I’ve been dipping my pinky-toe in the dating pool again. Having been monogamous the last five years or so, I’m a bit rusty. While I hardly have the itinerary of Justin Timberlake, I’ve been meeting a few girls. Still, I tend to have the most fun with the tried and true. And while I didn’t “get lucky” last night, I had a steamy, romantic evening hanging out in my bathroom.

Yeah, I got a haircut.

After a four-month separation, I’ve been blessed with seeing Clairissa twice in the last week.. Things seem to be coming together for her. Business has been good, and she’s formulating a plan to move from the van to indoor living any month now. (Winter takes a lot of the fun out of vagabonding, but she’s a stubborn little thing.) Until then, she’s doing hair out of a duffel bag wherever and whenever the opportunity arises. Last night things arose at my house.

I awoke to a waiting text message. “Got a bunch of clients today. Mind if I do you last instead of first? Like around 6? So I can chill, no rush. Maybe a root beer?”

I had diet root beer in the fridge, but Clairissa has been looking scrawny of late. The woman needs calories!

I rushed right out and bought her a Henry Weinhard’s Root Beer.

I came back from groceries, and realized I had no pressing engagements. I could watch the baseball playoffs and surf the internet until she arrived. I showered and slipped into a comfy tee shirt and a pair of shorts.

She showed up about sixth inning. Her previous client dropped her off in front of the house. The family dog loves Clairissa, but the dog sounds like a K-9 episode of COPS whenever anyone arrives. She’s an eighty-pound German Shepherd that behaves like a chihuahua on ecstasy, and slobbers on Clairissa almost as much as I do.

My niece held the dog while we escaped to my room. We went from cacophony to calm in about ten steps. I was given a hug and kiss. I sniffed her neck.

“Eww. I probably smell like sweat and hair product.”

“Nope, you smell sweet. You smell like girl.” I raised her arm, worked my index finger into her armpit and gave her the scratch and sniff. I love the smell of girl-sweat. “Mmm… you smell like… deodorant?”

She was amused that I was disappointed. “Yeah, baby. Not all my clients get into the pheromone overdose thing like you do. You’re kinda kinky like that.” She winked. “But then, so am I…”

I told her about the root beer. “I also have a PBR…”

“I’ll take that. You’re my last client today, and I want to decompress for a while.” She peeled off her sweatshirt and tossed her boots in the corner, stretching out on my bed. I tended bar, claiming the root beer for my own.

“You’re watching baseball? I never knew you were into sports.”

“I’m not a fanatic, but I know how the games are played, and it beats watching the same old reruns every night. It’s also a survival thing. Everyone at work is a sports nut; it’s hard not to pick up on the enthusiasm.”

“I’m a dyke. I don’t know anything about balls.”

“Not even softball?”

That earned me a Jack Nicholson eyebrow twitch.

The conversation took its typical twists and turns. Something got us onto the topic of crabs, scabies and bedbugs. Tally? Crabs: both of us. (My source: Ex-wife and roommate. Hers were from a Greyhound bus in Louisiana.) Scabies: Her. (From camping at age twelve.) Bedbugs: Neither of us. I had to tell her what they were. All her bloodsucker bedbugs were of the two-legged variety. I’ve been lucky there, too.

“Do you realize we just spent twenty minutes talking about sex-bugs?” she asked. The subject matter turned to blow jobs. She countered with a fisting story. Before long her beer was finished and she was ready to do it.

“It’s dark outside. Where you wanna do this thing?”

The dog would be humping her leg the whole time if we used the kitchen; not cool when straight razors are in play. I suggested the bathroom. We went into the tiny space. She said, “Well, you could stand, or I could do it while you sit on the toilet…”

I did not want that image stuck in her head forever. “I have an idea.”

I grabbed a chair from my room. We wedged it in and I took a seat. She strapped on her toolbelt. (Yes, she has a toolbelt. She resembles a handyman stripper. It’s fucking hot.) She sat on the toilet and played with my hair. “What ya want to do first? Ears? Neck?”

“I have a forehead pube that needs removal.” It’s an odd eyebrow that grows an inch away from the others, on both sides.

“I tell my other clients you have horns.”

Twenty seconds later, her tongue and teeth held the prize. (She even got one that I couldn’t see; a baby pube!) She appraised it. “Look, it’s blonde here, red here, and almost black here. That’s probably the darkest hair on your body. What color are your pubes these days? Gray? Got some steel wool goin’ on down there?”

I laughed. “Probably. You are familiar with my meticulous grooming habits. I do have a little patch in a safe place I could show you…” I carefully pulled my shorts down to reveal a tuft of hair that surrounds a skin tag. She was fascinated.

“What’s this?” She fingered the skin tag, a cylindrical growth a little bigger than a pencil eraser.

“I tell girls it’s my dick, then they’re not so disappointed when they see the real thing.”

She giggled. “Wish I had a Sharpie, I’d draw a smiley face on it.”

“You can, when we’re done in here.”

She marveled at the overgrowth inside and around my ear.

“Should have seen it before I trimmed it last week.YO-DUH!”

She ran the razor around the perimeters. “I can’t do inside your ear with this. Wish I had my little clippers.”

I pointed to my long-neglected beard trimmer. “That’s what I use.” I removed the guard.

“You use this on your junk too?” she asked.

“That thing’ll make you bleed down there. I prefer the good old-fashioned safety razor.”

We discussed pube-grooming (or lack thereof) for the umpteenth time. A delicious moment of show-me-yours I’ll-show-you-mine followed, leaving me dizzy. “It’s like we’re out behind the schoolyard,” she whispered. The kids were in the hallway.

Back to business. She fondled my neck, stroking the undergrowth. “Want the hairball?” I asked.

