danhartman43
“Dan Hartman”, an older man in his mid forties’, short, stocky and balding, never been married and lives alone with no pets. Just him in his own personal bachelor pad, a one bedroom apartment in a commercial-to-residential office building down in Battery Park. The place used to be offices before 9/11, has minimal windows, and a makeshift kitchen with a hot plate in place of a stove. Counter space is nonexistent, but the man, exuding a-motivational syndrome like he came out of the womb with it, was a take-out kind of guy anyway, as evidenced by his empty fridge and pile of brown paper bags and plastic to-go containers in the trash. His style bland, furniture picked up at Ikea, mismatched woods and a depressing color scheme consisting of shades of grays and blacks that somehow made the space ten times smaller. The one window sits framed with a computer desk and bookcases, three monitor screens all on “Sleep Mode,” with the windows logo bouncing around between displays like it’s the 90s. Yet he spends his days on a loveseat that’s seen many years of a fat man’s ass, sunken in the middle and covered with miscellaneous stains. Questionable. A worn down wooden coffee table centered between the couch and the television, maple stained with condensation rings a plenty, cigarette ash scattered with the crumbs from various chips and fried chicken take-out meals. A lighter, an entertainment magazine, sticky beer bottles, free matches from the gas station. A stack of empty disposable coffee cups, drip stained around the rims. On the floor mismatched socks sink into the beige carpet, enmeshed after weeks in the same spot. On the TV, late night sale pitches, women frantically trying to get you to buy the latest kitchen gadgets or cheap knock off crystal earrings. Not Swarovski. I imagine him hunched there at the coffee table, feverishly masturbating over an old swimsuit ad, watching my stories wondering why he’ll never get a girl like me.
