4.14.06, 3:09 a.m.
Me: WTF? It could be the Minister of Cool, even though it’s really late even for her. No, it’s my ex-neighbor, Lee. Fuck. what the hell does he want.
Hey. What’s up, man?
Lee: Big G. How you doin’, man? This is Lee. You might remember me from such bad ideas as Cheech and Chong Live Next Door and Girls, Girls, Girls. Sorry to call so late. Are you at your place? I need to come by and holla at ya.
Me: Huh? What? Now? What time is it? What’s up? What do you need?
Lee: I’ll call you in a few.
OK. Now I am ½ awake. Let’s try to figure out what in the hell is going on.
1 – Does he want something – money to feed his gambling or other habits? Booze, because all the liquor stores are closed? My stuff? Fuck that. I don’t owe him anything, and I am not in the mood for a robbery. (I have met his friends.)
Fuck that. No way.
2 – Does he have a(nother) skanky crack whore for me?
- A– I am still ½ asleep but know not to trust my own judgment in these matters because of it; and
- B – I could be completely unconscious and still know well enough not to trust Lee’s judgment in women.
Fuck that? No way.
3 – Only one non-family person in Arizona has 24/7 non-emergency access to me, and Lee is not her. That bastard woke me up.
20 minutes later – ring ring
Lee: Dude, is your apartment around Roosevelt (pretty much a slum for its whole length)? Are you alone?
Me: (WTF?) No, I am nowhere near there. Anyway, my kids are here (so keep your cracky skankwhores away). Dude, It’s three–fucking-thirty. Now is not the time for company. DO NOT COME OVER (which should be easy enough to accomplish, since you don’t have the exact address or, evidently, a fucking clue where *** street and +++ avenue intersect. Tell your goddamn bookie to just go ahead and break your legs).
Lee: Oh. alright. I’ll call you later…
Later that morning…
Me: WTF? That was just weird and creepy. It’s like he was trying to manipulate me or something.
Della Street (my assistant): WTF is wrong with you?! Why did you even answer your phone when you saw who it was (or wasn’t)? He wanted what? No way! No. No. No.
Me: Guess what? I bought curtains.
Della: You’re a fucking idiot, Brick.
EPILOGUE: No, it wasn’t about his need for my material wealth – he had a couple of ladies from a strip joint and wanted to share. Thanks, dude. Maybe if it wasn’t threefuckingthirtyinthegoddamnmorningwithmykidsinthenextroom and maybe if I wasn’t pining a bit for other realities… Tempting, to a degree, but the whole some other adult male nearby element kinda spoils the whole two strippers for Christmas fantasy. I do not want that fucker getting all Carver on me. Not to mention the whole “is this encounter disclosable in the future?” and “will I need an AIDS ‘cocktail’ after this?” issues that I was in no position to analyze.