“Yes!” She fetched it from my room, the golf ball-sized clump of neck hair that she’s been saving for several years. There are three contributors, and I’ve had custody of it (and our dead frog Freddie) since the barber shop closed. I held the ball in my hand as she scraped around my jugular. “We need to name that thing.”

“I thought we named it Critter, after the movie,” I said.

“That’s so generic. It needs to be something dignified, like Prescott Wellington the Fourth.”

“I’ll work on it, and text it to you for your approval.” We really should make babies. We’d make great joint-custody parents.

We may have created another tradition. Until she gets another shop, I want my haircuts to be done in my bathroom. Talk about a captive audience. The House of Merde and Coiffe? I’ll have to find a picture of a barber pole to hang on the door.

Neck, ears, nose defollicled. “Now, what to do with your head…”

“Well, I don’t want to end up on menwholooklikelesbians.com. I want it to grow, but I’m tired of the Dorothy Hamill look. I also have this ‘Joker-thing‘ going on in the morning.” I pulled my red-wings out to show her.

She grinned. “That’s kinda cool, actually. But if you want your hair to grow out, you’re gonna have to live with that for a while.” Note to self: Stay out of Batman’s way for a month or two. Could be tough, with red-wing hair and an umbrella. (If they ever cast for The Penguin, or a PenJoker mutation, I’m trying out.)

She snipped a couple things, and we were done. We retreated to my room, and she called her wife to check in. For them to coordinate by bus to meet up to go back to the van would be an effort similar to our Butthole adventure. I did some Transit Tracking, and we had a plan. Thank god for cell phones; it would never work otherwise.

She looked me up and down. “Hair looks good. You look good. How much more weight you gonna lose? You’re swimming in that tee shirt.”

I borrowed a line from Lester Burnham in American Beauty. “I just want to look good naked.”

She smiled, ran her hands under my shirt, squeezed my man-boobs and gave me a titty-twister. “Honey, you already look good naked. You have nipples like a teenage girl!” she squealed.

“Gee, that makes me feel all manly.”

“I mean, they’re small and perky.”

“Yeah, and if you keep playing with them, that won’t be the only thing perky in here…”

“Dude, you get hard and I’ll chop it off! I swear! I have scissors, and a razor blade and-”

“Yeah, yeah. Point taken.”

“Can I still draw the smiley face?” she asked.

“Absolutely!”

“I need a Sharpie.”

I pointed to a Vegas coffee cup filled with many colors of Sharpie. “May I suggest purple? Or green?”

I laid down on the bed, working my shorts down carefully so as not to flash her. She smiled. “Aren’t you cute, trying to hide your junk. Don’t worry about it.”

All righty then. I pulled them down below the hip bone and let her have her way with me.

A couple minutes later, I was sporting a skin tag with a smiley face. She took a picture. “I wish it was a little bigger. I’d give him hair. Green hair.”

“Do whatever you want.” I’d venture to guess she’d not spent much time around a guy’s business end, and I was enjoying watching her doodle on my lower belly, tip of tongue sticking out as she concentrated. She tried this color, that color. “What are you doing down there?”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll see later. Or I can take a picture for you.”

“Do that,” I said. She took another photo. I saw it and burst out laughing. “You realize I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow?”

“Sweet…”

I stared at my floral friend, hoping it wouldn’t rub off before I could show it off to the student nurses.

Alas, the bus system was forcing us to end the night. I insisted on walking her to the bus stop.

“Honey, I have knives, scissors, and three rolls of quarters from my last client.” She made a fist. “I’ll be okay.”

“Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“Not at all, I’d love it. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to get dressed and go out just for me.”

I dropped my shorts to the floor and had pants on before she finished the sentence.

“Wow, that was fast.”

“Well, no sense being shy now…” Another minute and I was shod and ready to walk. We marched the overly-excited me past the overly-excited dog and made off into the night.

We held hands on the way to the bus, and I rode with her to her connection stop. We’d just missed one, so we spent half an hour hanging out in front of the porno store. My pleas to browse inside were declined. (But.. but… I really do know the guy that works there…) Alas, the bus finally came, and we parted. Until the next time…

I always feel fulfilled after spending time with Clairissa. No matter how long we hang out, it’s never enough. Maybe that’s why it seems so sweet when we do have time together. I may not get knee-buckling sex, but I get a ton of emotional satisfaction, and that makes her extra-special.

As I rode the bus home, I got a text from her. “I’m going home, stuffing myself w/pizza and whacking off until my hand cramps. What about you?”

I couldn’t suppress a grin. I shot back, “I’m saving it up for Saturday night. I have a date!”

My room smelled like girl. I loved the look of the PBR with the straw sticking out of the can sitting on my nightstand, and the Henry’s bottle next to it.

And now? Time to come up with a classy-sounding name for a ball of neck hair. I can’t be neglecting my pseudo-parental duties…

While I’m not religious or particularly superstitious, I firmly believe in What Comes Around Goes Around and kinda believe in karma. You reap what you sow. If such things exist, the bitch-slapping by the gods has commenced.

A week or so ago I teased Dr T about breaking a hip when he contemplated hacky-sacking an empty can of nuts into a garbage can. We got lots of mileage out of the various insults, but you can imagine his glee when my back started hurting the other day. It’s nothing to worry about, just inflammation of the lower back. Feels like someone is squeezing my spine right above the buttcrack, accompanied by stabbing spasms if I move abruptly. I’ve been moving slow and deliberate.

To a running commentary of “It’s a bitch getting old, isn’t it?!”

For the record, I’ve been in the best health since my late teens. Been behaving (mostly) on the diet thing, walking a ton. I know I’m losing weight; my clothes are starting to look like I’m wearing my big brother’s stuff. Favorite tee shirts look ridiculously oversized, and I’ve been slowly working old ’skinny clothes’ into my wardrobe. It’s like a reward.

