Googled again.
“Goddammit! Type my address into Google and tell me what you see.”
Always happy to do something other than work I complied.
“Yeah what about it.”
“Click street view.”
“Okay looks like your typical two story Tudor with Doric columns in the …. Hello. Is that your wife?”
“It's the nanny actually.”
“She appears to be unloading the car in her underwear.”
“I think it's a bathing suit.”
“I can see your son in the car as well.”
“I know….”
“He doesn’t appear to be strapped in correctly.”
“What!?”
“Just kidding.”
“And look, you can almost read your license plate number if you zoom in a little...”
”I know.”
“Well that sort of sucks.”
“Yes it does. Who do I call about this now?”
I typed in my own address and found that the picture that came up actually showed the neighbors a few houses down and I had to navigate up the street using their slightly unwieldy panning tool. Nobody was in the front yard of my place when I got there, which wasn’t a surprise since that’s almost always the case, but I could tell just about to the exact day when the picture was taken by the junk stacked in the garage. A few days before February’s brush and bulky pick up apparently and it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that someone at the address had recently bought a computer if the boxes stacked out front were any indication. (They were actually filled with fallen ears of prickly pear cactus which have to be boxed if you want them to be taken but still).
Ramifications? I would think there’d be plenty. If all someone has to do to case a place is sit at a desk and “drive” around the world's streets looking for compromised dwellings and pretty women who appear to live alone or whatever else can be gleaned from a street view well then….. I just don’t know. It doesn’t feel right for some reason.
And a guy at work was telling me about this Zuba or hula search that gives people’s address and home phone number if you enter their name. So, let's say a person steps out casually to a meeting or luncheon, and happens to give their name since we live in a somewhat civilized society. Within seconds after the function adjourns, any meatball also in attendance (or just bussing the table) can find a computer and end up staring into our person's front window with full knowledge of where they reside, what they drive, and perhaps who they cohabitate with…..
Or someone overhears a fellow citizen at the supermarket giving his or her phone number because they forgot their stupid saver and specials card. Same thing.
Not to mention all the “street view” shots that probably catch people coming out of brothels, bars, hospitals, churches or doing other business that they hadn't really planned on sharing for eternity.
It just seems like a little much.
Since I’ve only worked at a few, what might be called, legitimate companies, I’d had negligible experience with the phenomena that is “human resources” until recent years. Places like Mr. Flood’s Party Pub, Frankie’s Pizza, B.O.N.E Construction and Greenthumbs over the Ocean tended not to have many employee resources at all save the opportunity to earn some mostly unreported cash. The idea that there would be an entity supposedly devoted to my rights and responsibilities in the work place was as foreign to me as dealing with the ACLU or Child Protective Services. Nobody looked after you but yourself at the places where I’d toiled away the majority of my time previously and one couldn’t expect much from management other than suspicion, hard drinking, and hand wringing. Turns out corporate human resources isn’t much different. First of all, how does one become a “human resource specialist”, a job that grants access to every employee’s personal information, private history, and innermost professional and financial secrets?
Masters Degree? Bachelors? Ten years experience in a corporate setting?
Nope.
If the example set within my current company is any indication, it appears a GED, a catty personality, and a power trip are all that’s required.
I recently was asked to sit in on the interviews of several prospective engineers and an uncomfortable looking gentleman named Shieshi was one of the candidates. I immediately liked him for some reason especially after looking over his resume and noticing that he’d interned at the Japanese consulate, earned a PhD from M.I.T. and achieved professional successes on paper at least that seemed to defy his youthful and slightly rumpled appearance. He’d flown all the way form Shanghai to interview and was clearly a bit shell shocked to find himself in the middle of a baking desert answering questions from some heavily painted woman calling herself Nadine. Shieshi was well spoken though and impressive once he got to talking about his potential projects and I figured I’d be seeing him around the office soon enough and was eager to get to know him and hear about some of his experiences (this is one of the few benefits of working in the middle of nowhere for this particular company which attracts a diverse and constant parade of foreign consultants, professionals, interns, vendors, and contractors which make one feel like they’re constantly traveling the world while actually toiling away in a podunk desert town). In any event, I apparently won’t be getting to know Shieshi or be able to inquire what the dynamic for a young Chinese fellow within the Japanese consulate was like since he wasn’t asked back for a second interview.
”Did you see his floodwater pants?” Nadine answered when I asked her about it, clapping her hand over her bright red mouth in mock horror. “Oh my god! And his glasses and tie were so yesterday.”
Think what would have happened had Einstein himself sought employment with our multinational and supposedly progressive company. One thing is for sure, he never would have made it past the hawkeyed Nadine, who shops exclusively in the Target women's center and evidently has her finger on the pulse of men's professional attire with no qualms about dismissing a candidate for perceived sartorial offenses.
