Cat burglary minus the burglary. And the cat.
May 03, 2009 // Link
*Click*
That was the sound of my door shutting and locking.
*Damn*
That was the sound of me realizing my keys were on the other side of the door.
I do not like a door that locks itself. Gives it airs. Smacks of impropriety. Interferes with an otherwise congenial human-door relationship. And more than all of that, I don’t like the fact that I can accidentally lock myself out of my home.
Thursday. Early evening, still daylight. Nice breeze and birdsong. Lovely weather to be temporarily homeless. Better than February, I tell myself. Clearly I’m putting a positive spin on this and hoping I won’t notice that I’m not wearing shoes.
*Damn*
Well, that didn’t work at all, did it?
No shoes. Lots of other clothing, though, since I had been headed downstairs to do laundry. But en route the door to my upstairs flat went *click* and I went *damn* and there I was: no keys, no shoes, and a sack of grubby garments slung over my shoulder like I was some sort of sweatshop Santa.
Ho ho pffftt.
Soon I was standing beneath the backyard balcony estimating how many shirts I’d have to tie together to make a rope I could use to scurry up and check if the back door was unlocked. I was almost disappointed to realize I could stand on the BBQ and jump high enough to snag the bottom of the balcony. I hauled myself up. Not nearly as cool as using a shirt-rope.
There is a rumour going around that it took me three tries to haul my never-could-climb-a-rope-in-gym ass up to the balcony. This is a slanderous rumour and my council has advised me not to dignify it with a response.
*Click*
That was the sound of the back door not opening because it was locked.
*Damn*
That was the sound of me realizing the only remaining ingress was an open window at the front.
An open window with no balcony under it, 20 feet off the ground.
At this point, a wise man would scurry down from the balcony and call a locksmith. A slightly less wise man would leap down from the balcony and hope the bag of laundry would break his fall, and then call either a locksmith or an ambulance accordingly.
I am neither a wise man nor a slightly less wise man. I am a vastly less wise man, which means I continued up over the roof to see if I could reach the front window.
I’d love to say it was a harrowing journey, something dramatic and daring, but it turns out I could all but walk right in. I had to stretch across a gap from the eaves to the window, but if it wasn’t for the height it wouldn’t have been harrowing at all. Even with 20 feet of nothing but gravity below me it was barely harrowing. A mild harrow at most. I didn’t even have time to think of a good joke about literally eavesdropping on myself, though that may have been because my mind was refusing to remember words like dropping.
The same people spreading the rumour that I took three ungraceful tries to climb up to the balcony are now spreading the rumour that I had to wiggle spastically to get myself through the window, with my butt and legs jutting out and jerking like the gangliest kid in swim class. My solicitor will be contacting these scurrilous muckrakers, who should govern themselves accordingly.
Lost and phoned, part 1: a hooker has my cellphone
May 21, 2009 // Link
There was a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. This was notable for a few reasons. First, she sounded a little drunk and it was 8 o’clock in the morning. Second, it was my cellphone she was answering.
Let me back up a bit. I’d lost my cellphone earlier that week, on Monday, maybe Tuesday. I don’t use it much, so I didn’t notice it had fallen from my jacket pocket. Happens a lot to me. Well, I guess technically it happens to the phone. I should probably get a little holster for it, but then I’d be the kind of guy who wears his cellphone in a holster.
Anyway, my phone had gone walkabout and I didn’t notice until Thursday evening. I tried calling it, but after a few rings I got my own voicemail. I didn’t have anything to say to me, so I didn’t leave me a message.
Friday morning I got in my car and tried calling my cellphone again.
[aside]
I was calling from another cellphone, in case you’re wondering about the logistics of all this. Stop fretting over little details like that and enjoy the story, because it has a part coming up with a prostitute in it. And later there’s a bit with her angry boyfriend, and some naked photographs. Ah, I’ve got your attention now.
[end of aside]
I thought I’d hear the cellphone ring or vibrate in the car, tucked down beside the seat or in the little cubby on the door. One time I found it jammed against the brake peddle, like it was saying no no no I don’t want to go to work today. Well, one of us was saying that.
But this time a voice answered. A woman’s voice, pleasant but tipsy. I introduced myself, and I said it seemed that she’d found my lost phone.
“I thought you’d call,” she said, and without hesitation she told me where I could come fetch the phone. “I’ve been using it a bit, but don’t worry about it.”
So I worried about it. I called Ma Bell en route to the voice’s neighbourhood to check if there had been any charges on the phone. Long distance calls, reality TV votes, that sort of thing. There had been a lot of calls, but all local and covered by the calling plan.