I’ve also been getting cocky. I try to keep to the Ellen Rule: It’s not teasing if only one of you is laughing. I’ve drifted from this, and wonder if it’s coming back to haunt me.

One of my co-workers has been having health issues. He’s been there forever, and took his longevity as license to disregard all kinds of policies and procedures. (There was some question as to his bookkeeping integrity, ifyouknowwhatImean.) These things piled up, and I began actively disliking him. He was not only making my job difficult, he was endangering the whole operation with some of his behaviors.

His attendance was spotty, and when he did show up it was more to hang out and watch the world go by than to take care of business. He had vision problems, and wore a pirate-like eyepatch for a while. This earned him the nickname Polyphemus.

He sicked out a few weeks back, and we figured it was too much wine, or laziness. Come to find out he’d had a heart attack, his kidneys had shut down and he’d spent about two weeks in the hospital. I learned the secret early on, and as is typical at master P’s, within days it was common knowledge: They had amputated his big toe.

We’d tried getting him fired. Manager’s meetings, irrefutable evidence that he’d been violating numerous store policies, evidence of theft, the boss would suspend him for a while, and he’d be back. Demoralizing to those of us to play by the book, so we started picking on him.

I walked into work a few weeks back, and Dr T was behind the till. “Where’s Polyphemus?”

“He’s out sick.”

I snorted, “We should get him a job at WalMart. That way he could be a one-eyed, nine-toed blind purple people greeter.”

Dr T gave a guilty laugh. “Yeah, well it’s likely he won’t be back here.” That’s when I learned of the heart attack, kidney problems, etc… and began to feel guilty.

Lo and behold, he’s back at work! He’s wearing a boot to protect the (lack of) toe, and moving slow, but faster than he used to. He’s making an effort to do what he can, which he hadn’t done before. His demeanor is different, the arrogance is gone.

It reminds me of someone who had an epiphany about fifteen years ago, someone who fucked off his life until he ended up on death’s doorstep and then in the emergency room. Someone who realized life itself is important, and the ‘die young and leave a pretty corpse’ lifestyle is stupid if you actually let it kill you. That someone changed his ways, and became (IMHO) a much better person for it.

Leopards can change their spots, if the motivation is big enough.

I’ve decided to start fresh with Polyphemus. No more malicious wisecracks. (Well, maybe once in a while.) When I told Clairissa about the WalMart greeter thing, she wrote it down on a cocktail napkin. “I’m going to have that tattooed on my ass!”

God, I hope not. I can come up with something so much better that that.

But now the whole ‘reap what you sow’ thing is happening. When I saw a callus on the tip of my toe, I figured it would work itself off eventually. The last few days it’s looked kinda dark, like a bruise. Being diagnosed diabetic, anytime I have boo-boos on the feet I pay close attention. After seeing Polyphemus gimping around, I feared the worst, so I called and made a doctor’s appointment. They will see me Friday.

In the meantime, I Google-Imaged “diabetic toe”. Jeezus tapdancing Christ! (Don’t do it if you plan on eating today.) The upside? My callus looks pretty tame, and I think it’s just a callus. But I’m going to find out for sure.

And Dr T? After picking on me for gimping around like an old man the last few days, he twisted a giblet getting off the toilet and has been in pain the last day or so. Yesterday, as he walked toward me, holding the area of his appendix, I said, “You know, with you holding your front like that, and me hunched over favoring my ass, people are gonna talk…”

Oh, the Gods of Karma are having a field day with us…

I can be a contradictory person. I like quiet time alone, yet work in a very public job. I love riding the bus and people-watching, yet hate conversing within earshot of strangers. I value my privacy intensely, yet spill my guts here on a regular basis.

I can be very forgiving with my friends. I overlook personality quirks, and try to forgive small transgressions. Hey, nobody is perfect, and I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t. Live and learn. But when someone continually uses me, and I see their true colors not starting to run, or more accurately wash off, I tend to shy away.

I’ve recently crossed paths with an old friend. At one time I considered him a very close friend. When I was a teenage delinquent he was in the same youth project as I, although he was nineteen and everyone else were in their mid-teens. (14-17.) He wasn’t much of a criminal, he was a truant like myself. He taught me the finer points of smoking dope, all about underground comics and was a constant companion at concerts and midnight movies. If not for him, I would not have the same appreciation for Frank Zappa’s music.

Sadly, as time went on, the true colors started coming out. It dawned on me that we were such close friends as teens because I had a vehicle and enough pocket money to accompany him on his whims. I was okay with that. But, as we got older and our circle of friends started to widen, he became, oh, how you say, uppity? I wasn’t cool enough to be seen with when his other, hipper friends were around. After being dissed publicly, like in a teenage clique full of mean girls, I decided to let go.

He came into my work a few years back, and I saw him shoplift. I ignored it, but decided to end the friendship. I knew he’d been a thief when we were younger, shoplifting candy, magazines. It wasn’t that he needed this stuff, it was almost kleptomania. Still, he knew what he was doing was wrong, and when he started doing it to me I had to draw the line.

But had he changed over time? I surprised him coming out of the back room at work, where he was about to stuff a stack of porno mags into his pack. He flinched, said something about having to run for the MAX and left.

As I stood talking with Whitney a few days ago, he approached me and interrupted our conversation.

“How ya doin’,” I said in my annoyed Tony Soprano impersonation.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked, not catching my tone.

“Just finishing some work errands, ” I lied, causing Whitney to raise an eyebrow and take note. I wasn’t working, and had made a point of being downtown to have some fun this night.

