Gezza Thompson banged the door open to the basement of his mom and the hinges screamed like they were crying out that they needed oil.
The air was as suffocating to him as a stale burrito--musky, laden with the odor of unclean socks and remorse.
"Gerald! Take this load off me with these groceries! the voice of his mom was bellowing down the stairs, and it was sharp enough to pin-point his ear drum.
"Yeah, yeah, Ma, I’m busy!" yelled back he, half a way down the wobbly steps. Busy, right. Such as masturbating to pixelated fantasies was a nine-to-five.
He smashed the door after him, the bang reverberating in his own cave of darkness.
The basement was tribute to the laziness of Gezza.
Clothes were lying on the floor like a laundry apocalypse, post-apocalyptic, like--weeks, months--of crusty T-shirts and boxers he promised to wash tomorrow.
The bag of nacho chips under his foot squashed half as he shuffled to his desk.
The walls? Pasted in poster swimsuit models their smooth lines glaring down at them like condemnatory goddesses.
His pale soaked sweatpants appeared to be smirked at by Miss July 2023, with her barely-there bikini. Don’t judge me, he muttered, throwing her the bird.
He threw his thrift store backpack on the bumpy couch and the burden of it could be heard groaning against the spring.
His laptop was lying on the desk with the lid open and the screen blazing like a siren.
He sat down in his old gaming chair, the one that shouts I bought this in the yard sale and I do not regret it.
It is just a glance at the browser incognito tab that is still open since the night before. Busty Babes Vol. 47 hesitated in the middle of the scene, and blonde stood still in a pose that made his blood pressure soar.
"Woops", he laughed, not at all ashamed. Privacy was a sucker thing that you did not live in the basement of mom.
His fingers were floating before the trackpad, seduced. The old itch rakes--just as night after night.
Gezza was relaxing, his hand moving south, already in the fantasy of curves to which he would never have access in real life.
"God, why can’t I just have that?" he groaned, and looked at Miss July. Real women? Out of reach.
He tried to slip into the DMs of a girl before but was blocked quicker than you could say nice guy.
He was twenty eight, unemployed and his attractiveness was as wet as a sock.
In the midst of it, he heard his mom cracking like a chainsaw. "Gerald! O, in case you are down there again, and not listening to me--"
"Ma, I’m working!" he screamed, and pulled his hand back as though he had been caught robbing. Working, sure.
To make a living of chasing dopamine. His heartbeat rose and he wiped his palm on his shirt and sighed.
One day I’m going to be swimming in it. Not this screen rubbish, real girls, not this screen rubbish.
It was at that point that his eyes fell on the backpack.
He had something heavy in him that was poking at him. Not the dry-cleanse of energy drinks, not the torn bag of chips--no, something stranger.
Unzipping, he groped inside junk to extract the book.
The one he had robbed in that dilapidated old downtown library, the one that was being cleaned out to make way to condos.
Not as light as it appeared, covered with leather, with queer-looking runes cut into the cover, which, when he looked closely, appeared to shimmer.
Perv Playbook, half a joke. I had just stolen it, because nobody was watching it, and it seemed too nice to be abandoned in the rubble.
He turned it over and the pages rustled as though they were wetting themselves. One paragraph was scribbled in spider-ink, as one of the creeps of the Middle Ages would have written:
Write the name of any woman on these pages.
She will look at you as her desire, her ideal man, and connect with you through passion. And beware: every name takes a part of your soul. The Playbook takest, and the Playbook giveth.
Gezza snorted, and sat back so far that his chair squeaked. "Yeah, right. Magic book? Sounds like some anime BS."
He followed the runes, half- waiting to see them glow like in an inferior RPG. Nothing.
Nevertheless, the notion caused him to have shivers. What if it worked? Any girl-- Miss July, that barista whom he had rolled his eyes at, anybody. The days of sitting in front of his computer alone cannot be credited anymore.
"Gerald! Trash needs taking out!" his mother screamed, knocking on the door in an upper room.
"In a minute!" his eyes on the book. His imagination was already working, and the possibilities were running through his mind.
He needed a test.
Someone close, someone hot.
He made his way up to the single basement window, a dirty square window which faced the yard of the neighbor. Just in time, Elena Martinez appeared, getting out of her outside shower, with her towel barely wrapped around her figures.
Gezza’s jaw dropped. He knew her schedule--she took baths every evening at 7 p. m.--like a clock. Creepy? Maybe.
However, when you were in a basement, it was almost a pastime being a spy.
One of his fantasy was the woman named Elena, with her yoga physique and dark hair cascading over the shoulders in wet waves.
His most recent conversation with her had been an inarticulate "hi" passed when she had noticed him staring at her. She belonged to nobody league--way out. But with this book? Maybe not.
He took a pen off his desk and it could have been shaking like a three-energy-drink.
That is nuts, he thought to himself and turned to a clean sheet. The paper was queer, practically warm.
He scribbled: Elena Martinez.
The ink appeared to be sinking into the page, and was faintly glowing, and then fading away.
He stared, waiting. Nothing. No fireworks, no sexy neighbour knocking. Complete sham, he said, setting the book on the couch. Figures. Even magic books were taunting him.
GERALD THOMPSON, GET UP HERE NOW! The shriek of his mom was a no more full-fledged banshee wail now, no patience.
Gezza groaned and pulled himself up the stairs. "Fine, Ma, I’m coming!" The back door had piles of trash bags, which smelled of tacos of last week.
He dragged them out, swearing curses to himself. It was cool and dark in the evening, the street was silent except for the sound of the crickets.
He threw the bags into the bin, and was about to creep away.
"Hey, Gezza!" a voice called, voluptuous and too cordial. He froze.
Elena was standing on her fence, with a towel still wrapped around her, her dripping hair, her stare on him as though he were a damn rock star.
You look... different to-night, she said, and bit her lips. Different? He had the same crotchy hoodie and sweats.
And yet it was a hungry look as though she were looking at somebody different.
Uh, h-hey, Elena," he stuttered, with a racing heart. "Just, uh, taking out the trash."
She strolled nearer, and the towel slipped by a bit to short-circuit his head. "Why don’t you come over? I could use some... company."
Her voice was honey and her smile was the stuff Gezza had read in his incognito tabs.
His mouth went dry. This wasn’t real. Was it?
The book. That stupid, glowing book. "Sure, y-yeah, sure," he said, trailing her as a puppy goes, hips waving, to her house.
The door closed behind them, and Gezza was in a dream that he was not sure he was worthy of, or was alive.