Jeremy Picols: Chapter 2

 

2

“Jeremy Picols.” He heard himself saying through his teeth over the phone.  

“Your call is now being transferred. Please hold.”

He stared indifferently at the window in front of him, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder. Why was he doing this again?

Oh right. Because his ex girlfriend had blackmailed him into getting the first trip back to the Big Apple before she pranced to his parents in Albany telling them he had lost his job. Better being with the witch than causing his parents a heart attack, he mulled over.

“Hello, LAX airlines representative speaking.”

He sighed inwardly. The voice on the other end of the line was so robotic. How much did they pay the lucky guy to toss away his humanity for that kind of twisted job?

“Yeah, I’d like to book the earliest flight to New York City. Tomorrow, if it’s possible? 2:30? No, no, it’s fine. Great. Thanks.” He hung up, stretching his legs out onto the table, one foot crossed over the other.

Life sucks. And he had only just realized it? Chuckling darkly, he wiped away a few strands of black hair that had fallen into his face. He stared at one particular strand then yanked it out.

And why did Jeremy Picols impose the responsibility of plucking out his own hair upon himself? Because he possessed little of the sanity that most human beings took for granted. Especially when his ex-girlfriends wanted to get back together, even after being forcefully driven off the edge of a cliff.

Hypothetically, of course.

 

The terminals outside the airport were alive with the honking of cars, people dragging their luggage across the streets, and a few of the many automatic sliding doors opening and closing. Jeremy paced himself slowly toward the security check line once inside, a scowl painted on his face.

“Sir? Your boarding pass, please.” A man with amazingly thick eyebrows asked.  Jeremy could have sworn it covered at least three inches of the guy’s face.

“Right, sorry. Here you go,” he handed his boarding pass over, trying not to stare. The guy was also a head or two taller than Jeremy, which made him possibly even more intimidating.

“Thanks- Mr.Picols.” He smiled warmly, or tried to, as he returned the boarding pass.

Jeremy smiled back politely and reached for his shoes off the conveyor belt, directing his focus towards the impossibly frustrating laces. They're just eyebrows, he kept telling himself over and over again. It's not as if the poor bloke was muta-

Jesus Christ, he had unconsciously cranked his head around to look at the man again.  

Just eyebrows.

They're just eyebrows.