Don't forget the LUBE!!!
There’s a quaint smell of wood-burning stoves in the neighborhood. Within these immense Capitol Hill (Seattle) homes the blue-light of flickering televisions illuminates the front rooms, where housecats watch, from safe windowsills, the passing sniffing dogs on leashes. You walk with your jacket collar up because winter is coming on, and the cold wind carries the scent of the ocean from down along the bay-coast, a few miles away.
The streets are quiet this evening, except for some Mexican polka music being pumped out of a parked car, its doors open wide, in front of an apartment building. The Mexicans stand around smiling, smoking cigarettes.
“Do you have another cigarette, by chance?”, you say, feeling in your pocket for change, ready to give him a quarter.
“Yea.”, he wears a Mariners cap, and seems to be having a good night- still smiling with his friends as he holds out the pack for you.
“Thanks.”, you smile politely and hand him the quarter, though he never asked for it. You momentarily considered saying ‘Gracias’, but decided it might’ve seemed silly- as in, ‘See, I’m down, I’ll speak your language, I’m a cool gringo’.
You walk on, after getting a light from the Mexican (the lighter seems to have a pin-up girl on it, wearing nothing but knee-high black boots), and look up at the already dark sky, its 6pm wintertime. The moon hovers silently over the city-scape. That image of the pin-up girl made you realize that you need to get laid.
Then, walking down 21st avenue, you find a half-torn note laying on the damp sidewalk. Always curious about random lost notes and objects, you pick it up and stop for a moment under the street-light, smoking your Marlboro Light cigarette, to read the random message.
The beginning is the part that is torn off and so it starts mid-word:
‘-brator, needs 2 Cs. Don’t forget LUBE!!!’
Wow, sex everywhere. You chuckle about the capitalization of ‘lube’ and the subsequent exclamation points. It is as if the lube had been forgotten before, which must’ve led to disastrous circumstances. So this time, they were not going to forget. You pocket the note and decide that you’ll put it up on the fridge when you get home, for the other housemates to wonder at. You even decide that you’ll pretend to know nothing about where it came from, everyone’s immediate assumption will be to blame your one gay housemate, from which will ensue uncomfortable hilarity. You’re giggling to yourself as you make a left on Marion St. and angle yourself up the steep hill home.
The streets are quiet this evening, except for some Mexican polka music being pumped out of a parked car, its doors open wide, in front of an apartment building. The Mexicans stand around smiling, smoking cigarettes.
“Do you have another cigarette, by chance?”, you say, feeling in your pocket for change, ready to give him a quarter.
“Yea.”, he wears a Mariners cap, and seems to be having a good night- still smiling with his friends as he holds out the pack for you.
“Thanks.”, you smile politely and hand him the quarter, though he never asked for it. You momentarily considered saying ‘Gracias’, but decided it might’ve seemed silly- as in, ‘See, I’m down, I’ll speak your language, I’m a cool gringo’.
You walk on, after getting a light from the Mexican (the lighter seems to have a pin-up girl on it, wearing nothing but knee-high black boots), and look up at the already dark sky, its 6pm wintertime. The moon hovers silently over the city-scape. That image of the pin-up girl made you realize that you need to get laid.
Then, walking down 21st avenue, you find a half-torn note laying on the damp sidewalk. Always curious about random lost notes and objects, you pick it up and stop for a moment under the street-light, smoking your Marlboro Light cigarette, to read the random message.
The beginning is the part that is torn off and so it starts mid-word:
‘-brator, needs 2 Cs. Don’t forget LUBE!!!’
Wow, sex everywhere. You chuckle about the capitalization of ‘lube’ and the subsequent exclamation points. It is as if the lube had been forgotten before, which must’ve led to disastrous circumstances. So this time, they were not going to forget. You pocket the note and decide that you’ll put it up on the fridge when you get home, for the other housemates to wonder at. You even decide that you’ll pretend to know nothing about where it came from, everyone’s immediate assumption will be to blame your one gay housemate, from which will ensue uncomfortable hilarity. You’re giggling to yourself as you make a left on Marion St. and angle yourself up the steep hill home.
posted by Taylor at
19:00
1 Comments:
Shifting your weight from your left to right leg, you lean against the wall and take off your boot, clumsily. You throw it into the corner with the other boots ( all strangely found on top of dumpsters and in alleys, all of which fit you perfectly and are in new-condition). How you’ve managed to randomly find everything you need, you don’t question. If the gods are willingly to provide with little or no recognition on your part, let them.
The alarm clock on the floor of your room is somehow off by atleast 7 hours, but you know that it is 12:45, thereabouts. You turn on the lights in your cold basement room, and find a cat eyeing you from the middle of the room, ready to run by you out the door. You don’t have a cat, so you look at it, curious. Perhaps it is your new roommate’s, and so you get down on your hauches to pet the blackcat.
The phone rings, and the cat darts out after meekly sniffing your hand.
“Hello”, (as you pick up the phone, you knock over a glass of stagnant water on the desk, spilling it onto the computer keyboard, and so you follow with: “damn.”)
“Hello, Antonio Luis?”, a monotone woman’s voice says.
Antonio Luis is someone you’ve never met, but apparently used to live here and was, as far as you’ve learned, a body-building midget, interestingly enough.
For the fuck of it, you say,
“Yes, This is Antonio.”
“Mr. Luis, Sir. This is Mary Leville at International Courier Service. We have a package for you.”, she sounds official, most professional.
“Well, I’m in the middle of a work-out.”, you keep thinking of a little midget lifting massive amounts of weights, like a mini Heracules, ha, “Are you delivering it here? I gotta pick it up? What?”
There was a pause, maybe even a slight sigh.
“Mr. Luis, I’m not sure you understand. We have a package for you.”, she said, audibly annoyed.
“Century Building, 23rd floor, suite 2315.”, she added slowly. Then briskly, “Good Day.”, and hung up.
You remove your other boot and look for a pen, to jot down the address. Then you realize, no matter how curious you are to find out what the ‘package’ is, you won’t be able to go pick it up. You are obviously not a body-builder, nor are you, by any means, a midget. So you decide to go look for that new cat; had there really been a cat in your room? Who was Antonio Luis really?
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Taylor, at 8:27 PM
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