The woman who held the human resources position before Nadine was another local girl with knee buckling perfume and a strabismic eye who called herself Jasmine and specialized in culling out the résumé’s of any qualified females that were single and remotely good looking in order to send them packing without even a call back. As a result, the office suffered through a year or two where a band of enormous incompetent women were manning the phones (that is when they weren’t sitting out front smoking). Not surprisingly, turnover was high during that period and I’d see numerous pleasant looking girls show up with applications in hand, would chat with some of them in the lobby, and never see any of them again. I finally inquired about one of them who seemed particularly bright and cheery and was told:
“Oh yeah like I’m going to let a Ho’ like that work here.”
“Ho? She seemed very nice to me.”
”Yeah I bet she did. By the way when are we going to get that drink after work?”
”Soon soon, but seriously, did you know that gal from somewhere? How do you…..”
”I don’t need to know her I can smell Ho's like that before they even walk through the doors.”
I did have occasion to pour back a few drinks with Jasmine as it turned out, figuring it was best to befriend the woman who possibly had my future locked away in her files than intimate my true feelings for her and risk some sort of grudge. The night went about as expected and after she had drunkenly divulged the salaries of many of my co-workers, I learned that she was thrice divorced, had once had an affair with a current vice president (unsubstantiated), had recently declared bankruptcy, and was the proud owner of a pierced “vulval” lip. All fine and dandy I suppose but is it the person the company really wants having the final say, or indeed any say at all, in who’s hired, fired, paid what, and promoted.
What inspired this post however is that the other day I received an e-mail from corporate inquiring after the status of an archiving project that had been budgeted for and that I was supposedly supervising. I assumed I'd dropped the ball until I realized I’d never gotten any follow up from human resources about it once the money was approved and never received a list of interns available to assist. I wandered down to Nadine’s office where the following conversation ensued:
“Oh I decided it wasn’t worth it to scan a bunch of dusty papers. I sent the interns you were supposed to get out to help Roberto.” (Roberto is a good looking chemist from Hermasillo, Mexico who clearly knows how to play the game better than I do).
”You decided? Dusty papers? Those papers represent millions of dollars worth of research and experimentation. Management decreed that they be scanned and cataloged by the end of the summer to avoid waste and duplication. Several current projects may hang in the balance.”
”Well they’ll just have to wait,” said Nadine, blowing on her nails. “Roberto needs help with his expense reports. He travels all the time all over the world you know. I think he’s European. You’re not European are you?”
No Nadine, I suppose I'm not. Although I am exactly as European as Roberto, Shieshi, and for that matter you yourself.
A free subscription to Men's Health started showing up all of a sudden a few months back and though I felt fine in the months previous I promptly got a head ache sorting through all the contradictions, studies and polls. Soon I begin to develop symptoms to new maladies with which I had been blissfully unfamiliar. It seems that studies purporting just about anything and it's oppisite are available to the editors and each subsequent issue will often directly contradict the last. Not to mention the obvious lobbying money being paid for favorable articles touting the attributes of all foods from fast to fancy. I cancelled the sub as soon as I could but have thought about some of the articles often since especially when standing in the supermarket. Were blueberries good or bad for semen count? Was it Kale or Rhubarb that boosted libido after hours. Was caffiene bad or good for the heart? I definitely remember that men need to take better care of themselves but it's hard to tell where to start. From what I was able to glean however evidence is mounting that men are not masturbating enough, getting enough selenium, ingesting enough free radicals, mixing in enough flax seed, or downing enough drinks replete with flavonoids to help keep their arteries clear by preventing platelets from clumping together. Men are also swilling way too many cans of lite beer and Yoo-hoo when they could be guzzling V-8, Bloody Marias, and Clamato and thereby getting the benefits from the lycopene in the leached tomatoes which prevents the harmful buildup of cholesterol on artery walls. Additionally, men might consider sloshing down an extra goblet or two of Chilean cabernet sauvignon which is 38 percent higher than its French counterparts in antioxidant flavonols and tannic acid gas generation. However, men must keep in mind that in the pursuit of complete health, they would do well to increase there intake of ale and lager since a Boston study of 38,000 men found that men who consume alcoholic drinks containing hops and malt, three or four times a week have a 32 percent lower risk of heart attack than men who swill a single can of Bud Ice less than once a week. It's also a good idea for men to pour home as much cranberry juice as possible now that University of Scranton scientists have noticed that volunteers who drank three 8-ounce glasses a day for a month increased their HDL-cholesterol levels by 10 percent. And since an American Scalp Association study found that a couple men who sipped 2 cups of tea an hour were 25 percent less likely to die in industrial accidents, men should be making sure that a thermos or two of Earl Grey becomes part of their routine.
