Newest Obsession
The lights are dimmed in his office. Alan gently pulls out his office chair.
The leather creaks against him as he sits down.
He turns back to look at me. The look of excitement shows behind his green eyes.
“You ready?” he mouths while pushing up his thick-framed black glasses.
I give him the signal, a classic thumbs up.
The episode is officially recording. Episode one hundred and fifty, or fuck, I don’t know. It’s somewhere in that ballpark.
“Hello, listeners.” He says in that voice of his, the one that turns on every episode. Anything to get the ladies listening . I roll my eyes at the transition of his pitch.
“Yeah. Hey fuckers.” I say in response, leaning back in my chair and putting my arms behind my head.
I’m sure our listeners can hear the creaking sounds of the chair in the episode, but it’ll just add to the flavor of it.
Not to mention, our visual followers will get a kick out of the easy atmosphere we paint.
They know I don’t sugar coat who I am, not even for a podcast that I partially own.
People love that, though. It shows that I’m a real fucking person, and I’ll stand by that .
“If you’ve never tuned in,” he continues.
“You’re listening to The Manhattan Murders Podcast.” He says the same shit every episode, his words finding that easy cadence he’s known for.
“This, to my left, for our visual viewers, is the talented Lee Reynolds.” I give a short wave to the camera, nothing too serious.
You know, more like a flick of the wrist. Maybe every once in a while, I’ll flip off the camera and give them a sexy smirk afterwards.
The broads love that shit. Don’t ever let them tell you anything fucking different.
“Hey everybody,” My greeting is casual, matching who I am in everyday conversation.
“What kind of shit show have you got for us today?” Every episode is fairly similar.
An introduction, a discussion on some sick fuck in our city, and his or her crimes.
We don’t fucking discriminate. We throw in a bit of our spice to keep the followers on their toes.
No one wants to listen to a boring podcast. It usually lasts about an hour, and then we end with our usual exit music, just something small I came up with while messing around in Alan’s studio.
He eagerly agreed when I told him we needed something that stands out, something people will remember, but not too ridiculous.
Alan usually picks our topic for each episode.
Topic meaning, which disgusting man or broad will be analyzed by the two of us for an hour.
Like I said, we’re not the type to discriminate.
If you’re a sick bastard, you’re a sick bastard.
I don’t fucking care what you identify as.
That’s just how it goes. Alan is more of the true crime enthusiast of the show, if you will.
I just edit the material and help him out with my charming personality by being the co-host.
After we introduce the show, we tell you who we’re discussing, add in some information, a little banter, and a few jokes here and there before our episode ends .
When we finish our Friday night ritual, I click the record button icon.
The episode covering Dave Berkowitz will be edited by yours truly and aired early next week.
With extreme caution, I lay the expensive pair of headphones down on the black desk, taking extra care not to scratch the overpriced equipment.
“What are you doing tonight? What kind of trouble are you and the ol’ lady getting into?
” I ask Alan. I already know the answer.
It’s always the same every week. The guy never leaves his house unless it’s to go to work.
I swear the guy doesn’t leave this damn house.
The fact that he’s able to have his groceries delivered for the week is one of the highlights of his weekend.
He and the missus just order what they need.
Alan barely steps out into the natural sunlight.
“Probably another night in.” He answers, shutting his laptop. I could recite this Friday night routine conversation.
“You should let me take you out one of these days, just us guys. " My eyes point toward the direction of his living room. If she isn’t out with her friends, his wife sits there when we record our episodes. She’s usually on the couch, attached to whatever the hell she reads and her phone.
Alan and I hadn’t had a night out together since the day my divorce was finalized, and that was for a celebration, of course.
It was just a few drinks, nothing special.
Damn, my ex was crazy. Great in bed, but that’s what they say about the crazy ones.
“Yeah. Sure.” He finally responds, but I know what he means.
