nervous assface

brandon scott gorrell

Lydia Davis is at a pub with Frederick Barthelme again. They are very drunk. Lydia Davis understands that she can not walk straight. Frederick Barthelme is shooting zombies with an automatic shotgun in an arcade game in the corner. Lydia Davis was doing that earlier in a cooperative mission with Frederick Barthelme but she died before Frederick Barthelme died, so she went and sat at the bar. She feels defeated. "Fuck yeah!" Frederick Barthelme screams from the corner.

A man next to Lydia Davis says something. “English,” Lydia Davis says. “Holding a tiny cup in my hand makes me feel like a giant human being that can crush things,” the man says. Lydia Davis swallows some beer and moans. “I was in my bedroom silently freaking out and staring at a computer screen,” Lydia Davis says, "Bret Easton Ellis was there." “It’s not a freak out unless it’s overt,” the man says. “Oh,” Lydia Davis says. “Is it considered a freak out if you scream logical, rational things that are completely pertinent to the situation?” Lydia Davis says. There is silence for fifteen seconds. “I’m not sure,” the man says. More silence. “Today I looked for a plastic thing for two hours,” the man says. Lydia Davis has vague images of destroying Frederick Barthelme's face with the automatic shotgun connected to the arcade game in the corner. “I wanted to take a picture of myself with a sad facial expression and I took three pictures of myself and had an angry facial expression in them,” she says. The man looks at her. Lydia Davis imagines killing herself by holding a fully automatic assault rifle to her chest and holding the trigger so it sprays her for ten to twenty minutes. “In some strange communication,” Lydia Davis says, her voice breaking, “my flatmate made a derogatory remark about my appearance and then asked me where his lunch was. I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn't touch his lunch and it was weird that he had a lunch that could be displaced and touched. I just looked at him quietly. Then he asked if I was taking a vow of silence today, and I said 'No,' and then whispered ‘I am not taking a vow of silence today.'” The man swallows some beer. Lydia Davis cries a little. “Then I walked around with no aim, and after awhile I couldn’t remember having left my house, and then I remembered and went home,” Lydia Davis says. “I feel pressure to work from home,” the man says. “When I got home, there was old coffee and a novel and some cigarettes on my desk," Lydia Davis says, "and I felt intellectual and beautiful.” Lydia Davis looks over at Frederick Barthelme. Frederick Barthelme is achieving victory.