Also dropping some Siberian ginseng in one of the eight daily glasses of water recommended by the Swedish Nurses Association is purported to be an erection booster of which the red Korean kind has actually helped guys defy gravity and participate in sexual workouts with some of the nurses involved in the study. This also left them thirsty and craving black currant juice which was then determined to help prevent kidney stones. German researchers subsequently learned that the more trendy white currant juice can increase the pH level of male urine and a survey of Austrian mill workers determined that downing two mugs of pureed kale daily may take the edge of a hemorrhoidal attack. Andy Dunhill, a guy from Cleveland, recommends chewing stalks of celery, which is roughage chock full of androstenone and androstenol, two pheromones that can help men attract women subliminally by releasing odor molecules into men's mouths. These little buggers then travel down the back of the potential lotharios throats and help boost arousal. Being aroused turns men on which can then cause their glands to emit scents and their bodies to begin involuntarily sending off horny signals that make them more desirable to women on a sudorific level.
Men who worry themselves sick about stress and heart conditions would be advised to avoid cholesterol-raisers, such as fried foods, butter and meat, unless of course its in the form of a ball park frank with all the fixings slathered on. Onions, it seems, are loaded with sulfur-containing phytochemicals that appear to help lower cholesterol and blood pressure and may even suppress tumor growth. Ketchup is believed to contain anthocyanins (although the milligrams per teaspoon depend on the ball park), which can prevent prostate cancer. Mustard is no slouch either as it is rumored to sometimes have traces of turmeric, a spice that, laboratory studies have revealed, slows the progression of tumors as well.
And relish is green.
When not eating dogs at the ball game men should make for the rivers and gobble down as much fish as they can catch since a study published in the American Journal of Ethiopian Nutrition noted that men who consumed two or more servings of fish per week had between 50 percent and 60 percent lower rates of stomach, breast, and pancreatic cancers. That is of course as long as they aren't eating farm raised fish that has been gorged with the steroids and antibiotics that make it possible to live in cruel and cramped brackish water conditions and to ingest the chemically enhanced brain matter of their diseased brothers. Consuming farm grown fish (even if they have cannibalized their bretheren) however is still 18 percent better for men, according to a report written by fifth graders at Jenkins Elementary, than mawing down ichthyologic product from the world's oceans that have spent their lives literally swallowing loads of crap and pollution along with other detritus and petrochemicals which pour from the worlds industrial areas. Petrochemicals, according to a phlebotomist in South St. Louis, are thought to effectively cancel out the omega-3 benefits realized from eating some types of fish. Ingesting detritus based nutrients may put men at increased risk for pancreatic and stomach problems and give them the runs. Also certain types of fish can be dicey eating for those men tipping back pints four times a week as they should refrain from consuming tuna canned in oil since drinking alcohol increases a body's sensitivity to salt, which in turn could sky rocket the blood pressure of men just trying to do themselves a favor. Arabian studies also warned that eating fish from streams, rivers, lakes, or the Atlantic or Pacific oceans should be done in moderation as the trace metals in the earth's waterways have reached lethal proportions and are now being linked to birth defects, incontinence, pattern baldness and dasypygal shedding. Of special interest to sexually active men are the concentrations of heavy metals in fish and shellfish which are often consumed as aphrodisiacal alternatives to bologna and Hungry Man Turkey dinners but which can completely offset the health benefits by seizing up the liver with metallic compounds. A study done by an visiting surfer attending a Maui junior college notes that Scottish exporters of herring have become mostly aviatarians lately and continue their mythic longevity by ingesting only organically raised chicken parts which were fed dried seaweed through the first trimester.
Men's sexual health as related to zinc is much discussed. After all zinc has been linked to fertility, potency, sex drive, neuralgia, horn blowing and long-term sexual health and is a mineral critical to sperm production and the global mining business. Depleted zinc stores have been blamed for losses in semen volume, as well as moral bankruptcy, corporate downsizing, and plummeting testosterone levels and since every ejaculation can expend up to 5 milligrams of zinc, or one-third of a man's daily allowance. However another article claimed a morning cup of coffee might be doing more than just perking us up since men who have at least one cup of mud a day are nearly twice as likely to describe themselves as being three times as sexually active according to one Mongolian study and guys who enjoy the quotidian jolt of Joe report fewer problems with erections and bowel irregularity. Men should not overdue it with the java however since another study out of a Netherlands half way house found that drinking four or more cups of coffee a day could increase the homocysteine in men's blood to dangerous levels and cause feelings of jittery self doubt and low fiscal responsibility.
Overly libidinous men also got some good news recently when studies revealed that despite their parents warnings that "discussing the Irish situation" on a nightly basis might cause them to go blind or grow hair on their palms, it turns out that a regular waxing of the little bishop actually can help protect against prostatitis. A study of 29,000 men in orbit revealed that any type of regular ejaculations, rather they be induced in the traditional manner with the neighbor's wife, or the result of group masturbating, nocturnal emissions, rubbing against livestock to climax or simply the creaming of men's jeans during cunnilingus, could potentially protect against cancer development. If a man bucks the odds and does find himself going blind however he should not fixate on carrots and mix himself up a spinach omelet which a University of Texas dental school study noted contain egg yolks and spinach which are good sources of lutein and zeaxanthin. Gluten and zeaspirin are phytochemicals that may help prevent age-related macular degeneration, one of the leading causes of blindness in overly randy yard apes. Additionally, cholesterol-lowering foods, such as dried beans, oatmeal, oat bran, yak fat, and any fruit with a peel, only improve men's hydraulics. Cholesterol, as we know, can clog men's arteries after all, including the ones that allow a penis to stand tall. So it's smart to avoid cholesterol-raisers such as red meat. Instead mix in some strips of old beef which contains immunity-boosting selenium as well as homocysteine-lowering B vitamins. Not to mention that up to 50 percent of the fat in beef is the heart-healthy monounsaturated variety and four ounces of lean steak provides half the daily requirement of zinc although cow meat has been linked to colon cancer which tends to inhibit erectile urges. So even though frequent tossing off may reduce chemical carcinogens which readily accumulate in prostatic fluid, it is harder to self gratify when one has been informed that they have rectal problems.
