Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Close Encounters of the Newspapery Kind

This is the story of the most exciting thing that ever happened to me with a boy, though on a normal scale of one to ten on the romance-o-meter this ranks about a .5.

It happened on Saturday night, when Brad made the Misshapes-to-Movida trek and I headed instead to the deli on Varick for the newspaper. It was after one, the early edition was on the rack, and it's about that time every weekend when I add the entire Times to the list of club-inappropriate things in my too-large bag. An umbrella, Post-Its, the power cord to my computer, an annotated copy of Moby Dick; these are the things the come with me for a night on the town. The Sunday paper is actually a step in a cooler direction.

I arrived with a friend on a mission to get hot water for tea, but somewhere between my stop at the ATM and her tiny purchase we were separated by a big group of kids deliberating near the pre-packaged pastry. There was a guy who looked sort of committed to purchasing something, so I stepped behind him and asked if he was actually waiting on line.

"Uh, yeah? No. I mean...well, I'm not sure." I assured him there was no pressure, but that it would probably behoove the both of us if he went with his gut. He chose the line, he asked what I was buying, and then he grabbed my paper and threw it up on the counter with his Red Bull and gum. I thanked him, realized he was really cute, got embarrassed, offered him the sections of my paper I didn't want, he declined, though he said if he wasn't drunk and on his way to a club he would've accepted, then he introduced himself, then we parted ways, then we met up again down at the end of the block, he said my name, and that was the last I saw of him.

To be specific, that was all anyone saw of him. No one witnessed our exchange, no one saw him later on in the night, and no one recognized his name or my description.

My occupation for the last two years has been to find on the internet whatever stupid thing people want me to find, though nominally I am supposed to be editorially assisting. I have found heaps of personal information about the most reclusive retirees. I have found absurd medical facts. If something is on the internet and I want to find it, I will find it.

Three days of searching later, this boy does not exist. Which means, of course, that he was my guardian angel, my fairy godfather of the Book Review. On the fourth or so telling of the story, to Brad in the car on the way home, he suggested that he flew away. Not because he was actually a heavenly seraph, but because Red Bull gives you wings.

Wings!

That's the evidence, the big clue, along with the unbroken twenty dollar bill in my wallet like the Indian feather next to that guy's bed in the Nelson video with the shaman that starts off in sepia and ends up in totally rocking color, but then goes back to sepia when the dude wakes up, but with the FEATHER as PROOF that NELSON ACTUALLY REACHED THROUGH TIME AND SPACE TO RESCUE HIM FROM THE TYRANNY OF HIS PARENTS. It is comforting that my fairytale guardian is a hot hipster, because this at least proves heaven is someplace I want to be. Listening to harp jams for all eternity never really appealed to me, but doing the crossword with some mythical hot guy does.

Like, a LOT.

1 Comments:

Anonymous anonymous mom said...

you can leave it in the hands of fate, or you can grab with your own two hands.

11:59 AM  

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