“You know, Alan, there is more to life than just serial killers and serial killer documentaries. I’m sure she won’t mind if I take you out.
” I look in the direction of the living room again.
Ashley isn’t one for leaving the house. Well, she is, just not with Alan.
God only knows when the last time was when they went somewhere together. They seem like roommates at this point.
“I’ve got research, my friend.” He’s always working, whether it’s on an episode, work stuff, or whatever shit Ashley has him doing around the house.
All work and no play makes Alan a dull boy.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t care,” he continues.
“If she’s got her phone and that couch, she’s set.
” I roll my eyes. Ashley hasn’t left that spot since we closed the office door and started recording.
She’s a creature of habit. If I know her, she’s only gotten up to piss and get a glass of wine from the kitchen.
“Well, let’s go out! It sounds like she’s all set.” Anything I can say to get him out of this fucking house. He watches me grab my black leather jacket, which I had draped around the back of the desk chair.
“Maybe another time?” He looks to the window across the room, and we both look at each other as the rain gets heavier by the second.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Alan.” My whiskey glass I have been sipping for the duration of our recording, is cold on my lips as I tip back the remainder of the amber liquid. The burning sensation goes down my throat as I set it back down on the desk.
The cold raindrops hit my leather jacket as I walk out of Alan’s house.
They feel harsher than they sounded on the window in his studio.
While avoiding the large drops, I walk quickly to my black mustang and climb in.
Alan watches from his window, a smile stretched across his face as I climb into the driver’s seat.
Sometimes he is a creepy bastard. His white curtains somehow align with everything in his properly cleaned house.
I don’t think I had ever seen a speck of dust or even a small stain on their light colored carpet in their large home.
Nothing is out of place. Not even a fucking dish in the sink when they have company.
Everything is a muted color of gray, white, or tan.
His furniture in their living room almost blends with the mix of the lack of color. His office, however, is the exception.
Alan’s office and our studio match his obsession with serial killers.
He’s got articles, art, and memorabilia from a bunch of fucking creeps.
He has all of his collectables in specific categories and pristine condition.
I think Alan would have a panic attack if he noticed one of his laminated prints of the fucking serial killer clown wasn’t lined up just the right way.
He has a fascination for lunatics, that’s for sure, but who am I to judge?
We all have our passions. Mine just happens to be liquor.
As I turn the key in the ignition, the lights on my dashboard glow blue.
My Mustang roars to life, that perfect purring sound filling my ears–God, I love that .
The leather steering wheel molds to my hands, and a sense of freedom is attached to it as the car rumbles.
The vibration against my hands almost makes me hard in my black jeans. She never gets old.
I start to leave the little suburb Alan lives in, and I pass by every house, even in the rain; they all look the same. Creepy. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can leave Stepford.
The rain continues to fall harder on my windshield. My wipers squeak with each fall, making my vision clearer with each swipe. I manage to leave the Cleavers just in time. The lights of the city in the far distance are coming into view. Almost home.
New York City is my sanctuary. I love the nightlife. It’s the only place where I can get a piece of pizza and a beer at three A.M. Tonight is the exception. As tempting as it is to go out, my leather couch and a bottle of bourbon are calling my name. Alan may have the right idea.
Like an automated reflex, I turn my car into the parking garage behind my apartment.
I live in one of the tallest buildings in the East Village.
Some would say that I’m pretty lucky, but I would say that I worked my ass off and I deserve it.
My inheritance didn’t hurt either. The rhythm of the rain continues to fall heavily on the roof of the garage when I turn in and park in my designated spot.
My car locking echoes loudly in the parking garage.
The uncomfortable feeling of being the only person here never really goes away.
The garage is cold and damp from the weather.
It would be a perfect scene from one of those horror movies.
You know the ones where the creepy fucking guy stalks the hot girl, and she ends up being the only one that’s left alive.
What do they call them, final girls? The thought makes me pick up the pace and head for the lobby across the street.