The Wishlist

Chapter 1: 'Friends'

2:17pm, 12/8/2017, Canada - Wilbur Dahmen

state of mind: conscious 

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Scrunched up papers thrown, the obnoxious screams following with. The screeches of chairs being pushed back from the force of someone standing up. The purple marker drowning his ears as the last cursive letter reached it's end. It was thankfully the last period. 

"Mr Dahmen, Collin hit me!" A student's yell caused his head to turn. He furrows his eyebrows in frustration. 

"Collin, sit down." Wilbur boomed. The student sat down while glaring at the other. Wilbur has hated his own high school experience, and now he's stuck in another one. He was a science teacher, he never understood why he was so good at it. Maybe it was because he was the only one who listened throughout that subject, maybe it was because in some universe he was smart. Wilbur chuckled to himself at the thought. No, it was only because no other adult ever willingly applied for this school. Sure, he wasn't forced - but it was something he thought he might've looked back on and smiled. He hoped all his life he could be that cool teacher, high-fives with students and silly jokes with other teachers. Instead, he became the teacher he hated as a teenager. 

After a long wait, the bell shrilled. Each student ran out, pushing and shoving to get out of class. Wilbur sighed and pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. He wiped the marker off the board. PING. Wilbur looked down and noticed his phone light up. He picks it up and types away. 

Arnie

'wanna meet up at Berklands?'

'sure.'

Wilbur grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He walks out, only a couple students left lingering in the halls. His footsteps echo through the hallway. He reaches outside and walks over to his dusty brown Buick Estate Wagon. He pulls open the door with a sigh and chucks his bag in. Another night at the bar. 

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9:46pm, Berklands Bar 

Deep laughs jump from stool to stool. Wilbur's shaggy blonde hair touches his shoulders as he stares down at the bitter beer in his cup. 

"-and so my wife goes: 'Frank, if you don't pick up these bags this instant I'm leaving you!'" Wilbur's friend, Frank, impersonates with a shrill voice. Wilbur tunes out Frank's laugh and watches the bartender walk over to another person. 

"So what'd you do?" Arnie, another one of Wilbur's friends, sips his beer while staring at Frank. Wilbur turns his head towards Frank in curiosity. Frank drunkenly slams the beer glass onto the wooden counter messily and looks at Arnie. 

"Hit the b*tch of course, kept her quiet all night." Frank states. Arnie shakes his head and tips his head back for the rest of the drink. Wilbur drags his fingernail around the top of the cup slowly. 

"Well, that was unnecessary. Don't ya think Frank?" Wilbur looks up and stares at the shelves of glasses in front of him, chewing off an olive from a toothpick.

"What was that Wilbur?" Frank's voice deepens with hostile. 

"I said, don't you think that was-" Wilbur was cut off by Frank grabbing him by the collar and slamming his back against the counter. Wilbur didn't wince or show a sign of any emotion. 

"Shut your gob, Dahmen. I didn't ask for your damn opinion." Frank's grip tightens on his shirt. 

"And I didn't ask for your story." Wilbur chews on the toothpick. 

"Why you-" Frank raises his clenched fist before Wilbur spits the toothpick at his eye. Frank curses and steps back, covering his eye. 

"Guys! Stop it!" Arnie jumps in-between the two. 

"Ey! Take it outside, will ya!?" The bartender yells while cleaning a glass. Wilbur looks around and notices everyones eyes on them. 

"I've had enough for tonight, have a goodnight." Wilbur mumbles emotionlessly. He grabs his coat off the stool next to him and drops $5 on the counter. The bartender nods at him and he walks out, giving the two men one last look. That was the last of them.