There are times that I think my best stories come from the Algebra Tea House. I have a friend who works there, Phil, who lives with my ex, Mark. Phil and Mark are my only two friends from freshman year with whom I really keep in touch. I'm pretty sure there's a reason for this, and I'm also sure I have no idea what it is.
Phil is friends with a group of Byzantine monks. Not only that, but he's been informally nudged around to see if he'd like to do some construction on their new monastery. "Watch out," I tell Phil when I hear this, "you're going to end up a monk before you know it."
"I know," he jokes back. "I need to find a woman." This is the very first time Phil has ever said anything remotely sexual in my presence, and I have known him for three full years.
Phil could have his pick of women, if he played his cards right. He's all-right looking, if you go by sheer physical appearances, but his best asset is his stories. I've heard lots of Phil stories. Every single one of them has made me laugh, cry, or gasp with alarm.
The all-time best Phil story was the Story of How Phil Almost Died Multiple Times While Hiking Across Europe Alone. All of this story takes place within his first 48 hours in Europe. There were other near-death experiences, but most of them happened in this period. This story involves a snowstorm, dehydration, breaking into an abandoned cottage, mass quantities of beer, and speaking absolutely no German whatsoever.
The reason I'm not actually telling the story is a) I'm not Phil, and I'll never be able to do it justice and b) this story, when properly told, has incredible aphrodesiac powers. I heard Phil tell it in a suite of five or six girls. By the end of it, every single one of us wanted to sleep with him. He has the perfect combination of incredible experience and natural modesty that shoots straight to a girl's heart.
Maybe that's why I fell in love with Mark in the first place. Mark could also tell a story like a flippin' bard. Mark's stories tended to be at least half fictional (and which half was always hard to tell) but they were damn good stories.
I guess that's the secret to my heart. Tell me stories. I have an extremely easy-to-please heart.
1 comment:
I smiled and nodded my head and ate the rest of my hot dog. He told me of his daughter, who had gotten pregnant and left Seattle to live in Los Angeles to be with the father of the baby. Her name was Nancy. The father had been a cashier for a huge home improvement chain and one day had stolen all of the money out of the safe at closing time and skipped town.
“There was only eight grand in the safe there son.”
I looked at him and tried to look sorry for him, he had bought me a hot dog after all.
“Now how long’s eight grand gonna last somebody?”
I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know, less than half a year.”
“You’re goddamn right less than half a year! Probably more like four goddamn months! And he throws away a baby for four months pay!”
“What did your daughter do?” I asked.
The old man looked away. Cars zipped around the city, buses blew their exhaust smoke in every direction. I crumpled up the cardboard that had packaged the hot dog. It had been a pretty good hot dog.
“Nancy waited two weeks for the guy to show up or call or something. Then she just had an abortion.”
He looked at me for a moment, as if I could add anything to the conversation. I shifted my weight heavily between my feet. He coughed annoyingly and pulled up the collar of his red and black checkered shirt. He looked like a cross between Paul Bunyan and The Count from Sesame Street. I started to laugh but turned it into a severe cough very quickly. I wanted to look at him and dance around and say in the Count’s voice, “One hot dog, ah, ah, ah, two hot dog, ah, ah, ah,” but instead I finished coughing and said I should probably get on my way. We parted ways sadly and I was angry at this man for turning what could have been a very good conversation into a very serious one. People can’t just stand around telling each other stories anymore, they’re too preoccupied with being sad. That is the story of New Millennium Man- who can tell the saddest story.
Post a Comment