My old “friend” finally took the hint. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your conversation,” he huffed. He walked away, and I ignored him. I don’t fall for the guilt-trip anymore. When I finished chatting with Whitney, I split without looking for him.

If I’m not good enough to be introduced to your friends without mocking me to my face, then I don’t want to poison my circle of friends with you.

I hope he gets the hint, because I’ve been preparing a little speech for him. It will contain all of the above. You are not worth my job, and you are not worth the angst this is causing me. I don’t fire friends easily, but I haven’t considered you a friend for a long time. To you, I am a resource.

I’ve never been any good at playing hard-to-get. If I meet a girl and like her, I don’t mess around with the ‘wait three days before calling’ rule, etc… I don’t pretend not to like them, that seems counter-productive. I ask them to accept me as I am, and over time I’ve learned that it’s best to just be who I am, as opposed to trying to become what they want me to be, because that never works.

My “friend” won’t change, and he shouldn’t have to. I wish you luck. You’ll be needing it.

I may have a new favorite Butthole Surfers song. It’s called Something. Okay, it probably won’t qualify as my all-time favorite song, but it will forever remind me of a special night.

Over the last few months, I’ve been teased, flirted up, stood up, promised the moon and given green cheese, etc… Whodathunk I’d have my most romantic, emotionally overwhelming moments of the year with a lesbian at a Butthole Surfers concert?

It wasn’t my plan.

When I stumbled across the concert listing for the Butthole Surfers show October 14 at the Crystal Ballroom, I wasted no time. Internet surfing brought me the presale password in about .000003 seconds. (REESE, for the record.) I purchased tickets number 16 and 17. They were only $30 with fees, which is a bargain for a national act. I wondered if I could find a date? Asking a girl to a concert with a name like that is asking to be slapped, akin to suggesting a porno movie on the first date. I have done both now, and without being slapped.

When I mentioned to Clairissa that I was going, she jumped at the chance to come along. That was almost four months ago. Things have been rough for Clairissa. A venture to California went geographically and metaphorically south, the return to Portland was met with gossip, which she’s been busy attempting to refute. She came home to find out she was a strung-out pregnant heroin addict who fucked a guy under the table at Dante’s and ran off with him to Massachusetts. I’d say you can’t make this stuff up, but obviously someone-plural did. She’s been maintaining low tones, living with her longtime wife/GF/lover in the van and getting by day-to-day.

I received a text message Sunday: “HI! Trying 2 see UR friendly face but life keeps throwing me curveballs. The only thing stable is Im not missing the buttholes!” I knew she hadn’t forgotten.

Tuesday I got a text message: “Friend boged on ride. Will bus if I have to. Stuck in Ashland. I WILL BE THERE!”

Great. Stood up again. As good as Clairissa is about keeping her word with me, traveling toe-to-head upstate to see a show with me seemed like a lot to ask. I wondered if anyone in my circle wanted to go for free. No sense wasting the ticket. I’d wait until the last minute, but I doubted she’d make it. I recalled the time Mizelle flew in from San Francisco to attend a Kid Rock concert with me, and how touched I was. Certainly no woman would jump through hoops like that again.

Wednesday rolled around, the day of the show. I woke up and immediately checked my text messages. Texting and MySpace are Clairissa’s main forms of electronic communication, and she doesn’t have a computer. Lots of thumb-typing this day.

No messages. Hmm… I sent one: “Showtime! Where are you, and when you gettin’ here?”

And then, I proceeded to wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

I started bumming out. Would she really stand me up? It’s happened once or twice recently with different women, and I was starting to develop a complex. We hadn’t seen each other in months, had the sparkle faded? I hoped I wasn’t one of those out-of-sight, out-of-mind guys.

At 3 PM my cell phone buzzed, lighting up. Text message! (I have it set to vibrate, and call it my nipple-ring.) It was from Clairissa’s wife. Oh man… She never calls or writes. This can’t be good…

“HI! C’s GF here. Her phone is trashed, she asked me 2 text U. She used payphone 1st time ever, LOL! She’s in transit from Ashland. Ride fucked her over, she’s on bus. In 2nite about 10 or 11.”

Well… the show starts at 8 PM, Buttholes about 9 PM. This is gonna be close. I checked Greyhound’s schedule; it looked like the bus would be landing at 9 PM.

I texted back: “I’ll leave ticket at my work, she can pick it up and call from store for updates/coordinates.”

And now, to proceed with Mission: Impossible…

I called my boss, (Dr T tonight, yes!) and asked if all that was okay. Since he’s an excellent enabler in my girl-chasing adventures, he informed the night goddess that she should cooperate with my madness. We call her TP, the Tasmanian Pitbull. (She keel you!) She’s very no-nonsense, but she likes me, so that helped.

As the texting continued, Clairissa’s GF kept me posted. She would meet the bus to claim Clairissa’s luggage and hair gear, so Clairissa could go straight to the show after retrieving the ticket from TP. Since TP may be at lunch when all this came down, I called Pan, the lunch person, to let him know what was going on.

“Who’s this girl? Do I know her?”

“It’s my barber. You’ve seen her picture.” I have a juicy pic on my phone that I show off whenever anyone wants to know who does my hair.

“The one with the pierced nipples?”

“Yeah, that one.” They always remember that. He was in the loop; my bases were covered.

I did the pre-concert ritual, stuffed the ’show shirt’ into my backpack. Searching my field vest with its 33 pockets would take days, so I hide it and my backpack at work, taking only cash and ID. (Oh, and the tickets…) I rolled a pinner joint and hid it in the lining of an unused pocket. I stashed a cheap disposable lighter in a different pocket, for the unavoidable ‘Freebird!’ moment. At least that’s what I will tell security. Ahem.

