Wednesday May 3, 2006
	Her warehouse apartment.
	It used to be a large industrial warehouse but it's been rebuilt into trendy, expensive condominiums. Looking forward to meeting you, Norm, she said when I last spoke to her on the telephone. I'm thinking: Yeah, you're looking forward to meeting me.  I could be the one.  The one.  We'll meet and you'll show me around your hip apartment and I'll be awed and amazed and then we'll have a drink or two and then we'll go out and eat and we'll laugh and maybe even dance and the whole f-ckin' time you'll be sizing me up wondering how difficult it'll be to assimilate me into your already f-cked up life and then If I look even remotely promising we'll go back to your place and we'll hump and for two seconds we'll look like adults doing things that adults do and while we're humping I'll see genuine sterling silver framed pictures of your family and friends and it'll be way harder for me to climax because I'll be overcome with terror upon the realization that all your (constantly scared but somehow getting by) American friends and family members will become my friends and family because you f-cking say so. It's dark outside and I'm walking looking for the concrete ramp leading to the garage door leading to her place and when I finally find it I'm fifty-five minutes late. I'm thinking: If you don't push the button she'll never know you were here and you can phone her and tell her something came up and you're really sorry but some other time and you'll make it up to her big time with a deluxe dinner for two with candles.  Scratch the candles.  People should be able to f-ck with 1000 watts of light aimed at them, 2000 even and when they're done f-cking they should eat raw steaks and then throw the bones at each other and then they should laugh aloud for a long time even if nothing is funny until they can't laugh anymore. I push the door button and wait and while I'm waiting I turn and see an elderly woman standing about forty feet behind me (holding a leash and at the end of the leash is a dog and even the dog is looking at me). "F-ck off," I say. I used to be way more polite.  Only a short time ago I would have said: "How are you ma'am," or "Nice night, eh?" She's still standing still watching and even the dog hasn't lost his interest in me so I say: "Please f-ck off." I push the button again. I figure she's making me wait 'cause I'm nearly an hour late. I'm thinking:  I could be listening to I'm So Sick by Flyleaf on my iPod.  Eventually the intercom comes to life:  "Yes?" In my best regular person sane sounding voice I say: "Hi Julie it's Norm." Maybe sixty seconds pass and she says: "Just washing my Lunapads come on up," and then the garage door opens and when it's open I see a carpeted staircase. "Did the door open?" she says.  The speaker sounds blown out. I'm thinking: What's a Lunapad?             Into the speaker I say: "What's a Lunapad?" Without hesitation her good female voice comes out from the intercom speaker: "Washable panty liners," she says. "Uh huh," I say wanting to sound like an adjusted educated understanding grown man. "They're reusable and safer," she says.  "I just love 'em." "Of course," I say. "I hope you like candles," she says.   "I see," I say then hearing a bell go off inside my head. I don't see and instead of going up the stairs I head back to my car a click away and even when I'm some distance from her apartment I hear what I'm pretty sure is her voice coming from the intercom speaker: "Norm...Norm..." My iPod is waiting for me. PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT