Peter J. Reed, �Writers for the 70s - Kurt Vonnegut�
Apparently, the stench of rejection hasn�t manifested itself in my case. The last week or so, I keep getting furtive glances from girls, mostly at work. You know the look - the staring at the feet and shuffling while I ring them up, and then the big shy smile, and the look back over the counter. Hell, I�ve even caught some checking me out as they pass the window to go back to their car.
And a regular came into the store, a guy who probably should have got the Sean Penn part in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. �Dude,� he said, adding extra emphasis on the U. �My friend has a total crush on you. I was at San Jose State, and she works in the bookstore there. I mentioned this place and she described you. When I told her I knew you, she said something like, �that guy is so fucking hot.� She�s pretty cute, too.�
Of course, that probably means she isn�t. I�m sure she has a lovely personality.
The thought is nice, though. It�s great that I have a fan club. I�m getting a lot of attention from older girlfriends as well, even the ones who aren�t crazy.
But really all I want to do is go to the Fairmont with The (ex)Girlfriend and do some carpet surfing.
(Carpet surfing: 1. Take two ordinary 8� X 11 pieces of paper. 2. Place on floor about one foot apart. 3. Put one foot on each piece of paper. 4. Crouch down with a low center of gravity. 5. Hold out arms. 6. Second person takes hands and runs as quick as possible, dragging the other, like a boat pulling water
skiers. 7. Get kicked out of hotel.)
But I suppose there is such a thing as being too hot. After a recent memorial show at the club nearby, I wandered over to the dive bar. I didn�t want any more drinks, in fact, I wanted to sober up a little before getting on my bike. I avoided the bar, knowing that the bartender would most likely shove a beer at me if I approached, and there were too many of old friends that I hadn�t seen in a while, and I didn�t want them to buy me a beer...
Oh my god, I�m more distraught then I thought.
Anyhoo, I hung back, leaning against the lotto machine. Some grizzled old drunk bum was sitting on the side, and he kept motioning to me. I�m pretty used to this, since I go to a lot of bars by myself. These old drunks, who are desperate for somebody to talk with, will talk and talk and clap you on the back and sing and laugh, all for no reason, and all the while failing to notice that I�m trying desperately to ignore them. Finally, I take the three steps over and shake the hand that he has outstretched.
He keeps shaking my hand, not letting go. He mumbles something, but I can�t hear him over the din of the bar. I�m not sure I would have understood him if we were in Church either, so there�s that. I ask him to repeat it. He leans in closer, still gripping my hand.
�You pretty hot there, for a guy,� he says, his breath stinking of cheap booze and bad cigarettes.
�You wanna let go of my hand there, fella?� I said.
He doesn�t let go. �I got a thousand dollars, what do you say we go have fun?�
And he starts pulling my hand toward his crotch.
Look, I'm not trying to sound all �Homos? Eww!� But this is stinky old drunk man crotch. You would have reacted the same way. I put one hand on his head and politely but firmly wrench my hand loose.
Man, why couldn�t the blond with the rack do that? Or The (ex)Girlfriend?
So it goes. My sorry ass, Kurt.
You know, I always utilized a Vonnegut lesson from �Player Piano� in relationships. In it, whenever Paul, the main character is told by his wife that she loves him, he responds automatically, saying �I love you too.� It doesn�t mean anything to him anymore. It�s a rote habit for him, like answering a common greeting between strangers.
I was always affected by that, and subsequently tried to consciously not do it in relationships of my own. That all seems silly now.
Hmmm. I get the feeling this is a mopey kinda day after all.