I found the apartment of the tipsy voiced phone finder. The still seedy part of a partially gentrified neighbourhood. A stained brown brick building. Squat iron fence and unkept yard. Graffiti. Enter around back, no lock or buzzer, go down a long yellowed hallway. My shoes squeaked all the way down, eek oosh eek oosh eek oosh. Second last door on the left. “It’s number B,” she had said. Number B?
She was right. There it was, between door #A and door #C. Hospital blue with a small “#B” stenciled too low. Door number eleven in hexadecimal, I thought. You can take the nerd out of the math club, but you … wait, no you can’t. Anyway, I knocked.
She looked 15. And she looked 40. Tiny frame, knobby elbows on thin arms. Wispy hair with big teased bangs. How do I know about teased bangs? The too sweet perfume choice of a young girl. Makeup troweled on. A wrinkled white tshirt and grey sweatpants, both with large holes and stains.
I think it was the boots that made me realize she was a prostitute. They were on the floor near the door. Shiny, black, plasticky, and long long long. They looked like they’d come up to roughly her armpits. Like hip waders with stiletto heals. A red plastic skirt and white jean jacket had been dropped on top of them. Jacket over the boots, so the boots came off first. Must be uncomfortable.
The apartment wasn’t an apartment. It was a storage room. Concrete walls, concrete floor, concrete ceiling. No window. Bare lightbulb on the ceiling, a string hanging down. A brown stained mattress on the floor, no sheets, the remnants of a thin pillow folded in half.
I remembered sleeping once in a clean cottage that smelled of sweet cedar, and folding my too thin pillow in half. I woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of my family playing a board game. I think I complained about the shower being a bit cold. Her storage room home was filled with stuff stuff stuff. Boxes and bags and more boxes and more bags. A bicycle lay on one pile. Clothing strewn everywhere. And is that a crack pipe? Yes. And there’s another one, and another. Pungent smells, smoke and sweat. She asked me if I wanted a date. I’m a bit of a goober sometimes, so I honestly thought for a minute that she was asking me out. I declined.
I did give her a reward for finding the phone, though. She told me she had a bunch of them, but liked the sound of mine best so she’d used that the most. She’d bought a charger for it. She said she’d only used the phone at night so it wouldn’t cost me anything. Presumed I’d had free nights and weekends.
She said, “I don’t like your shirt. Shoes are okay, though. Thanks for letting me use the phone.” As if I’d leant it to her.
And what’s wrong with my shirt? It’s a perfectly nice shirt.
I said goodbye. I didn’t offer to shake her hand, just sort of waggled the phone at her in a half-wave of middle class guilt and said thanks. Eek oosh eek oosh back down the hall, past the graffiti and little iron fence, and into my shiny clean foreign car.
It wasn’t until the next day that a friend noticed what was left on the phone, and things got weird.
Lost and phoned, part 2: the accidental pimp
May 21, 2009 // Link
I left my cellphone in my car all day, this time on purpose. It needed charging soon, because the battery was low, and it needed cleaning even sooner, because it smelled of smoke. Yuck.
Later, as I was driving home after work, the phone went ping. The ping of a missed call. Or, in this case, the ping of 22 missed calls.
Missed call: Blocked ID Missed call: Blocked ID Missed call: Blocked ID Missed call: Blocked ID Missed call: Blocked ID And so on, and so on...
22 calls in one afternoon, all from blocked numbers. Or the same blocked number. More calls than I’d usually get on that phone in a month.
But no voicemail. Just 22 calls, all hangups, all blocked.
The phone didn’t ring during the commute, and I scrubbed it clean when I got home. At dinner with Roberta that evening, I was telling her the tale of my lost-then-found cellphone when I took the first call. We had just started debating whether “prostitutional” should be a word (because, presumably, we get to decide these things) when the phone lit up and started vibrating. It had been set on the table between us as a visual aid to the story. A prop, now turned actor. Method actor in fact.
Incoming call: Blocked ID
Normally I wouldn’t answer a phone at dinner, because that’s only not rude to people half my age. But Roberta said if I didn’t answer it, she would.
Me: Hello?
Him: Can I speak to Amanda?
Me: Amanda’s not here. She’d found my phone and was using it briefly, but she is not available at this number.
Him: Oh. ... Is Amanda there?
Me: This isn’t Amanda’s phone. You’ve called the wrong number.
Him: *click*
He didn’t actually say click, he just hung up. Or if he did say click he fooled me and I hung up on him. Whichever the case, he called right back. We repeated our little comedy of errors, more comfortable with our lines now that we’d had a rehearsal, and this time I got through to him.
It was Roberta who found the photographs. Looking at the phone once we’d resumed our “prostitutional” debate, she pressed the camera button on the side.
