowly closer, the empty sound of bass plucking emanates louder.

Peering through the gap, he finds himself gazing into some kitchen-lounge crossover; couches rested among kitchen counters and appliances. So where is that sound coming from?

"You can come in." A voice calls from inside.
Jon, startled, widens his eyes and pushes his hand cautiously against the door, pushing it open.

There, on another couch in the corner, is a man, plucking at a bass guitar, dressed flamboyantly in psychedelic attire.

"Jon..you're finally awake. Never thought the day would come." He jokes.

Who is this man? Do I know him?

"I made you some toast with jelly, assuming you like that."

Jon peers at the man.

"Well ya don't need to stare. You good?"

"Do I know you?" Jon asks, voice frail.
"Ohh yeah.. you were pretty fucked last night. You remember anything?" The man asks, as he rests his bass against the wall beside him.

"Excuse me? Sorry did I get your name?" Jon asks, rubbing at his eye.
"It's Lee. Look, I get it you're confused, but some manners would be nice you'd think? Take a seat." Lee sighs as he genstures to the couch opposite him.
Jon grunts and stumbles over to it.
"Sorry. This your place?" He asks, voice hushed in a sheepish manner.

"Yeah, man. You were passed out last night and when I tried asking where you lived you wailed and vomited. So lucky for you, you got to sleep here. If it's any consolation, we ain't far from the club, 10 minutes at most." Lee explains, arms crossed.
Jon registers each word at 0.5 speed, slightly hungover and thoughtless. "..Uh-huh....club.."

"Now you're awake, can I please take you home? You got anyone waitin' on you?"

Jon fiddles with his hair as his eyes wander the room.
"'Don't know. Got my friend Jimmy, but he's probably still at this guy, Peter's. 'Don't know the address 'cause it isn't my apartment."

"Right.." Lees eyebrows raise in intrigue.
"You got a surname for this Peter?"

"No, why?"

"I know a Peter.." Lee continues as he stands up and starts to pace the room.

"He's a producer for the band, didn't show up last night at our show 'cause he said he was meeting some guy from England. Your friend, Jimmy, he British too?"

Jon's eyes light up.
"Yeah, yeah."

Lee flashes a wide grin as he flicks his fingers. "We got you a way home, buddy. Be downstairs by 5."