Wednesday, January 19, 2005

I Can't Really Help It If My Tongue's All Tied In Knots

With a bit of logic, some astrological analysis of planetary alignment, and a casual casting of runes, I was pretty positive that the Hot Dad was going to be back on the 5:12 yesterday. He had been missing since before Christmas, and my commutes since then have been lacking. In his absence I made the brilliant deduction that he probably works at a college; that's the only job that would permit him to be missing from the week before Christmas until the second week of January. If my theory was correct, he should've been on the train as usual yesterday, when most colleges started their spring semester.

5:05 - No Hot Dad.
5:07 - An old guy takes the seat next to me, dashing my hopes of sitting with him should he make an appearance.
5:09 - No Hot Dad, but the nutty lady who Loves-Him-With-A-Capital-L sits in the seat across the aisle, and sheds not only a full length fur coat, but a shawl whose fringe is made out of individual fox tails.
5:10 - My heart is broken, and I'm taking a new train from now on.
5:11 - I'm never even taking the train again. I hate this train, all trains, public transportation, and the Industrial Revolution.
5:11:30 - Time stretches to a spectacular teen movie slow-mo, and, just as the conductor makes the final announcement, the Hot Dad sprints onto the train, out of breath. He walks down the aisle (listening to his new iPod) and takes the only seat left in the car, next to the nutty lady and right across from me.

Like the fourteen-year-old I truly am, I pretended not to notice that he was there. It was probably the audible hyperventilation that betrayed my cool facade, because he poked me and said hi, and I said hi, we whipped out our respective New York Timeses and got to work. He was frequently interrupted by the nut, who fervently wanted to share Cosmo tidbits with him. Her libido downshifted to first gear after 125th street though, and we all sat in silence. Well, I sat listening to the New Pornographers and trying not to turn bright pink, as is my tendency.

Somewhere around Yonkers, the Hot Dad poked me again, and held up his iPod. He snatched mine from me, and I grabbed his in return, and we played the "What've you got on here?" game.

Having someone flip through the contents of your iPod is like having them walk in on you naked in the shower. You're completely exposed. You need to be able to explain yourself. On an iPod artists list, everything appears at equal value. All the Cat Power and Miles Davis and Interpol and Nina Simone can't counteract the Journey and Justin Timberlake and, goddammit, Enrique Iglesias.

He actually only made fun of one of my choices, which was Bryan Adams, but the truth of the matter is I only have one song, and it's my karaoke song, and he had James Taylor and Yes on his, which he couldn't defend at all.

What was on his iPod, you ask? Lemme put it this way: if I were to fall in love with someone knowing nothing about them besides their playlist--this would've been the playlist to do me in. I couldn't have fantasized a more attractive music collection. I was shocked. The fucker's got every album I love with all my heart, or ever wanted to own, or couldn't find, or have been curious about, or thought I should listen to.

The Arcade Fire, for Christ's sake, he likes The Arcade Fire.

And, disgustingly, he had the very same guilty pleasure band--I suppose I must hereby exit the proverbial closet and admit that there is a Gin Blossoms-shaped hole in my heart.

So as not to beleaguer this account much further, I'll skip to the part where, after the nutty lady tries to talk his ear off again, he puts on his coat, collects his bag, and grabs my arm to come with him to the space between the two cars. I, of course, go.

Skip, skip, skip--I'm having his baby.

No, we just talked about the crossword some more, he got a text message from someone he works with saying they'd finished it, he texted back the message Fucker. and I fell in love. And, just when I thought my invisible screenwriter couldn't possibly get more heavy-handed, he broke a long silence by--at long last--introducing himself.

And here, my friends, is where we find ourselves at the border of my actual life and this chronicle. He has a very lovely name, one that will be privy only to myself and my closest personal friends [read: anyone who e-mails me, or cares at all, or guesses, Rumplestiltskin-syle, or has ever met me, or is a stranger on the street if I'm feeling particularly confessional], but will remain unpublished.

So ends my account of the evening of January 18, the year of our Lord two-thousand and five. I wish everyone the very hottest of Hot Dads (or Moms, as the case may be) of their own.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hooray! Now I'm rocking back and forth waiting to hear what will happen tomorrow.

Stupidboy.

6:16 AM  
Blogger Buckley said...

Aww (and that's my special 'all-choked-up-and-overcome-with-beauty/end-of-the-film-'babe' aww' lest there was any confusion) Kathy,

What a beautiful story... I... I... I have something in my eye... excuse me.

7:17 AM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

It's your finger, Buckley.

11:28 AM  

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