Jinky, the Nutcase

“So what do you want me to call you, Jinky or Jenkinson?” I asked him.
“Why is that so important?” He replied.
“So I know what name to give to the police when I call them,” I added.
“And why would you do that?” Jinky or Jenkinson responded.
“Because, it’s 3am, I don’t know you from Adam, and you’re sitting on the end of my bed.”
“And your problem is what exactly? And by the way, I prefer the name Jinky.”

“My problem is, that you’ve broken in to my house,” I said.
“’Breaking in’ is such an emotive way to put things, but then again I guess you’re a writer and you can say things like that. People who break-in usually steal things. I don’t want to steal anything apart from a few minutes of your time.”
“But why at 3am?” I asked.
“Because I knew there was a chance of getting you in. I have come to your door several times during the day and there’s never anyone home. And, may I add that would be a better time to break-in rather than at 3am.”

The stupid thing was I could see that he had a point. Still, with my finger on the police speed dial button, I thought I would give a chance to explain himself, 3am or not.

“I want you to tell me what happens at the end of your story.”
“Which story?” I thought I should ask.
“’The Shenandoah Reclaim’, the story where the cowboy rides off into the sunset,” he said.
“How should I know?” I asked wishing I had called the police.
“Because you wrote it, but only up to a point,” he said, annoyed.
“I like to leave the reader to make the rest up for themselves, I like to let them take over the story,” I lied.
“What if they don’t want to?” He demanded. He was no longer sitting on the bed but standing.
“Tough!”
“Tough? What kind of answer is that?” He shouted (and he was shouting).
“The only one you’re going to get at 3.15am,” I said smugly, although wishing that I had more than a couple of Dan Brown novels next to the bed to throw at him. I knew they would come in handy someday as they are no use when you read them.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what happens and without any help from me,” he said pointing his finger straight at me.
 
So that was what I did for the rest of the night. I made up a story about Gene, the cowboy and the things he did next after riding into the sunset.

I awoke about 10am to find that Jinky (as he likes to be called) had disappeared as mysteriously as he had turned up. Although he had left a note saying that he was unhappy at my ending of ‘The Rose Girl’ and would I mind if he dropped by at 3 to 3.30am tomorrow to find out what happened next. 

You see I only wrote these things to pass the time, if I thought people were going to read them, I wouldn’t have bothered.

bobby stevenson 2015
http://www.randomactsstories.blogspot.co.uk/