That's what I was able to gather anyways.
The thing about the SP that one forgets while in her company is that her natural status is gone and when she's gone she's like a dream and therefore trying to describe and explain the whole thing makes one feel and seem ridiculous. And since her whereabouts and return are always in question.... like a dream..... one dares not hope or wonder. "He came down from the north with a party in his head and an idea for a fireworks display claimed that he'd be ready with a steel blue machete and half a rack of Boundry Bay each day Rolled up to a room above a sweatshop store playing nothing there but lonliness and tears thought he'd put a spell on some poor little Northwest girl could it stay like that for twenty seven years Now some say he's doing the obituary mambo and some say that he's hanging on the wall Perhaps this yarn is the only thing that holds this man together Some say that he was never here at all Some say they saw him on western highway driving alone in some car going by And if you think that you can tell a bigger tale I swear to God you'd have to tell a lie...." Back in Tucson obviously listening to a bit too much Tom Waits. I've also just returned from Shakespeare under the Stars. Another Merry Wives of Windsor spin off it was this one set in a trailer park. It was someone’s wife that dragged me to it saying we could take a pillow and a blanket, which we did and it was fine. Oops here goes reality oops there goes gravity. She produced a bottle of chilled Pinot Griggio as well. Perfect night except that it wasn't actually. Still 90 degrees just after midnight with something evil lurking in the dark and Falstaff, attempting to cuckold a man instead suddenly got caught up in a Micheal Jackson dance number which ended up being the best part of the show, Make of that what you will. Being home I can definitively say..... you can't go home again.
Aaaahh well. It was something while it lasted.
My first encounter with he SP was a rather nebulous, nocturnal, and surreal affair which I’ve written about elsewhere but that may be a bit racy for these pages. The second, which I revisited below, while perhaps no less racy in the end, wasn’t described as such in the accounting with the resulting gist being more of a character study than a tale of concupiscence. And since said second one occurred more than a few years ago, I certainly wasn’t expecting a third especially as I’d heard the SP was married in the mean time and had taken her globetrotting and hobnobbing to a whole new level. I had no reason to suspect that she hadn’t completely forgotten about our two liaisons or at least that they were far less memorable to her than they have become for me. Somewhere around four in the a.m however. she almost had me convinced that this wasn’t in fact the case and her being married shouldn't cause me any additional angst. Of course she had to utilize something called an "imperial suite" which is basically the entire 46th floor of a local hotel with a panoramic view of the entire city to to do it.
I’ll set the scene later if I can but I should probably get some sleep now. I'm not in the imperial suite anymore and don’t know how I’m going to get by without a bidet now that the SP has insisted that I try one.
Urban walking is a skill like anything else and it struck me as funny just now as I was battling my way across downtown Seattle as to just how different things like jaywalking, panhandling, crosswalking, (and cross dressing for that matter) can be in all the different urban centers. While there may be a Walgreens and a Mickey D’s in every one of them, they’re not actually all that alike. They may look the same, but venture out for a few blocks, especially at night, and you quickly get a feel for the differing pulses of the cities.
I was recently in Boston and couldn't help but notice that, basically if you don't cross against the light at any opportunity, you get trampled from behind. The streets are dirty and redolent, old and narrow and drivers best beware as pedestrians are likely to dart out at any crack in the traffic whether the light is in their favor or not.
In Seattle however the opposite is true. Streets are wide and clean and Seattleites are so well mannered that they don’t budge until the little white guy appears to give his blessing from the box. Dumbing down occurs however and when some unenlightened out of towner comes along and upsets the apple cart by venturing out against the light, a few hapless others in the group are likely to imperil themselves by blindly stepping off the curb assuming that the light has changed. After all, why else would anybody be crossing the street? I just had occasion to watch out the window of this very café as some oblivious hiked up hussy on her cell phone looked both ways, saw no cars, and proceeded to hustle her bustle across the way while fifteen other people stood waiting patiently. One other oblivious guy, also on his phone, saw her start across out of the corner of his eye and stepped out only to be narrowly missed by a cornering van, the mirror of which schnicked by the man's ear which was also filled by much accompanying honkage.
In parts of San Fran and DC dodging the street urchins and panhandlers becomes a matter of survival so crossing the street is often a good idea regardless of light or traffic. In Seattle, most panhandlers are either very polite or not actually panhandling but asking you to sign something to help the environment or children. In downtown Phoenix, it’s so goddamn hot that nobody should be out and nobody usually is except the poor lawyers or whatever they are in their sweatsoaked suits.
Also hills are a consideration since riff raff tends to drift downhill so if you want to walk unhassled get as high up as you can and you won’t be bothered as much. And learn to look straight ahead most of the time. And don’t wear your conference badge in the streets. And watch for puddles. And don’t stray into the Tenderloin. Or pop up in DC at the wrong subway stop. Or drift a few blocks out of the Quarter.
It’s been awhile but the urban tactics are coming back to me now.
In town and wouldn't mind seeing me apparently if her text messages are to be believed. So what am I supposed to do with this now?
I’ve written about the SP in the past in other mediums simply because she seems to defy about three kinds of logic and contradict much of what I once considered to be a fairly broad knowledge base regarding what at one time was referred to as the fairer sex.
During our last encounter, I tried to take her to the opera and a hockey game broke out.
I'll recap that scene while I decide what to do.
I had inherited a couple of tickets to said opera (Sweeney Todd) and since only a few of my acquaintances at the time owned the appropriate evening wear to get them through the doors, I tracked down some digits for the SP and gave her a call to see if she might be interested in accompanying me. She agreed to the date, (or led me to believe she did at least) and I arranged to meet her at a downtown grille. I'd been eager to sample the fare at this particular eatery and since it was within easy walking distance to the Convention Center where the opera was to be performed it seemed like a good fit. I reasoned further that since my companion for the evening was rumored to be most comfortable dabbling in niceties and finery, it might be as good a time as any to give one of the trendy places in town a try.
I was making myself comfortable in the small lobby for what I figured would be a fashionably late, wait for my date, type situation when I happened to notice said date, the SP, peering out at me from the bar area. Although I had been prompt to the agreed upon time, it appeared that she had beaten me to the spot by more than a little as she seemed heavily entrenched in an animated discussion with a group of those downtown hipsters with multiple piercings and funky clothing that seem to have flocked to the area in those days. As she took her time disengaging from the conversation, I couldn't help but notice that she didn't appear to be dressed for the opera at all but rather was wearing faded jeans, heavy wooden clogs, and some sort of white tunic. Since I have always known her by reputation to be almost comically overdressed, (one of the facts on which I had based my decision to extend the invite), I was somewhat taken aback by her appearance and may have appeared so when she finally came blousing across the room to greet me. My surprise certainly didn't diminish any when she planted a lipsticky, sloppy smooch right on my mouth, which still hung somewhat agape with wonderment. Since the only prior history between us had involved cyber correspondence, one chance social encounter and a murky nocturnal incident, I was, quite literally, gobsmacked by the SP before the evening even got very far off the ground.
Along with being somewhat thrown by the exuberance of her greeting, I also noticed as we were exchanging further pleasantries, that her very essence was a bit aromatically overwhelming and I thought at first that she was drenched in some sort of pine scented cologne. It wasn't long however, before I suspected that she more likely reeked of gin. As she fastened herself to my left arm while I inquired of the hostess if our table was yet available, I found myself using the other hand to slip the opera tickets from the breast pocket of my top coat down into a front pocket of my slacks. Whatever the evening had in store for us, it was starting to seem unlikely to me that Sweeney Todd would be involved.
As the help looked into the seating situation, the SP tossed her head in the direction of an illuminated board hanging behind the hostess stand which featured drink specials and it was clear that her eye was drawn to some sort of rum concoction described there called an Eclipse. I had already noticed that they were advertising Blue Paddle on the same board which is one of the better lager style beers currently on draught around town and made a mental note to order one before dinner even though it appeared I had some catching up to do and probably would be better advised to select something that packed a little more of a punch. The SP was tugging my arm at this point and indicating that our best move in her opinion would be to head into the bar and order a couple Eclipses straight from the bartender while we waited. Fortunately the hostess reappeared just then and led us through the crowded room to a table by the window. We were seated looking out onto South Sixth and the SP immediately took the initiative and swung her chair around so we'd be side by side to enjoy the view of passers by heading to and fro from the clubs and other goings on as we waited to be served and a downtown Saturday night got into full swing.
The grille was busy and noisy that night, brimming with all types of patrons, most of whom appeared over coifed and in a rush to gobble down some grub before heading out to one event or another. A washed out looking waitress eventually arrived and began hoarsely reciting food specials, most of the specifics of which were lost in the cacophony. She was an odd bird, seeming hectored and harried and yet serenely calm in that uncomfortable sort of way like someone who has slipped into a state of shock. She became additionally dazed and confused when the SP requested "that rum drink special thingy" in response to her offer to take a cocktail order. When she reported that there weren't any drink specials that she knew of, I patiently waited out the brief argument that ensued as the SP described just what she wanted if the special wasn't available (basically the presumed ingredients of an Eclipse with double shots of Appleton Estates and Mount Gay flash blended with crushed ice in a big glass). Once that deal was negotiated, I was able to interject an order for the anticipated Blue Paddle
"A blue what?" asked the waitress leaning in. The room did seem incredibly loud for it's size but it turned out she may have heard me just fine but simply was unfamiliar with the request.