I went to the store, said hi to the Tasmanian Pitbull, and went into the office. I took pen and paper, wrote Clairissa a note with directions to the venue, doodling caricatures of her and I. (It’s the only time anyone will ever see me in a Speedo.) I sealed it into an envelope and departed for the Crystal Ballroom. I had plenty of time, so I took the roundabout way.

The West End used to be great for getting stoned, before the gutterpunks saturated the area. I discovered where the crackheads had moved; no wonder work has been quiet. I walked past the Mothership and said hi to Elmer. I went a couple blocks further and looked around. The block was clear, I sparked up. Rain began to sprinkle as I sat on the bench in front of the big stone church and puffed away. Foot traffic approached, so I left the roach on the church steps. Forgive me father, for I have grinned.

The Surfers’ bus was parked in front. Security was everywhere, standing around. I waited for the customary cavity search, but the nice young man just nodded at me and said, “Enjoy!” Apparently the Butthole Surfers are more worried about their own behavior than that of the crowd. I carried on.

The opening band was cool, Psychic Ills. They reminded me of Nine Inch Nails doing Pink Floyd’s A Saucerful of Secrets. I took a seat along the wall and watched. Note to self: Find this album, it’s the perfect elevator music from hell.

As the Psychic Ills finished their last song, the nipple-ring went off. It was Pan calling. I answered, “I can barely hear you, it’s pretty fuckin’ loud in here. Just a sec-” A quiet spot in the song. I then heard:

“Hear me?… Here…way.” Click. Dead phone. Thirty seconds later the set was over and I called Pan’s phone. Through Roy Orbison playing I could hear him.

“Yeah, she was just here and got the ticket. She’s on her way.”

“Who? Clairissa or her girlfriend?”

“Clairissa. That was her you just talked to. Dude, are you drinking?”

“Nah, just couldn’t hear anything. It’s Clairissa, and she’s already got the ticket?”

“Yep, she should be there in a few minutes.”

“All righty then!” I’m impressed that Greyhound would be so nice as to hurry up for us.

A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Clairissa. “Hey baby! Just got my new phone, I’m in line waiting to be felt up, then I’ll be upstairs.” I told her where I was and, for the first time all day, I felt no stress over what was supposed to be a mellow, relaxed evening.

At a Butthole Surfers concert. Yeah, right…

The crowd was mostly pasty-faced white dudes wearing nerd glasses. It reminded me of a Frank Zappa crowd. The girls were the kind you see portrayed in Kevin Smith and Seth Rogen movies. The best kind of buddy to have; they like beer and have squishy boobs. Of course, that described most of the guys as well.

I watched the exit sign, and soon there she was, my leather-clad, bandana-wearing beauty. She marched straight up to me and gave me a big hug and kiss. The crowd milling toward the stage gave us room. I left her saving the spot for a quick potty-break, and hurried back so she could do the same. She returned just as the theme to The Price Is Right started playing. I knew from internet research that this was the cue for the show to start. Come on down!

The lights dimmed, the band played Something, and that’s when it started hitting me.

She jumped up on the bench, using my shoulder for support. As the band played and I bopped to the song, her fingers ran through my hair. She rubbed my shoulder in a most soothing way. It wasn’t a sexual thing, it was kind of like one would pet a dog. (I don’t mind; I’ve always wanted to be her dog.) As the band played, I closed my eyes and drifted.

She’d just spent eighteen hours using many different forms of transportation, busting ass across a whole state to make me happy. The reality of that knocked me for a loop. If they’d been playing Cough Syrup, or The Shame of Life? I’d be a crying mess.

We shouted comments into each other’s ears. About halfway through the show, she shouted, “Want to go down to Lola’s Room? It’s quieter there, and we can talk. That way I won’t have to keep spitting in your ear!”

I shouted back, “But I LIKE IT when you spit in my ear!”

Instead of replying, she licked my ear several times, followed with a bite.

My knees almost buckled. “Okay, we can go…”

As much as I wanted to stay, I could still see most of the show from the video feed. She came a long way today; I didn’t mind indulging her. The bar was empty, although we did see a sloppy-drunk idiot bounced along the way. Buh-bye!

I bought her a vodka-tonic and we claimed a small table, catching up. After a quick vodka infusion, she suggested we head back upstairs. She wanted to see them play Pepper. I hated to tell her that it hadn’t been on any playlists I’d seen on this tour, but who knows? I took her by the hand and we made a fast-paced stomp through the crowd. I think my agility surprised her. A few seconds of ducking and dodging and we were halfway to the front. I put her in front of me and held her there while the band played. For a few moments, we were in a bubble.

And while we were in the bubble, I thought about how much she meant to me. I certainly wouldn’t cuddle at a concert with Freewheelin’, but then he’s not a hot girl. Dr T later said, “You’re the only person I know who would be able to pull off cuddling at a Butthole Surfers concert.” Cuddling may be a strong word. I rested my chin on her shoulder, and we swayed to the music. It’s about as close to dancing as I get.

I was more than amazed. She’d left Ashland at 3:30 AM, got on a Greyhound and made it as far as Eugene. She was in contact with her wife, who made calls and texted friends along the Interstate. A girl in Eugene agreed to meet the bus, pick Clairissa up and give her a ride to Portland. They even passed the Greyhound along the way, with Clairissa waving at the driver. Her girlfriend met her to retrieve the luggage. At least four of my co-workers had facilitated getting her into the show. A lot of people went out of their way to make sure I had a good time.

Clairissa leaned back and hollered into my ear, “I’m starting to fade, honey. Can we go soon, or do you mind if I go?”

There were only one or two more songs, if my internet info was correct. I took her by the hand and we headed for the elevator.

Once to the sidewalk, we went back into the bubble. She took my hand, and then I switched sides with her, so I was in the “man” position.

