Willie Costello & The Spider

Willie Costello sat in his office, the cigar sticking out of his mouth. He was envisioning a dragon, and trying to make his smoke clothe the roof. Staring up at the various fungi on the ceiling, he completely missed his secretary, Kristy Bain, enter the room.

“We’ve got a situation, Mr. Costello.” She said, putting her clipboard on the office couch.

Willie Costello sighed, his eyes squinting a little, drawing back on the cigar’s stub. Some ash falls back down the side of it, into his mouth, causing him to hack and cough.

“Mr. Costello, there’s a spider in the water cooler.”

He composed himself, spreading his hands on the paper-laiden desk. “What...” There’s another, close-lipped, sigh. “What are you saying?”

“It’s dead. I think it’s dead but I can’t be sure.”

There’s a look of panic that Willie Costello notices now. He raised an eyebrow and the cigar flopped out, rolling off his bottom lip and hitting the table with a drooly splat. “Spider?” It was a Friday. He’d organised a stripper party at around six o’clock with prospective stockholders. There was a girl coming he fancied and he needed to restock his personal bar. No time for these sorts of dalliances in troubleshooting water coolers.

“He’s big, sir, real big. He’s lying on the surface, spread, dead I think. I can’t drink from the water cooler.”

“Do I need to do something?” Willie Costello asked, hoping Kristy would interpret it as a rhetorical, lazy question.

She didn’t.

“You have to take the spider out, sir. Nobody else in the office will do it.”

“Alan?”

“He has problems cleaning up cat litter, Mr. Costello. I know.”

Mr. Costello brushed the cigar off the table in a mood some would interpret as slight annoyance.

“Jack Fernandez? He’s reliable.”

“He’s out sir. Said something about the Kuziasco account.”

Willie Costello moved his chair in, raked his face with his fingernails, and yawned. “I’ll call someone.” He was expecting a call back from the strippers. No phones near the water cooler. It was an out.

“Mr. Costello, I’m begging you. My throat is drier than Mars. I need some water. We all need water. Alan’s been mumbling sad love poems in my direction again.”

Kristy wasn’t going to leave on her own unfortunately. There was something missing from this team, Willie Costello mused, finding a report to pretend to flick through. There’s no...motivation. No work ethic. There’s me and Jack Fernandez.

Wait. Willie Costello sat up and made eye contact with Kristy. An idea. There was someone missing.

“I don’t need to call someone.” Willie Costello said, concerned, “I know someone who would be perfect for this.”

“Who?” Kristy asked. She’d been ticking things off on her clipboard, hoping Mr. Costello would have something.

“Where’s the temp?” Mr. Costello asked, taking out another cigar, fumbling for his lighter.

“I don’t know. I’ll find her.”

“Good Kristy. You’re smart, you know that? You’ll go places. Do things. Possibly take my position if there’s enough space given the economic climate.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kristy Bain told him, and turned to go. She hadn’t meant that, of course. Willie Costello was prone to empty compliments.

Willie Costello leaned back, a freshly lit cigar pointing skyward. He moved his watch in front of his view of the ceiling. Another two hours until home time.

He heard Kristy yelling for Shellie the temp, then his phone. The dull rings were capable of instant headaches. It was the strippers. That number was drilled into his memory from many, many financially crippling nights of unfulfilling and heartachingly sulky sexual experiences. 

He picked up the receiver and mumbled something. 

Jack Fernandez's room

A Vogue bag lays stacked neatly by the bed, standing out against the pristine preserved DVD, camera, jewellery, and console boxes. The floor is a fur, possibly leopard, although it could be grisly bear imported. Nobody really cares, as they're staring at the lush, bright velvet red bed, some twisted amalgamation of new-age style and royal substance.

Two hat stands guard the entrance, resembling a wasp's nest with the amount of hats covering them. Dust is absent from the bedroom, as well as any sense of warmth. Even the velvet is tightly tucked, angered creases forming on the undersides of the bed mattress. The light, flourescent and five bulbed, blazes, burning out any secrets. It's all there in front of you.

Some Novel Tidbits

I've decided this blog will be dedicated to novel-related stuff as I work on the beast for university. In my Narrative: Advanced Practice subject we are being asked to do writing exercises related to our projects.

Here are some from last week. It was an exercise on exploring character through voice. We were told to give a brief overview, then a short passage written in the character's voice.

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Alan Davison

Alan Davison speaks in very cautious, pausing phrases. He’s not very verbose and tends to try to be poetic in his tone, although he can’t seem to execute this. He perceives the world much as the Yeats and Keats poems that he reads does, a place of lost chances, failed loves and punctuated by rays of sunshine. He tries to remain positive, but if anything his being seated next to the incredibly cold Jack Fernandez at work dampens his mood. He is forever in pursuit of love, and somehow, despite his warm and kind attitude, it is the manipulative co-worker that gets the girls.

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The simple thing is I love Kristy Bain. She’s the marshmallow to my stick, the exhaust to my car. If I were to die and go to heaven, I’d prefer it be Kristy’s bosom I fall onto instead of heaven’s gates. I don’t know how else to describe it. Every time she speaks it’s like angels crying out in ecstasy, even if it is indeed “Hi! How’s it going.” or “Who wants coffee? I’m buying.”

Some nights I lie awake playing Farmville on my phone and pondering how many people programmed it. In this bustling world of trucks and the global financial crisis, I find it hard to focus on the beauties of life, the little things, the raindrop going down the train window or the wispy hair of some homeless person. It’s too much to take in. There’s too many problems to dent the serene atmosphere.

I don’t know how Jack Fernandez does it. He seems so at ease, so downright cavalier in attitude. There’s a meanness that underlies his words, but I’m sure what underlies his heart is kindness.

The Hitman

The Hitman is a particularly egotistical contract killer, so egotistical that he prefers to go by his profession as a name for himself. He tries to intimidate his victims whenever he can, however this is done in a more awkward and embarrassing way, and when illogical verbal threats fail, he resorts to violence. Although a contract killer, he falls victim to being hurt both emotionally and physically quite easily. The Hitman perceives the world as a place where he is the best, much like Jack Fernandez, however he lacks the panache to pull off such an egotistical persona. Instead, he bickers with victims. Be this as it may, he prefers not having to interact with victims.

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I don’t know about you, but I really like Kanye West. He is boss. Kind of like how I am with a Glock in my hand, or a sniper rifle on my shoulder. I can shoot a guy from five hundred thousand metres away without breaking a sweat. Okay, I lie. But it’s almost that far. Do you know how many people I’ve killed? I don’t know either. I lost count after I’d notched the entirety of my belt.

People offer me a lot of money for my work. You could say I’m the Clive Palmer of the hitman business. Except he’s morbidly obese and I’m not. Speaking of fitness, I work out for five hours each day. I find it soothing, sweat gathering under the pits, the wafting manly smell of exertion. It’s what drives me.

In my line of work, you can’t have compassion. You can’t have those things that people regard as weak. You need to have a strong sense of yourself. A grounding. It’s why I do Yoga. In addition, it also builds my calf muscles.