"We don't have anything called a Blue Paddle," she said making no effort to hide her exasperation once I had repeated myself.
"Actually sweetheart you do," intervened the SP. "You do too have it. Otherwise why would it be advertised right on your specials board? If you'll just take the time to look, you'll see it sure enough just under the rum drink thingy I was telling you about before."
"Well I'll go see about that then," our server said, swishing off in a manner that gave you the feeling that this wasn't the first time she had found herself to be unaware of events happening around her. I was appreciating the surreal start to the evening when the SP chucked me roughly on the shoulder.
"I'm sooo glad you called the other night," she said, tucking her knees up under her rump and darting in with another saponaceous smack, this one directed at my ear. "I was supposed to go to the opera with this other Egbert who's been hounding me recently. I'd much rather go to a hockey game with you though."
She leaned her head on my shoulder at this point and I continued to stare directly out the window hoping she wouldn't catch my stunned expression in our reflection as I attempted to process the additional twist of information involving winter sports not to mention the affectionate reception I had been getting. It occurred to me briefly that maybe she was under the impression that I was someone else all together.
"So," she continued, picking something off my collar as she spoke, "when you left the message about the hockey thing I just blew him off making like I had a previous commitment I had forgotten about. It worked out perfectly. Plus, unless things have changed from a few nights ago, you can't order beers at the opera."
"So who is this Egbert guy?" I finally said, wondering if perhaps I wasn't dealing with an insane or at least habitually inebriated person. Perhaps I would find out later that it was I who, in fact, was this Egbert character of which she spoke.
"Oh his name's not really Egbert. That's merely the class of guy he is. Really just this harmless kid who thought he could impress a girl by producing a couple opera tickets. I guess he couldn't have known that I've probably seen Sweeney Todd fifteen times but on top of that, I'm over spending my time with guys like him anyway. Seriously I am. I've realized lately that they don't really actually appreciate the things we do together but just go along and pretend so they can be seen with me. What do I get out of that? And I'm ready for a real night out. Hey, lets split the Barrio tostada for an appetizer! Doesn't that sound good? Where is that ditzy waitress?"
As the Barrio Tostada arrived the SP ordered some sort of Chardonnay pasta and I a chop. The SP had eclipsed her Eclipse and was working on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. My Blue Paddle seemed inadequate and overly brown on the table so once I had it taken away I allowed her to slosh some wine into my glass as well.
"Isn't it funny," said the SP, "how restaurants always go to the trouble to put two kinds of wine glasses at every place setting on every single night when it doesn't seem like all that many people even order wine. Then the servers have to take them away time after time and the bussers have to polish them up and reset them so then you have all these people carrying glasses back and forth around the room when food is taking forever in the meantime and real service is suffering. It seems like it would be so much easier to just bring the glasses at that time when somebody actually orders some vino. Especially since it comes in a whole new glass from the bar half the time anyway. I actually just meant to order one glass of this blanc here but that Mensa chick must have thought I pointed to the whole bottle. Oh well, Skal! Za vashe zdorovye! Or Salud if you prefer."
I didn't believe it had been a mistake at all actually but was too busy trying to figure out how I was going to parley two tickets in row EE at the Arizona Opera's performance of Sweeney Todd for two tickets inside the blue line to see the Arizona Icecats play ASU in the final home game of the season. I had no idea how the SP's wires had gotten crossed and guessed I didn't particularly care since the opera tickets had been given to me anyway. My accompaniment for the evening seemed like she would probably enjoy herself regardless of what event we attended. The hockey game and the opera started at about the same time, I seemed to recall, and were in adjacent buildings as well so maybe I'd be able to grab some tickets to the game while my heavily imbibing companion took an inevitable trip to the restroom. I felt her looking up at the side of my face just then and realized some sort of response must be expected.
"Probably because the mark up on alcohol is one of the main ways that restaurants turn a profit," I offered. "I'm pretty sure you can buy a six pack of Blue Paddle for what they are charging us for this one 12 ounce bottle which isn't what I wanted by the way since it's much better on tap. I would bet also that you could get something comparable to this Sav Blanc at Trader Joe's for about one tenth of what it'll end up showing up for on the bill."
"It is good though isn't it." The SP swished her wine around and held it up to watch the legs run down the side of the glass.
"Yes, it's quite nice.
"What do you suppose I should do," asked the SP, her brow furrowing. She had scooted her chair back around to the far side of the table now and apparently kicked off her clogs since her bare feet had shown up in my lap. "I can't really drink a Sauvignon Blanc to accompany a dish made with a Chardonnay cream can I?"
