Now_ish: There is no Justice.
There were receipts and some books that looked like they might have been ledgers at one point. If someone had actually kept logging expenses and accounting for stuff. But everything fell off -- it looked like -- when stuff in LA got weird. I guessed, anyway, because nothing had been logged for just about ever.
I sat in the twirly office chair that maybe Harmony had been sitting in when I called from the bus station. I wondered why no one had seen her here, or why I hadn't even heard her name since I'd been back. Twirling around in the chair a couple of times, I considered the fact that she'd possibly written something down. I mean, probably not. Like, maybe a Post-It or something. She managed to find the slush fund easy enough, which was good for me, but bad for accounting.
On the desk, there were postcards that a couple of the girls had written to people far away. Unstamped. No one bought stamps, not anymore. The postcards just sat there, looking stupid. I thumbed them lazily, thinking about how we were the same. An afterthought -- something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but kind of just wound up gathering dust in the corner anyway. Still, they'd written them with all the hope and intent that anyone wrote a postcard with, right? "Wish you were here" or "wish I was there" ... "I miss you" and "please give my love to everyone." Stampless, though -- they had no real point. The girls had written them to make contact, but then, distracted by big life-and-death stuff, the postcards were just going to sit there, get old and become obsolete.
Just like Calecovision. Just like me.
Dejected, I looked at the last few pages of each accounting-looking book, calendar, day planner and notepad. Looking for my name and a dollar amount at first. Later, just for my name. After ten minutes, I gave up. Harmony hadn't written anything down. The money just went from one place to another place to yet another place and then into my velcro wallet. Then I spent a lot of it on busing and snacks. A couple of presents for the ladies.
Who would I even pay back? And how would I do it?
Just as gave up all hope, I found my name scribbled and circled on the desk blotter. It said "Andrew - Justice called. 818-555-2244." No date, just that. Justice! He was that guy on the bus! I'd given him my number before he'd gotten off in Burbank ... and he'd called. Awww! My heart kind of jumped into my throat, thinking about having a friend who wasn't in the Hyperion. Someone who didn't know about Sunnydale, maybe, or who thought that I was just a cool dude that he met on Greyhound.
Forgetting my whole purpose in trying to cover my tracks after borrowing money that I never intended to pay back, I decided to call Justice. My pulse beat like the orc drums before the Balrog appeared, trying to figure out what I'd say to this guy that I'd just hung out with once. Even if we hung out for six solid hours, I didn't really know anything about him.
But I called anyway. My palms got sweaty as I dialed and, just before it connected, I reconsidered the whole idea. I probably should have planned out what I would say. Instead, when a man's voice answered, I just said, "Hello. I'm looking for Justice."
Silence on the other end... in retrospect, that might have been a bad sign. When the voice came back, they asked who I was. That even stumped me. I stuttered out my name and something about the bus, only to get more of the silent treatment from the other end of the phone. Then, the voice talked. I listened. Justice had come into town five days before (which I knew), went out clubbing that same night and hadn't come home. They hadn't heard from him in four days. All of his stuff was still in the guest room. They wanted to know if I'd seen him. Of course I hadn't, which wasn't exactly why I was calling, but I thanked them anyway. I gave them my apologies and a number for the Hyperion in case he showed up, and then hung up the phone.
Poor Justice. I should have seen that note sooner. Someone should have told me. I should have told him about LA and vampires. And now he was probably dead or worse and his family would hopefully never know. I mean, at least he had someone who was worried about him, but it was just so sad that I put my head down on the desk and tried to manifest something good. Something good needed to happen.
[[Open to anyone who is just around.]]
I sat in the twirly office chair that maybe Harmony had been sitting in when I called from the bus station. I wondered why no one had seen her here, or why I hadn't even heard her name since I'd been back. Twirling around in the chair a couple of times, I considered the fact that she'd possibly written something down. I mean, probably not. Like, maybe a Post-It or something. She managed to find the slush fund easy enough, which was good for me, but bad for accounting.
On the desk, there were postcards that a couple of the girls had written to people far away. Unstamped. No one bought stamps, not anymore. The postcards just sat there, looking stupid. I thumbed them lazily, thinking about how we were the same. An afterthought -- something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but kind of just wound up gathering dust in the corner anyway. Still, they'd written them with all the hope and intent that anyone wrote a postcard with, right? "Wish you were here" or "wish I was there" ... "I miss you" and "please give my love to everyone." Stampless, though -- they had no real point. The girls had written them to make contact, but then, distracted by big life-and-death stuff, the postcards were just going to sit there, get old and become obsolete.
Just like Calecovision. Just like me.
Dejected, I looked at the last few pages of each accounting-looking book, calendar, day planner and notepad. Looking for my name and a dollar amount at first. Later, just for my name. After ten minutes, I gave up. Harmony hadn't written anything down. The money just went from one place to another place to yet another place and then into my velcro wallet. Then I spent a lot of it on busing and snacks. A couple of presents for the ladies.
Who would I even pay back? And how would I do it?
Just as gave up all hope, I found my name scribbled and circled on the desk blotter. It said "Andrew - Justice called. 818-555-2244." No date, just that. Justice! He was that guy on the bus! I'd given him my number before he'd gotten off in Burbank ... and he'd called. Awww! My heart kind of jumped into my throat, thinking about having a friend who wasn't in the Hyperion. Someone who didn't know about Sunnydale, maybe, or who thought that I was just a cool dude that he met on Greyhound.
Forgetting my whole purpose in trying to cover my tracks after borrowing money that I never intended to pay back, I decided to call Justice. My pulse beat like the orc drums before the Balrog appeared, trying to figure out what I'd say to this guy that I'd just hung out with once. Even if we hung out for six solid hours, I didn't really know anything about him.
But I called anyway. My palms got sweaty as I dialed and, just before it connected, I reconsidered the whole idea. I probably should have planned out what I would say. Instead, when a man's voice answered, I just said, "Hello. I'm looking for Justice."
Silence on the other end... in retrospect, that might have been a bad sign. When the voice came back, they asked who I was. That even stumped me. I stuttered out my name and something about the bus, only to get more of the silent treatment from the other end of the phone. Then, the voice talked. I listened. Justice had come into town five days before (which I knew), went out clubbing that same night and hadn't come home. They hadn't heard from him in four days. All of his stuff was still in the guest room. They wanted to know if I'd seen him. Of course I hadn't, which wasn't exactly why I was calling, but I thanked them anyway. I gave them my apologies and a number for the Hyperion in case he showed up, and then hung up the phone.
Poor Justice. I should have seen that note sooner. Someone should have told me. I should have told him about LA and vampires. And now he was probably dead or worse and his family would hopefully never know. I mean, at least he had someone who was worried about him, but it was just so sad that I put my head down on the desk and tried to manifest something good. Something good needed to happen.
[[Open to anyone who is just around.]]