Page 2 of Spencer's Satisfaction
“You could take lessons,” I offer helpfully. “Performing for narration purposes isn’t the same as acting – it’s all vocal work, and you don’t have to memorize anything.” The face she makes has me chuckling and holding my hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Or not. It was just a suggestion.”
“To be fair, my job keeps me busy enough. But the idea of starting my own company with the ability to work from home has its appeal.”
As someone who took the plunge and invested in building a little studio in their basement, I wholeheartedly agree with her. I still take on jobs for publishing houses and established production companies but having my own space and being able to offer my services as a narrator or voice over artist under my own company name (and rates) has been incredibly liberating.
Becky and I walk together and continue our conversation as we leave the building which houses the recording studio and their offices and meander towards the parking lot. She asks me about how much it cost me to set my home studio up, and I happily give her all the information I have. She’s not my direct competition, after all, and it’s always nice to talk to someone else who understands the intricacies of my job.
The guys I’m closest to try their best, but I’m pretty sure they all think it’s a walk in the park. After all, how hard can it be to be paid to read a script out loud with no physical audience? Harder than they think, I assure you.
After we say our goodbyes, I head home, smiling when I’m greeted at the door by my cat. He’s a rescue from the local shelter, sleek and black and vocal as fuck.
“Hey, Frank,” I greet him, earning myself a loud, drawn-out ‘mrrrrow’in return. He winds around my ankles, butting his head into my shin. “I missed you, too, bud.”
After dropping my satchel on the side table in the entryway, I reach down to stroke my hand over his back, smiling as I always do when he arches up off the floor for more, purring deep and loudly.
“At least I can getsomeone’sengine running,” I mutter to myself as the rumbling sound starts up.
Frank twists around with that effortless grace gifted to all felines and nudges my hand for more pets. “Alright, alright, you attention whore,” I grumble lightheartedly, picking him up and cradling him against my chest. His purr vibrates against me, soothing away the remaining stresses of my day.
My friend Chance (probably my closest friend, considering I hang out with him more than any of the other guys in our social circle, especially since they’ve all started finding partners to settle down with) gave me no end of grief when I first adopted Frank.
“Cats are assholes,” he’d said, trying to convince me to get a dog instead. “They’re selfish and aloof and not at all affectionate. And they break shit. Like, on purpose. They look you dead in the eye and do it. I’ve seen it on YouTube.”
I’d argued that cats are generally cleaner, more willing to entertain themselves when I’m out at work, and I’ve never had to strap a leash to a cat and walk it for hours on end. Cats also don’t cause noise disturbance for the neighbors or during my recording sessions. As much as I also love dogs, a cat was a better fit for my lifestyle at the time (and still is). Plus, Frank had totally proven Chance wrong when it came to how affectionate he was when I first saw him.
And, yeah, the fact that Emma, my ex, had also loved cats had been a draw card, too.
I’m just glad she didn’t fight me for custody. I wouldn’t have gotten through the last couple of years without my furry little companion.
Frank meows again as I walk towards the kitchen. He’s got our routine memorized at this point, and he knows that his dinner is about to be served. I talk to him about my day as I pull out a can of gourmet cat food (shut up, he’s fussy) and then set him down on the tiled kitchen floor in front of his food and water bowls.
He eats his meal while I reheat myself some leftover Chinese food from last night and then perches himself on the armrest of the couch as I settle in to eat and watch TV, occasionally reaching out a soft black paw (complete with the cutest pink toe-beans) in an attempt to steal from my fork as it moves towards my mouth. And if I give in and hand feed him little bits of braised chicken, nobody else is any the wiser.
‘You’re spending another Friday night alone with your pussy again, aren’t you?’Chance’s text message comes through midway through my attempt to catch up on the last season ofThe Great British Bake Off.
I roll my eyes and text back,‘For a gay man, you’re kind of obsessed with what I do with pussy.’
‘I take that as ‘Yes, Chance, I am channeling my inner old lady again’. You’re not fooling anyone by deflecting.’
I snort. He knows me too well.‘You got me. All I need is a pair of knitting needles and I could be someone’s grandma.’
‘Come out to The Grove tonight.’He replies, cutting to the chase. I groan. Before I can respond, he adds,‘Please?’
I’m pretty sure he knows I’m going to give in even before I send my response.‘Fine. But you’re buying the drinks.’
Chapter Two – Tony
“Get your nose out of that book and help me, would ya?”
I roll my eyes at my sister’s demand, but I still swing my legs off the armrest of the armchair I’ve been sprawled across and down onto the floor, tossing my book onto the coffee table in front of me. I give the cover (adorned with glistening abs and a jawline that could make a nun swoon) one last mournful glance before I cross the living room to pull paper grocery bags out of Tanya’s arms.
She slumps back against the open front door with relief. “Thank you.”
“Whatever,” I tease, hefting the heavy bags in my hold and wandering down the short hallway that leads to the poky little kitchen in our ground floor apartment. I place them on the square island in the middle of the room and start pulling out the groceries.
Milk. OJ. Pasta. A jar of pasta sauce. Cheese.
“Guess I know what’s on the menu tonight,” I muse aloud, “Nonna would kill you for this, you know.” I hold up the generic brand ‘Bolognese’ (wherein I believe the name is a loose interpretation of what’s inside the glass) sauce as Tanya drops two more bags down onto the surface in front of me with a huff of impatience.