"You're right," I agreed. "That probably does defy some rule or other. We could split a Shiraz or something I suppose. Probably not what the sommelier would recommend to accompany a white linguini but I'm not sure they have a sommelier here anyway. Our waitress certainly doesn't qualify." I had put a hand on the SP's cool feet under the table and could feel some sort of toe ring on the littlest digit on her right foot which I spun in my fingers.
"New metatarsal jewelry? I inquired nonchalantly, searching her face for any significance that the interaction with her toes might be registering but she shook her head comfortably without betraying anything and instead looked interestedly out the window at another leather clad couple walking past.
"I say! Have your sommelier deliver us your finest Shibotz," the SP announced with sudden burst of dramatic gesticulation as the food runner arrived with our meals. When she was given a blank look by this person, who wasn't our waitress and appeared to be about 16, the undaunted SP hopped to her feet and padded over to the bar where she appeared to make some arrangement with the publican before disappearing in the direction of the restroom. I used the time wisely, wielding my cell phone to secure a couple of Icecats tickets which I had them leave at will call. Eventually a plump woman in a inappropriately wrapped skirt, who was working the floor in some capacity, returned with a bottle of Petite Syrah and a couple new glasses. I noticed the SP hovering nearby until the woman was done with the wine production. She then swooped in looking freshly scrubbed and sporting a rosy glow.
"Was that the sommelier? I can only hope she's pregnant otherwise she has no excuse for going out of the house in that wrap thing." The SP surveyed the room. "Everybody has such weird bodies here. Look at that 200 pound, bottle blonde porker over there! She's obviously in from some little farm town and keeps howling with laughter at everything her friend says when you just know it's not funny in the slightest. And why would she dress like she's a normal weight with half her boobs hanging out when her stomach roll is twice the size." She scanned the room some more. "And our waitress is another one. She's got to be some sort of like, rock climbing chick. It doesn't seem like she's having a very good night now that she's down here off the mountain either. An athletic looking girl I guess." The SP flexed a muscle and had me feel. "I think I could take her though, don't you?"
"Indubitably," I said.
"So," I said, after a bout of extended chewing. "I'm not sure it would ever have occurred to me that you'd be such a hockey fan. It was sort of a shot in the dark when I asked you to go." This was a lie of course but I was hoping to jog her memory and maybe shed some light on the opera/hockey mix up.
"Oh in Sweden," she said, "we just love hockey. As a matter of fact I followed the team around at the Four Nation's Cup in Skövde, Skara, and Tibro last November. You know, the big women's tournament. I'm friends with a few of the girls on the National team. Well, I say friends. I know them to say Hi to in the bars is what I mean."
"This is big women's ice hockey you say?"
"Not big women. A big tournament for women," she said, her eyes flashing at me briefly before glazing back over with their former mirthful playfulness. "And, as a matter of fact, definitely a cut above the level of skating we can expect to see from your boys tonight. That is if we actually even end up going."
"And why wouldn't we be going?" I asked, wondering what she was up to now.
"Well, I don't know. Take a gander at your watch for one thing." I glanced down to see that time had flown by somehow and it was already well after eight. No chance of scalping the Sweeney Todd's now. Not that I'd intended to make much of an effort to sell them anyway. People don't typically head down to the opera without having previously arranged for tickets but I maybe could have at least bequeathed them to someone waiting in the queue at the box office.
"We can probably still see the puck drop for the second period," the SP said, as her eyes followed a couple of totally spent, trashy gals with spiked Mohawks passing outside the window. "If you want to hurry on over to the arena that is." She took an extended guzzle of wine while observing me coyly over the rim of her glass and tugging at my tucked in shirt with her toes. "Or we might be able to find something else to do."
"What did you have in mind," I said, adjusting in my chair and taking a drink myself. A second bottle of Petite Syrah had nearly been disposed of and a feeling of pleasant plumpness and logy had begun to wash over me. Despite the din in the restaurant, I was suddenly picturing a snifter, a crackling fire, and an increasingly friendly SP. Just as I allowed myself to hope that the evening might be headed in that direction however, the surprising Scandinavian threw me yet another curve.
"What do you know about X?" she said suddenly with a new mischievous gleam in her eye.
"X" I repeated, my heart sinking. "I hope you're not talking about some drug."
"No silly. The band. Have you heard of them?"
"Of course I've heard of them," I recovered, searching my memory for one of their songs that I could reference to prove it but drawing a blank. "John Doe right? Are they still alive? Why are you asking about them all of a sudden?" We both watched as another leather clad couple, grappling in each other's clutches, lurched by.
"Oh just that they're playing the Rialto tonight," said the SP, draining the rest of her syrah. She got to her feet slowly carrying her clogs in one hand and came around behind my chair to drape herself over my shoulders. "What say we blow this tired joint and join this freaky parade heading over to the Rialto. We've got some time yet before they come on. Maybe we can stop at this little underground bar I know about?" She whispered all this huskily from just behind my left ear. "It's dark and quiet in there and more conducive to getting better acquainted. And then we can head up to Rialto and slam dance the night away. Just wait til you see this Exene chick. You're gonna love her even though she’s old."
