The Dakota is Big Cock Country

I woke up this morning with a surety of knowledge that I had to do three things:

  1. Buy some RAM for the server
  2. Volunteer for the Zenon show
  3. Launch that freelance site

So, the first thing that I did after waking up was ask Stan if he wanted to go to General Nanosystems. Then, while checking my email and writing a quick blog post, I got a phone call from Cake Woman.

“Bring me Pizza Luce!” she ordered.
“The whole store?” I queried.
“PIZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAA” she wailed in a banshee shriek that shook the ground from here to Anoka.

Well, okay, she was quiet and apologetic about her request. She clearly did not think that I would be willing to–

“What kind do you want? How long can you wait? I have to go to the nerd store first,” I said, interrupting her mid-apology. She wasn’t sure, but agreed that an hour and a half wouldn’t be too long. I asked if I should bring anything else.

“I just want pizza and one of these,” she replied.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I said. “I can’t see what you’re pointing at.”
“I’m… uh… not pointing at anything. I want one of this guy.”

You can read that however you like, but I took it to be the traditional “this guy’s the guy” exclamation that everyone makes when they are drunk. She was playing drunk and giving me the closest thing to a “I would like to see my friend Jesse today” that I would probably ever hear.

Stan and I had a great trip to the store, full of political discussion and microprocessor trend analysis (my two cents: the war in Iraq was initiated to give us a place other than Saudi Arabia and Turkey to have military bases in the Middle East. Turkey is too far and Saudi Arabia and Israel have too much holy baggage. Iraq is perfect. As to processors: AMD is winning, if it can just deliver a quality laptop chip it will be shoveling dirt on top of Intel faster than you can say “meet the new boss, same as the old boss”).

I drove like mad to Pizza Luce, then waited for fifteen minutes, then drove like mad(der) to Cake Woman’s house. I had the artichoke and spinach pizza (size large), the movies that she had loaned me (Freaks and Geeks and the Upright Citizen’s Brigade), and a rolled up poster for the Crooked Fingers show that I hoped she would go to even though I would be unable to escort her. There was an old lady in the lobby of her building, so I gave my best Sunday Go To Meeting smile and buzzed Cake Woman. I feared the sort of unspeakable phrases that she might express, but ultimately she just asked if I had the pizza and then buzzed me in. Twice, because I was too slow to grab the door the first time. I flashed another embarrassed smile to the nice old lady, hoping to not get Cake Woman kicked out for having strange men to her house at all hours of the afternoon.

Cake Woman was wearing the new skirt that she had finished sewing only days before. It was green and snug in all the right places. She was working on another skirt when I walked in, so I unloaded my supplies and set about putting the pizza in the oven for a fresh injection of heat. I asked if she had a pizza pan, and she turned around to repair the damage that I was obviously about to inflict on her kitchen. We coralled the pizza and slid it into the oven on aluminum foil while I tried not to stare at the writing on her blank t-shirt. I remembered the poster and gave it to her.

The pizza was everything that you expect from Pizza Luce. Cake Woman found another disc of Wonderfalls amongst my things and put it in. We watched the episodes where Jay’s inability to express her feelings to her bartender boyfriend lost her his attention, at least temporarily. I sat next to Cake Woman and cracked wise about how all the women on the show should just make out, even though that was more Cake Woman’s thing than mine. My mom called about something and reminded me that she was going to be in Mexico for Thanksgiving. Time passed and I could feel the warmth coming off of Cake Woman. The characters onscreen kissed and fought. Melody called, and although I didn’t recognize the number I answered. I knew instantly who it was, but she seemed confused. I told her it was me, and she asked if I were near a computer. A million codes flew through my head before I remembered all I needed to say.

“Oh, I’m actually in Anoka right now,” I said. She paused for a moment, then apologized. Right then I wanted to run out in the hallway and have girl talk for 45 minutes with Melody. She knows more about everything than anyone else. I hung up reluctantly, and Cake Woman turned to me immediately.

“Who was that?” she asked. I put my phone in my pocket.

“Melody,” I answered. “You know, my friend from Portland?” Cake Woman seemed to relax. Was she jealous that I could have other friends? Was I not only disallowed from having other Cake Womans but from anyone else calling me on the phone that I had honestly gotten just so that she could call me?

Another episode passed and I had to get up to go. I knew that if I left by a quarter to six I could get home, change, and get to the Southern Theater to do my volunteering business. It was like pulling a boot out of mud, but I convinced myself to go and hit the road. As I hesitated by the door, Cake Woman pulled out a pile of fleecy grey fabric.