The screen filled with boobies.
Roberta: Your camera is full of naked photos.
Me: It is? Let me see.
Roberta: No, I’m still looking. Did you take these?
Me: No, of course not.
Roberta: I choose to not believe you. Ooh look, it’s her bing-bing.
Me: You’re a child.
Roberta: Says the pimp.
Me: I’m not a pimp.
Roberta: You’re taking calls for a hooker, so you’re a pimp.
Me: It’s not like I’m booking her.
Roberta: Never said you were a good one.
In all, there were almost 50 photos of Amanda on the phone. Well, presumably Amanda. They were all pretty zoomed in. Boobs and knees and arms and feet and lots and lots and lots of vaginas.
In retrospect it was pretty obvious the photos were taken to send via SMS. Sexting is so very trendy, according to the scandalized scandalmongers on TV. But I didn’t think to look at the text messages yet. I was probably light headed from all those vaginas. When a guy gets up in the morning, he has a pretty good idea about how many vaginas he’s going to see today. Is this a zero vagina day, or a one vagina day? Believe me, a forty vagina day is unusual, even for a Friday.
The photos weren’t as surprising as the text messages I found the next day, though.
Lost and phoned, part 3: clothes make the man
May 21, 2009 // Link
The phone didn’t ring any more on Friday night, and by Saturday morning it had been cleaned inside and out, wiping the dirty bits both literal and figurative.
My cellphone doesn’t have a batch delete option for the camera, so I had to delete each photo individually. The images flashed on the tiny screen, one after the other like a little nudie flip book. A jittery silent porno. Not much plot, but I’ve seen worse.
It wasn’t until the afternoon that I found the text messages.
Dozens and dozens of text messages, all to or from the same number. Hello, Mr. Formerly Blocked ID.
The play opens in the wee hours of Tuesday May 5:
Her: 1:52A Bring my cloths now my aunt is coming
Him: 1:58A On friday and i love u ok and stop hangin phone on me ok. That is not kool
Her: 2:02A Goodbye then were done
Him: 2:08A Hey listen i dont need it. I will drop them friday ok
Her: 2:16A I needthem now i wanted to take them u said ud bring them some r tonys now shes mad
Then silence for a half an hour, until she tries another tack:
Her: 2:38A I still loveu
Still no response from him. A half hour later, another volley:
Her:: 3:05A Come here i need sex with u.
Him: 3:05A I love u. Im coming ovr now.
Her: 3:06A Bring the cloths.
And so the curtain closes on Act I. The play resumes a couple hours later, and clearly there has been drama offstage:
Him: 4:57A So now ur chettin on me right. I c .
Her: 4:59A Ur wrong im no cheat.
Him: 5:00A I saw you like an hour ago
Her: 5:02A I was with you
Him: 5:04A That wuzn me you b
And after a pause:
Her: 5:15A U sure?
Him: 5:17A Id no if u were with me. I saw u.
Her: 5:18A LOL looked like u
Him: 5:19A If ur doin this at back then amanda am sorry i can se u anymore thanks
Her: 5:22A Made mistake any1 cud.
Him: 5:23A Crazy bich
Thus the curtain closes on Act I. On Thursday, our hero gives a soliloquy for Act II:
Him: 1:37A Can u call me pls
Him: 2:20A Call me
Him: 2:15A Why u call to just hang up.
Him: 2:40A Ur so mean i will drop ur stuff at robbes. Cuz i cant take this anymore and have fun with ur new man. How ru always hang up on me?
Act III takes place early Friday morning, when the passion and confusion of our protagonists builds to a dramatic conclusion:
Her: 6:18A When r u coming
Him: 6:33A Am working cuz i need money to pay my bills.so drop ur stuff around 6pm. Make sure phone is on cuz i have 31 cent
Her: 6:40A Ok
Her: 6:41A Thanks for being therewhen i need u
Him: 6:44A U say u need me. Then y u be with another man.
Her: 6:48A So long ago. U need to not hang on things. I love u only now.
Him: 6:58A And also i cant be with a person who has another man. So when i bring ur stuff an sorry amanda cuz ur hartin me alot and i can do this anymore
Her 6:47A I dont have any other man but u and done want one
Him: 7:13A Ur hartin me so much u know that right
Him: 7:20A U relly not have another man?
Her: 7:29A I love u only forevr. No other man is like u.
Him: 7:33A I love u.
Her: 7:36A Love u
Her: 7:44A Dont forget to bring the cloths
And so the curtain closes on our reconciled lovers. Presumably our hero delivers the clothes after work as promised. And so we begin to think of sentences that begin with “Happily” and end with “after.”