The waitress returned and the SP went off somewhere while I settled the check (which amounted to just over half of a month’s rent). A bus boy had taken it upon himself to box up the remainder of the SP's pasta dish and delivered the container in a large brown shopping bag. It confused me to have him cross the room and thrust some bag at me out of nowhere but I slung it over my wrist like a purse and headed for the door intending to wait for the SP in the cool of the evening outside. A chef stood opening and closing doors for people and bid me a pleasant good night just as the SP reappeared. She had her shoes back on and immediately shimmied her shoulders as the cool night air engulfed her and thrust one arm inside my jacket around the back and snaked the other hand between two buttons in the front of my shirt where I felt her cold palm against my stomach. As we walked unsteadily towards downtown, falling in with the cavalcade of leather and spikes, I felt as overdressed as I did exhilarated. This SP, I had to admit, was proving to be another thing all together.
"Do you mind if I ask you something?" I eventually said, throwing the arm not left holding the bag around her shoulders and pulling her close against the night chill. "I'll warn you first though, it's the same something people are always asking me. And I never really know how to answer."
"Shoot," she said.
"So.... Like, what is it that you do?"
"Do?" she said, pulling up so that we teetered to a stop. She appeared to consider the question some before shaking it off and tugging me down by the back of the neck to where she could engage me in a juicy embrace which went on awhile until we seemed like we might topple over. Stable again, she cupped my ears and slurped lightly on the end of my nose before peering up with her gray blue eyes and finally saying, "I guess what I, like do, is what I'm, like doing, right now. Just hanging out with certain people." She kissed me again, very quickly on the mouth this time. "And you always seemed like someone I might like to hang out with. From a distance at least." She held me back at arm's length before almost throwing a shoe and sitting down in the process. "So when you called with those concert tickets, well, here I am."
Concert tickets?
"And you could tell this even though we've never really hung out before," I said, watching her eyes closely.
"Right, I totally could." She then suddenly grabbed my hands and began pulling us away from the street lights and down a dark, redolent alley. "It does all seem sort of familiar though doesn't it?" she said, once she had stopped and forced me against the side of a dumpster where she placed a knee between my legs and stood teetering on one clog in front of me. "Don't you feel that too?" Grabbing my belt loops to steady herself, she pulled herself up against me. "That's what I've always thought about you. Familiar. Since the first time I saw you across the party that day. I felt like I was back in....."
"FRAAAGHACH SHITAXX HUFF HUFF FUGGA PIGS!" A loud male voice choked up, all gruff and phlegmy, from within the dumpster just behind us and continued to cough out a string of expletive sounding ruminations which brought the SP's thoughts on our supposed compatibility up short. As I spun and moved away slowly, the SP stumbled clutching around behind me, until she was almost completely lost under my long coat.
"Jesus Christ," I heard her squeek.
"Yes," answered the hoarse, sputumy voice. A bearded, nappy head slowly appeared, peering over the dumpster's side, looking all ghastly and blood soaked in the wavering light.
"Here you go friend," I heard myself say. "Have some Chardonnay linguini." I tossed the bag into the bin as I felt myself being guided from behind by the pants back towards the avenue. Like some stumbling donkey, we came barging into the lights of the sidewalk, a lurching rumpled mess with a head and four legs sticking out of a coat that startled a group of librarian looking women that were passing by deep in conversation.
"Jesus Christ," one of them said throwing up a hand and grabbing her bun.
"He's right back there," the SP informed them, disengaging herself as the ass end of our creature and pointing back down the alley. She grabbed my hand and breathlessly begin pulling me again. "Up ahead," she panted as we picked up momentum again, "just at the end of this lane is that bar I was talking about. We're going to need to get a shot of red eye in a dirty glass or something before the show starts? X is the type of band that requires it."
"Jesus Christ is right," I thought to myself as I let the SP tug me across the street and push me into an alcove and down some darkened steps towards a burnt red door from which a smoky saxophone riffs emanated.
"Hey SP," I said pulling her up short and leaning her against the wall at the bottom of the cement stair. "Don't you think we should run over and maybe make sure we can get some X tickets before we go and get all distracted again." I began waving my arms suddenly. "Tickets! I need more tickets. I won't be comfortable until I have secured us tickets to every last event going on in this town tonight!"
The SP, who had fallen against me, laughed out loud and put her hands down in my pant's pockets against the cold. She pulled one of them back out quickly producing the small envelope with Arizona Opera Company written on it. She held it up to inspect in the light.
"Calm down we'll go get some more tickets in a minute," she said. "But we might as well head into this place and have a drink since we're here." She raised an eyebrow once she had extracted the duckets from the paper sleeve and saw the writing on them. "So what if we get distracted anyway. And hey would you look at this? Someone has gone and put opera tickets in your pocket. What else do you have down in there Eggy?" She tried to fish around some more but I caught he