“How about this awesome fabric?” she asked.
“Is that the skirt, or the fabric for a skirt,” I responded.
“Oh, yes, it’s all one skirt,” she joked. “I’m such a fatty,” she continued. I swept her and all the material into the air. I had told her before that if she called herself fat I would simply have to pick her up.
“I told you that you aren’t fat,” I said, shaking her a bit. I swear that I saw her smiling.

Once in my car I called Lisa, and she had indeed put the last of my clothes into the dryer, so upon my arrival I had time to shave and otherwise make myself all pretty. I even had time to clean the inevitable blood spatters off of my neck. Shaving is a messy business. I swear that I cut myself less when I used no shaving cream in my late teens. If you’re curious, I wore my green pants and a black button up shirt because I didn’t want to be underdressed for another volunteer activity.

At the theater the person whom I was supposed to meet wasn’t there yet, so the theater staff directed me into the dressing room. That was a little uncomfortable, but things worked out and I soon found my place behind a table in the lobby. An enormous sign blocked most of my view, but an attractive volunteer stood nearby. I introduced myself and eventually found out that it was her first time volunteering too. A guy who seemed a little off broached a conversation with me, and although at first I was playing my friendly and naive cashier self, but since the boredom was excrutiating I gave him a long and thoughtful answer about the relation between a dance company’s performances and its efforts to educate through dance classes. Some of it was bullshit, but it was a character that I played often in school — a person who could thoughtfully expound on a topic using information that I had not previously revealed knowledge of. I pretend to not know a lot of things.

The performance was amazing and only one of the dances was completely over my head. I don’t think that I have the language to talk about dance yet, but I’d like to keep seeing it.

As I left, I turned my phone back on and discovered that I had missed a call from Cake Woman by only a few minutes. She was on her way to see a movie at the Lagoon and instructed me to call her when the movie was complete. Then Lisa called to ask if I wanted to go to the Dakota with her, Cindy, and “several of Cindy’s single friends.” I didn’t, but Lisa wanted me to go, so I agreed to decide by the time I got home. Once home, Lisa put the thumbscrews on me and I knew that it would make her unhappy if I didn’t go put on the Jesse show for the actually available women who would be at the Dakota.

The jazz club was already packed when we got there, and Lisa dragged me around looking for a table big enough to seat seven. Eventually I got tired of walking around aimlessly while Lisa chatted on the cell phone so I headed for the bar. Just as I got the attention of the bartender, Lisa called me over and had me sit down in a booth. She counted off seven imaginary people before telling me that she was going to go get everyone else and come back. I agreed to watch her purse and snagged the waiter when he came by.

“How many people?” he asked.
“Seven,” I said. He raised his eyebrows. The booth was definitely too small.
“Wouldn’t you be happier at these tables?” he asked, gesturing to three tables in a neat row. I shrugged and told him that I would discuss it with the boss, meaning Lisa. I ordered a beer.

Grim hours passed before Lisa returned with a handful of normal people. Cindy was cuter than I remembered, but she and her friends seemed like the sort of normal suburbanites who I can work with, get along with, and make laugh until wine shoots out of their noses, but probably wouldn’t call. Sorry. Some time in the evening I called Cake Woman, but she was already fleeing the Lagoon for Anoka. I expressed my displeasure with my current company, but admitted that I was looking forward to the $3 burger and small cheese plate.

“Honestly, I’d rather be spending my time with you,” I said. It went unanswered.

The small cheese plate turned out to be three small pieces of cheese. One was unremarkable and bland, another was a good blue cheese, and the third was a smooth cheese that smelled like feet. I love good stinky cheese in moderation, so the three pieces turned out to be a perfect amount. My only regret was that not one person even seemed interested in the concept of trying some of the cheese.

At the very end of the night, after all the jazz had been played and I had driven Lisa and myself home, I called Cake Woman to leave a rambling message on her voice mail. I was stone sober so I didn’t say anything embarrassing, but she’s nice to put up with me calling at two thirty in the morning. She says that she is bad at reading people, but I hope that she can see my signal flares going up. I just don’t want to burn down another friendship with a misfired flare.

One Response to “The Dakota is Big Cock Country ”

  1. I’ll send you some sparklers.

Leave a Reply






RSS

People I Know

Random Stuff

Recently Listened

22 queries. 0.285 seconds.

Technorati Profile