She laughed, “How sweet, protecting me from traffic! It’s funny when two lesbians walk down the street and both want to be the daddy.”

I said, “I’m not protecting you from traffic. I’m feeding you to the crackheads.”

We protected each other back to the store, where my stuff was. It was too soon to end the night, so I suggested buying her a drink at the bar next door. After being carded, (!!) we took a window booth, where I could watch the street and tell her stories about the locals.

It was obvious that we needed more than an hour to catch up. She started giving me crap for buying a second beer. “I can get a whole six-pack for five bucks!”

“Yeah, but this beer is German, and you are saving me a small fortune. It’s much cheaper for me to watch you drink than to do it myself. I think I like the ritual more than the effect these days.”

“Yeah, but if I buy a girl more than a lollipop, I expect to get some pussy out of the deal.”

“You can cut my hair for free next time. How about that?”

“Honey, I should have quit charging you a long time ago. But you know it always went to rent or gas. I didn’t just piss it away…”

“That’s why I don’t mind paying you. You can trim me for free when times are better.”

“Hey, got a cigarette?” A bum interrupted us.

“NO!” I snapped in a most dismissive fashion.

Clairissa opened her pack and gave him one. “Tell me a joke for it.”

Taken aback, he muttered something about a monkey’s tail and went away.

“He broke our bubble,” she said, and squeezed my hand.

“Didn’t break it, just made it swell up funny,” I said.

As much as I wanted the night to go on forever, she needed to get back to the van and get some sleep. I left her on the MAX platform and ran for my bus, making it with 18 seconds to spare.

The ride home was quiet. I went into my room, shut the door and sat quietly in the dark. I didn’t want food, I just wanted to curl up in bed. I had not felt such an enormous amount of love in a long, long time. It felt heavy, but heavy in a good way.

She’s the bestest concert date ever.

It wasn’t Something she said that night, it was Something she did for me…

The air in the stock room/office turned blue. “Where are my motherfucking bananas?”

I looked all around. Nada. Grr…

I have been trying to eat healthy, and taken a fair amount of teasing for it. I eat fruits and nuts instead of Little Debbie for lunch, and look for excuses to walk a lot. We sell fruit at the store, but it’s $1 per item, and I can get my own stuff at the fruit stand for a fraction of that. (So does the lady who sells the fruit to the store: We’ve crossed paths there before.) I bring my stuff to work and hide it in the stock room. I have a little cubby-hole that houses my work shirt and fruit stash. I’ve been doing it for a couple years, and no one has messed with my stuff.

Until the other day…

As I grouped my lunch into a bag to take out front, I pondered what had happened. The store sells bananas, but they are the “organic” kind, which means they have a cool sticker on them. Mine are simple old Dole bananas, which seem more organic because they don’t have a little plastic stem-protector melted on. Mine tend to be smaller than the ones we sell, so it’s not hard to tell them apart. Who was the culprit?

One of the lunch ladies is notorious for coming in and rearranging stores while the clerk is at lunch. She separates plastic bags from their neat stack into a big puffy mess, opens a roll of every kind of change, (“I wouldn’t want you to run out, honey…”) and moves all my working tools into different spots. It’s an obsessive/compulsive thing; I do the same kinds of things, but only when I’m beginning my own shift, not creating havoc for someone else. I called her.

“Did you move any bananas around?”

“No, honey. There were some for sale, but I didn’t move them.”

Hmm.

The new guy? He doesn’t know about my stash. I asked. “Nope. I sold six of them to this one guy. He was excited at how fresh they were.”

No doubt.

My next culprit? Giggles. He’s newer, and somewhat irresponsible with money. He hovers like a pigeon eyeing an old lady eating popcorn when it’s time to throw out the expired sandwiches, and has been known to pilfer lunches from other employees. (He’s not touched mine, evidence of which being that he’s still walking around.) He wasn’t on the schedule, but he’d be a likely suspect. I’ll keep him in mind…

Roscoe? Nah, he’s an excellent, conscientious worker. He’s got a great job at a foundry, and works a couple of graveyard shifts a week. He’s calm, good-natured, but a wee bit scary. (He reminds me of the Samuel L. Jackson character from Black Snake Moan.) He’s got big, muscly arms with knife scars, and a “Don’t fuck with me” air about him. We’ve posted mugshots of people arrested with giant swollen black eyes because they wouldn’t return a pint of shoplifted ice cream.

Jesus, I get to confront Roscoe about bananas.

He comes in every night to get snacks and newspapers for his ‘real’ job. As he rolled in, I said hi and asked, “Hey Roscoe, did you move any bananas out of the office yesterday?”

He gave me an exasperated look. “Yeah! Some damned fool idiot put them back there! I had all these joggers coming around looking for healthy stuff, so I set them out. Looks like they sold!”

I smiled. “They sure did. That was most of my lunch for the week.”

His grin melted away. “You know, I wondered. They were back there next to your stuff, but I thought they were inventory. Sorry! Here, what do I owe ya? Six bucks?” Out came his wallet.

“Nah,” I said. “I only paid two dollars for them. I can afford to work at Master P’s, not shop here. Don’t worry about it.” Roscoe has brought me unsolicited snacks from the taco truck before, I can take a two dollar hit.

“Here, take three.” He dropped the bills on the counter and walked away. All righty then. Master P made $6 off my bananas, and I’m up a buck. The only one out is Roscoe.

I spent the next day regaling co-workers with my adventures in confronting Roscoe, tarting it up for some audiences. Dr T was not buying into my tough-guy version, especially when I tossed an empty can of nuts at the trash can and missed. I went to pick it up, but he scurried past me and grabbed it. I had never seen him move that fast. “Wow, look at you, mister spry!”

