Originally Posted Saturday, May 17, 2014
The Plumber showed up right on time yesterday morning, a kid who looked to be nineteen but who turned out to be twenty-two. He was skinny, alright, and a swell kid besides.
"You're here to take away my nightmares?" was my opening salvo.
"I guess so."
"Well. . . one of them, anyway."
He laughed.
"I told them to send a skinny midget."
"I'm not a midget," he said, "but I'm skinny."
We took a look at the opening of the crawlspace, the one most people won't squeeze into.
"Yup. That looks like a place for me."
I was relieved. He would climb in and fix the leak, and he was good natured about it, too. He went under to take a look and came back out and said he saw the leak and could fix it."
Three attempts and four hours later, he was right. Things went wrong as they are apt to do, and with each failing, my heart sank. First go round, the glue was bad. Second time, we turned the water on too soon and the glue had not dried. It went on like that, each time his boyish smile diminishing. Finally, though, it was done. He charged me no more than he originally said he would which stunned me. I gave him a big tip. He deserved it.
He finished and the maids came and I was ready to leave the house. The boy had told me that there were a lot of skeletons under my house.
"Rats?" I asked.
"They'd be some pretty jacked up rats," he said shaking his head. "Possums, maybe coons."
I thought to ask him to bring me some, but as things went bad, I thought better of that request.
After the gym, I lay poolside for a bit to rid myself of my prison tan and to prepare myself for the coming summer's sun. I kept thinking about those skeletons. It is a graveyard under there. Something must be done.
Around five o'clock, house clean, leaks fixed, having showered, I wanted company. Or at least to be around people. It was gorgeous, the sky clear and blue, a slight gusting breeze moving the leaves. I called a friend for a drink. He was going somewhere else, was on the road, but turned around. Hell yes, he said. He wanted to see a bartender he was interested in. She worked at the Arthritis Bar. It wasn't where I wanted to go, but what the hell. It might be early enough to still have a decent crowd.
It wasn't. The arthritic men in their Tommy Bahama shirts were already crowding the bar. It was a Friday afternoon. The arthritic women would be coming soon. The band had already set up. Everybody was getting lubed so that later they could make their 5mm moves on the dance floor.
The waitress came up with a big smile. My friend liked her, but no more than did I. But I. . . I am the wise one. I know things.
"Don't be fooled," I said to him. "She's had a lot of practice with old guys. She's got the act down."
"Yea," he said, "but I think she is pretty genuine."
O.K., I thought. Whatever.
But she did come around and talk a lot, more than she needed to, more, perhaps, than was good for her. She was Argentinian/Italian, had family in both places, was a native English and Spanish speaker without a trace of an accent. She'd traveled. Lived in Madrid for a year, was going to Columbia for a vacation soon. She loved Prague, etc. Uh-oh. She would be easy to love. I did, but I knew better. I'm not so certain my friend did, though. His words said one thing, but I could see he was lying.
"The band is a good one tonight," she said. I was already shaking my head as my buddy said, "Really?"
"No, no, no," I opined to the lovely traveling waitress with the honey skin and dark hair and eyes, "you don't mean it. What kind of music do they play?"
"You know, a mix like most of the other bands."
"Old music? Really? You can stand that?"
She began a laughing that said not really as she said with comical eyes, "They're O.K."
"I'll bet you like watching all the dancers," I said. Now she couldn't help but laugh out loud.
"They're funny," she confessed.
"I can't stand to see it," I said and made the 5mm move with my head and arms. She really liked that. Jesus.
We finished our second drink while the place got crowded. The sun was still up, so we headed to the boulevard for a cocktail. We found a place at the far end of the bar and ordered. The view from where we stood looking down the long bar toward the street was like looking into the Crystal City. The light was streaming in and catching every piece of glass and shiny object in the room. I've never seen anything like it except in films. I wanted to photograph it, but I didn't even have my cell phone. I wanted it for the blog, for all time. Still, everything felt good. We ordered Oban. We were high, we were big, we were full of emotion. Turned out they were charging us $21/drink. It would hurt later on.