But lo! Before the house lights rise, there is a denouement:
Him: 6:24P Thanks for letting me kno u dont have one, and u dont wants one. Is all good
Her: 6:26P Rick is my man now.
Him: 6:33P C R A Z Y B T C H
Her: 6:40P Joking wit u. Srry. Love u
Him: 6:43P Dont do that to m
Her: 8:56P Gonn c u later right. I need sex with u.
Him: 9:35P U want me to com ovr now?
Her: 9:39P Ya need u now.
Her: 9:43P Bring the rst of the cloths
And... scene!
Mr. Flopsy says pay no attention to the man under the desk
May 21, 2009 // Link
Someone left a huge bottle of syrup for me at work. At least, I hope it’s syrup.
It looks like I’m keeping my own urine in a bottle on my desk. At least, I hope it’s my own.
I wish I was interviewing job seekers today. I’d go all Howard Hughes on their asses, tell them to describe their work experience without using the letter U, and speak to them only through a hand puppet from under the desk.
“Mr. Flopsy wants to know your salary expectations. No, not down there, speak directly to Mr. Flopsy! No no no, there is a ‘U’ in ‘This is ridiculous.’ DO NOT ANGER MR. FLOPSY!”
Gumby
May 27, 2009 // Link
I attended my very first yoga class. I am not bendy.
My awesome pal Joceylyne, on the other hand, clearly has pipe cleaners instead of bones. She was teaching the class, and every once in awhile I’d peer out from my contortions and watch her calmly rotate the top half of her body all the way around to face the front again.
Anyway, I clearly need to work out more. Dance is a good workout, at least in the flailing out of control way I do it, but it seems I need to add some flexibility training into the mix. I need to “get into a flexible frame,” and anyone who spots that reference is someone I should marry.
[aside]
Business idea: door to door, cold calling personal trainers. We’ll call it Jehovah’s Fitness. Who wants to invest?
[end of aside]
Yoga kicked my ass, but in a good way. If it’s always as fun as Joceylyne made it, then count me in.
Plus, you know, room full of girls, so there’s that.
Dash and dine
May 31, 2009 // Link
Definitely that shirt, I decided. Yes, definitely that one. Maybe. I tossed it and a few other candidates into the washing machine. I still had lots of time before I had to leave.
The pants had been easier. My gender only has two choices, and today’s choice was denim. My wardrobe is about as colourful as pre-tornado Dorothy, so selecting among trouser candidates had been a snap.
Aside from the easy pants picking, the morning wasn’t going well. I was in full-on klutzy nerd mode. I tripped over the rug. I stubbed my toe on a chair. I dropped a glass, but it didn’t break. I picked it up, fumbled it, and down again the tumbler tumbled, this time exploding against the hard kitchen tile. Before that, there was a soap incident.
I was in the shower when the empty soap dish reminded me of something. The something was the fact that I’d forgotten to buy soap. No soap in the shower, no soap in the cupboard. That just left the hand soap by the sink. The foaming flowery hand soap in a pump.
And that explains why a hint of lilac wafted behind me as I rushed about and painfully failed to avoid chairs kickable, rugs trippable, and the dangerous dusting of glass on the kitchen floor.
I did not want a lilac waft. I did not want shattered glass under my feet. But above all, I did not want to glance at Mr. Clock and find out it was NINE forty-five instead of EIGHT forty-five.
Ha ha ha too bad for you, said Mr. Clock. That’s what you get for looking at me when you are all sleepy and yawning. Maybe next time you will pay attention to what Mr. Clock has to say. Ha ha ha Mr. Clock laughs at you and speaks of himself in the third person jauntily.
Mr. Clock was still laughing his little analog ass off as I took the stairs a million at a time down to the laundry room to clank open the washer and yank out my still soaking shirt.
I twisted the shirt to wring a waterfall into the washing machine. The shirt was still damp, and now wrinkled as well. Damn and double damn.
I raced back up the stairs and set up the ironing board as if I was trying to impress a NASCAR pit crew. I plugged in the iron. Get hot get hot get hot get hot you bastard. Mr. Clock said tick tick tick ha ha ha look how fast Mr. Clock is weeee!
I pressed the shirt with rapid strokes and impatient swirls. The steam hissed up around me, a great cloud of warm vapour. It really brought out the lilac. Dry enough gotta go gotta go gotta go. I shimmied into the shirt on the run and leapt back down the stairs again with an audible KRACK at the landing which was me breaking an ankle.
Wait, no, I could still run, must’ve been the sound barrier.
Out the door and away, a sweet lilac breeze trailing behind me like a gossamer cape. If every traffic light co-operated I might just make it on time for brunch, where I’d try to stay calm, stay cool, and, most importantly, stay downwind.