He flipped the can on its side, gripping it between his two feet. Is he gonna place kick it? Awesome! No, wait… he’s… Oh. No. He’s. Not!… It looked like he was going to bring both feet up and make a basket with the can. Yikes!

“Careful, you’ll break a hip,” I said.

We trash talk each other all the time, in good fun, and no maliciousness is ever meant, but this zinger looked like it hurt. “Oh fuck you!” he said, and picked up the can, tossing it. I had visions of him losing balance and crashing into a candy rack, splitting open his head, paramedics, get well cards, overtime. My comment looked like it hurt more than all of that.

As I rang people up, he wandered over. “I’m just gonna position my walker here, so I don’t tip over, while you use the bathroom, go fishing, whatever.” His smirk hadn’t evaporated yet.

I grabbed a few $20s and headed to the back to buy change. “I’ll go fishing.”

As I walked away, he called me back. A customer had a hundred-dollar bill, which I broke for him with my $20s.

“I guess it’s probably too soon to make a joke about the Old Man and the C-note, eh Mister Hemingway?”

“OH FUCK YOU!” He started laughing. “That was pretty good, but FUCK YOU.”

It’s always so much fun to kiss and make up with my co-workers.

I’ve been on an extended run at work. Two planned surgeries and an unexpected one left us short on bodies, and one co-worker minus a toe. I cringed when I saw the schedule, but then saw what others had to endure and immediately stopped bitching. At least I don’t have to be at work at 5:45 AM.

Work has been keeping me occupied, and I’ve seen a few faces from the past…

Ice Cubes For Life

I saw her walking down the sidewalk across the street, and the pervert in me perked right up. Several years back, one of the ladies from the street came into the store and asked if she could have a couple ice cubes to suck on. I jokingly said, “Nickel a cube.” She must have thought I said “Nipple a cube,” because she pulled her top down to reveal a verrry nice 40-year-old breast. BOINGGG!

“Free ice cubes for life!” I proclaimed. I was bummed when she didn’t return for a refill.

The Old Boyfriend

No, not my old boyfriend. One of Mizelle’s. He shopped for ten minutes, and it wasn’t until I spoke that he recognized me. “WOW! You’ve lost, like, a hundred pounds, and you have hair!” I gave him the quick and not-so-dirty update on Mizelle and her new family, her move to France, etc… The last time I saw him, he, Mizelle and I curled up in my room and watched a Pink Floyd video while he smoked pot for the first time. I’d forgotten about it. He referred to it as “a life-changing experience.” I feel ya, dude.

Wrap It Before You Flap It

By far the biggest inner chuckle of the week was when I went to Pioneer Square’s TriMet office to buy my monthly bus pass. There’s always someone with drama at the windows. (Can’t they have a ‘Tickets/Passes Only’ window? Please?) This long-haired, rambling hippie dude was trying to get a $5 rebate on the government check that pays for his disabled bus pass. When I heard his voice, I looked closer. O…M…G…

Back in the last year of the ’70s, I spent a lot of time on the streets of downtown. It’s where I met my ex-wife. Between us we knew a lot of the local characters, and there was this one guy that was always around. Short, had dreadlocks before they were common, always seemed like he was on dope. (He was, but there were other issues. Mental illness wasn’t as recognized as it is today.) I assumed he’d taken a hit of acid and never came back. We despised each other, but I couldn’t figure out why he hated me so, until one night when the ex-wife and I were sharing deep, dark secrets. Supposedly the guy had really good weed, and one night when she was drunk she slept with him.

EWW!

It gets worse. A couple weeks after, she couldn’t figure out why her coochie hurt and she couldn’t pee.

Yup, I was standing in line at TriMet with the guy that gave my ex-wife The Clap.

And now, it’s time to wrap it up. (The work marathon. If gonorrhea is a threat, wrap whatever’s necessary.) It wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded almost two weeks ago. The check will be hefty; I can breathe a little easier when the bills come due.

I have one more shift to survive, then it’s three days of no cussed dumbers. I have to make an appearance for payday, and laundry is a must, but otherwise I’m going to make myself scarce.

I wonder who will pop up tonight?

.

I just saw Halloween 2. Wow. It was mostly what I expected.

I will start by reminding all of my affection for Rob Zombie films. I’ve seen every one in a theater, at least those shown in theaters. I go in with low expectations, but expect to be entertained. This film didn’t entertain me.

I will start with what I liked. My favorite part of the Zombie film series is the skewed sense of humor. (Pun intended.) Killer clowns, lusty busty babes, hillbilly humor and adrenaline-fueled rushes. I love to play ’spot the has-been,’ where character actors from the past reappear in cameos. (This film has small parts played by Margot Kidder and Howard Hesseman. Howard is now a dead ringer for one of my cousins.) Glad to see he’s still making appearances.

I laughed exactly once, when Malcolm McDowell referred to Al Yankovich as “Mr Weird.” That’s how unfunny it was.

Did I go expecting to laugh? Maybe a little, says my morbid mind. I find humor in sick places, and Rob Zombie has a way of finding those places. This movie needed way more laughs.

It did not lack for intensity, action or pacing. The opening sequence went on for a bit, and when it ended I heard an audible gasp and a deep breath from the lady sitting behind me. I was curious to see if she’d make it to the end.

Most didn’t. Several couples left before half an hour went by, and when I departed there were two people left in the theater, including Gasping Lady behind me. With fifteen minutes to go, there was nothing to see that I hadn’t already seen, ad nauseum. If this film had focused on sex instead of gore and violence, it would be considered hardcore pornography. (Meant as a compliment.) Unfortunately, the film shoots its wad early on. It’s like trying to watch porno right after sex. Um, I’m ready to watch something else now. I was more interested in catching a prompt bus home than finding out who makes it and who gets it. I’m guessing they ALL get it.