A fellow sat down next to where we were standing. My buddy began to chat. The fellow was nice, had a lip like Joaquin Phoenix and maybe the look, too. He had a bouquet of flowers that he handed the barkeep and asked if she could put them behind the bar. I thought he might be gay, so I didn't ask about the girl they were for. I asked about the person. Turned out to be a woman, though, one he'd known for ten years, had dated a little then, and now they were kind of going on their first date of the new era. My buddy and I were ahead of him and began to opine about going out with old girlfriends, etc. They were sizing up women at the bar, none of whom seemed attractive to me. They liked a lot of them. I seem like a prick about this, I know, but I have always been that way. My buddies were always looking for a girl. I'm always looking for THE girl. I don't do so well, of course.
I was ready to go, but my buddy wanted to order another drink so we could see what our new friend's girl looked like. It was dark now and I couldn't remember how many drinks I had had, but my buddy was insistent.
"Barkeep! Forty-two dollars more whiskey, please, plus tip!"
She obliged. My friend is a very good tipper.
Finally, the apocryphal date came in. She was plain and a bit chunky, perhaps in her mid-thirties. She was nothing special to look at. And I loved her. Why is that? Why is it so easy to fall for somebody else's girl? I wanted to fondle he small breasts and grab her fat belly. I wished to lick her fair skin.
When the bartender brought the flowers, it was time to go. She seemed genuinely pleased and declared that yes, this could be their first official date. My buddy and I applauded and congratulated them, and then we made our goodbyes. Our new friend would be left with his date, and I could tell that he wasn't as thrilled as he should have been. It seemed like the end of a party, somehow. He had grown fond of us. We were fun and he was very glad to have met us. As I came around the corner of the bar, he stood to shake hands but we hugged one out instead. And then, close to my ear he said, "I'm glad I met you. You are a very good looking man." I kissed him on the cheek and laughed, then went over to hug the poor woman who should have been with me. I knew it! I knew he was gay. Why was he doing this, I wondered? This is a very gay friendly town with a large selection to choose from. When I hugged her and kissed her goodbye on the cheek, I wanted to tell her to run away, but I didn't. It is just the way things are, the way they go.
I think I should have felt her breast, though. I loved her small breasts.
And so my buddy and I made our drunken ways out to the boulevard passing the revelers who were just coming out. I told him what our new friend had said.
"Yea, I saw that. What the fuck?"
We felt bad for the two of them for a minute as we headed back to our cars parked near the Arthritis Bar. The band was in full swing, and my buddy wanted to go in for a minute. I knew why. He would look for the waitress. Not me. I didn't want to go in. I wouldn't be associated in her mind with that on the very outside chance that. . . whatever. I watched him go and moved to the big folding glass doors to watch him make his way.
Just then, I saw two fellows I know shouting at one another. One is the fellow who is in charge of the maintenance crews for the big trust that owns my studio building. I see him around and always say hi. He is a Jersey fellow who wears a mustache and slicks his hair. He rides bikes and thinks himself something of a cocksman. The other fellow owns a frame shop and art gallery. He has been a social figure in town forever. So I moved close to hear what was going on. A crowd was forming and what might pass for a bouncer was standing near them. As it turned out, the Jersey biker was threatening to kick the framers ass. It was over a woman that the framer had apparently once "dated" and who Jersey now had designs on. As hilarious as it was, I couldn't let them come to blows and was prepared to stop it when I heard Jersey's complaint. It had something to do with talk of butts and dildos and the woman. Now it was getting complicated. . . and even funnier. My buddy had come back outside now not having found the waitress, and I was explaining the situation and how I couldn't let them fight. A woman who was not atypical of the crowd inside smiled and stepped toward me. She liked my chivalry, I guess. A conversation ensued.
She was from Sonoma, she said. Oh, I said, I have a buddy who lives there. I was drunk enough to say he and his wife's name. Do you know him, I asked? She thought she might. She owned a bar there, she said, and handed me her card. Just then, the two fellows separated. Jersey said next time he saw the framer, he was going to kick his ass and allowed himself to be walked away by two friends. I heard the framer say to the mutual "love" object, "You're the one who decided to date that asshole."
And so the excitement on the sidewalk ended, and I said goodbye to my new Sonoma friend.
I don't remember anything else until I woke up this morning, the sun shining through the transom window. I reckoned I had drunk too much. My body was still lazy. I would need breakfast. The morning was good, though. The sheets were clean, the water in the pipes. I would do some yard work later and buy something for the house. I might even go shopping for clothes. But I needn't get too ambitious. Things were fine and had been fun for a little while. At least there was that.
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