I’m glad I can support Rob Zombie’s film career. I have no doubt his next feature, coming out on DVD in a month or so, will be more up my alley. It’s already number one in my Netflix queue.

The movie did evoke a lot of emotion. The excessive brutality left me feeling beaten up. On the way home I thought of loved ones, of friends, how I should be more tolerant of those I care about and less intolerant of those I’m not so fond of. Thinking how I should notch it back a little, be more compassionate and less in your face. Guess I’m feeling a little too out there this weekend. I need some smiles. I need some quiet.

I think I need a hug.

Thanks for the overkill, Rob Zombie.

The Mystery Machine pulled up in front of my house. I met the lovely Ms Clairissa in the middle of the street for hugs. The six guys drinking beer and fixing their cars waved at us, nudging each other. Mornin’, boys!

We closed her van door and disappeared into the house. It had been a couple of months since we’d seen each other. Her hair was bleached white, with streaks of purple here and there. She looked her same spunky self, maybe a bit tired and stressed. After being mauled by the dog, we retreated to my room. She tossed the bag of hair-gear on the bed and laid down next to it.

“Mmm, your bed is so soft.”

“Used to be yours, remember?”

“Yeah, huh?” She closed her eyes.

“Want a beer? I also have brandy, or diet soda.”

She looked up at me. “Water would be fine. I’ve got a lot of driving to do.”

I fetched, then sat next to her. We began catching up, it seemed we had a lot to talk about. I told tales of chasing girls at work, and how I’d been after one in particular without much luck. She patted my hand and gave me the “Persevere, little pilgrim” speech. She cut loose with more of a rant than usual, then sighed a heavy sigh. “Wow. I feel ten pounds lighter!” We stepped out back so she could smoke, and in what seemed like moments, it was time for her to go.

Instead of saying goodbye, I piled into the van with her. She had a lunch date, a meeting with a client, then another haircut, all in the neighborhood she used to have the shop in. ‘You always came to my shop to hang out. It makes sense that you do the same with my van.” We hit the road, me riding shotgun and using an index finger like a redneck OnStar.

As we pulled up to a stoplight on the freeway offramp, she made eye contact with a sign-wielder. He approached the van, and before he could say anything, Clairissa asked, sweet as pie, “Got a cigarette?”

His brow furrowed ever so quickly, then he said, “Yeah, sure.” He handed her a Marlboro.

“Thanks, I’m kinda out of cigarettes.” She tore it in half and lit the filtered part.

“Well, I’m kinda outta money!” He eyeballed me, recognizing me from work. (I know a lot of bums.) I nodded at him, not moving toward my pockets.

“Gotcha, hon.” Clairissa pulled what to be by my trained eye about $1.50 in change and dumped it into his hand. He thanked her, still begrudging giving up the ciggy. We rolled on.

“Nice way to turn it around. I’d have told him to go fuck himself.” I paused, smiling at her. “You too. I hate it when people bum me. Go buy your own goddamn cigarettes!”

“He used to walk Daddy for me. I let him crash inside the shop one night during the ice storm. Friend for life.”

We rolled past the old Hot Box. I didn’t even look, since who I’d have been looking for was next to me. Her lunch date was a few blocks away, it was time to say goodbye. She pulled up next to the old bus stop.

The light was changing, so we shared an awkward cheek-kiss and I jumped. She got back into traffic, and waved as she rode off into the sunset.

I sat at the bus stop in front of the gas station, feeling the deja vu. Last year at this time I’d have been doing the same thing, hanging out with Clairissa in this neighborhood, killing time until it was time to pick up my paycheck, or go see a girlfriend, or go try to find a girlfriend. We don’t get to hang out like we used to, but when we do it’s always fun.

And soul-refreshing. We have a way of recharging each other’s batteries. It’s what friends do.

Disgruntled by the new bus system, I had to pay attention to make connections to get home. Last year at this time one bus would take me home, now it’s three transfers. Grr… On the upside? I got a sweet text message from a special someone, getting me all in adither about Saturday.

The bus ride home was a sweet one. It’s all your fault, Clairissa.

Clairissa came by today. It soon became obvious that we need to start catching up more often.

Nemo is No Mo’. She and Clairissa had a parting of the ways.

I was stunned by the news. I figured they’d be together forever, or at least for a long time. Living in a van takes its toll on even the most understanding. Clairissa is tolerant and long-suffering, and Nemo seemed a cool chick. I was rooting for them.

Clairissa, despite being an open book with me, can keep a secret. The best one? That Nemo actually found the nickname Nemo offensive. I had no idea. When coming up with a nickname, I looked at her MySpace page for clues. As I read through her bio, I saw that one of her favorite movies was Finding Nemo. When I first mentioned it, I asked Nemo if it was okay, and she gave a wry smile and said, “Yes, it’s fine.” That was good enough for me, and I ran with it. Come to find out…

Nemo (the girl) is a salt-water aquarium/fish expert. When the movie came out, much like with bunnies at Easter, people flocked to pet stores to get that exact combination of fish. In the real world, it’s an unlikely pairing. When you factor in the whole “fish” thing, and Ellen’s voice, uhh… Not fucking cool, dude. I was oblivious.

Sorry, (real name here.) I thought I was being clever and thoughtful. I meant nothing but kind thoughts and best wishes.

So, now, we will put Nemo to rest. Clairissa put it best. “I see a little tombstone out in the backyard, with daisies.”

Or, as Nemo herself would have put it, “Rest in pieces.”

Thanks to you for the photo.

The kids in the house have always provided me with oddball action figures from happy meals, etc…

Over the years the collection has grown. While I only keep the quirkier ones, they still add up. This batch just happened to catch my eye.

All right, Yoda and Jar Jar. How long has this been going on?