In which I talk about language and the cubists and the Dadaists

I am not actually going to talk about cubists or Dadaists, so I am sorry if I misled anyone. Here: uh, Georges Braque! um... Marcel Duchamp! OK, now on to what I really want to discuss, which is my distinct and disturbing horror that I am going to evolve, over time, into Mrs. Robinson.

I think my Mrs-Robinsonization is the cumulative result of a couple of elements: 1) being hit on repeatedly by older men to whom I'm not attracted and 2) drinking too much. Let me explain.

For some reason, I am extremely attractive to men over the age of 57 or so who have recently undergone what they all term, with dramatic self-effacement, a "reversal of fortune." This means they have been screwed in a divorce settlement and have a negative cash flow. I do not care so much about the finances of strange older men, but owing to some odd karmic bubble, it seems that they need to communicate with me. Apparently, it is my destiny to be hit on by men who have recently lost everything and are living in terrible "condos." God damn! It's like I've got a tractor beam!

I'm not certain why these guys find me. Maybe it's because I am capable of feigning enthusiasm upon meeting new people, and they sense a sucker. Damn, though, I can't stand it any more. It makes me wary of returning anyone's greeting, which becomes uncomfortable after a while at an organized gathering.

Tonight, the director of the gallery I belong to decided I was interesting. Don't get me wrong: I can occasionally appear extremely interesting! I was working the artist's reception this evening, and the director talked to me to the exclusion of nearly everyone there. For a solid hour!. I was stuck in my post, tending the hors d'oeuvre table, so it was difficult to break away. In a lull away from talking to him, Cornelius arrived to speak to me--he is 70 years old, the grandson of a robber baron, and has never held a job, which gives him a grand and patrician air. Sadly, he has recently lost everything to bad investments, which means that he can now focus on important things like hitting on me. Well, temporary things, anyway: I told him I had plans after the show, and fifteen minutes later, he left with a bleached blonde twenty years my senior. Woo-hoo! Go, foxy senior citizen!

I closed up the gallery and headed over to another gallery, where there was a truly terrible exhibit, and my director followed. He encountered me as I was realizing how horrible the exhibit was, and suggested we go to get a drink next door. I agreed to go, and managed through drinks just fine, but really, I was aware the whole time, as he told me about his ex-wife and his reduced circumstances, that it was completely ridiculous. I was slightly mollified by the hundred dollars' worth of Veuve Clicquot I ordered, but not enough to repeat the experience. I am not certain he feels the same way, although I think he should.

On the way home, I stopped at the gas station--the only place open in this one-horse town that might sell something edible. I wandered in the store for a minute, looking for something to eat.

I heard someone say, "How are you doing tonight?" and after a moment, realized that the guy behind the counter was speaking to me. I couldn't really see him behind the racks of Hostess fruit pies, but I answered him, and told him I was fine. He asked if I was "finding everything OK," and I said I was, which wasn't strictly true. I wanted something to eat, like a burrito, or something.

"We got Hot Pockets..." he said, pointing toward a refrigerated compartment. I'd never had a Hot Pocket, but I checked out the selection. I picked one, and stood holding it, looking around the store. "Microwave?" asked the guy, who I could now see was a young blond kid with a handsome face, straight, angular nose and high cheekbones. He was very cute, in an off-beat sense. He looked at me with a friendly expression, seeming not to notice the oddity of the whole "hot pockets" concept. "Microwave's under the Slurpee machine." I looked at the Hot Pocket, and asked him if I should open the package before I heated it up. "I would," he answered with a shrug.

While the Hot Pocket was heating up, we discussed his job. I like to ask people with unusual jobs (e.g., night shift at the gas station) "What's the oddest thing you've ever seen?" I get all kinds of great answers. Generally, I modify it after I ask, adding, "Not the GROSSEST thing, but the WEIRDEST thing." This guy didn't have a great answer, but as he was telling me the story, a police cruiser drove through the parking lot. We both looked out the window and watched it drive off. "They're looking for someone," he said. I held his gaze and said, "Maybe they're looking for me..." because I like to give that intimidating sense of mystery to random cute young gas station attendants. He laughed and said, "Might be looking for me! I'm a convicted felon!"

He was laughing as he said it, but he seemed serious, so naturally I asked what he'd done. "Possession," he answered.

"Possession of what?"

"Meth."

I pretended I didn't know what that was, for some reason, I guess mainly to hear him explain it.

"Crystal meth," he went on, and held his fingers together to form a diamond about a quarter of an inch across. "Only that much."

"Did you go to jail?"

"I did a day," he said, smiling.

"How old are you?" I asked. He's twenty-one. Not doing crystal meth any more, not since he got "busted," as he explained it.

It was a terrible feeling to realize I thought he was cute, more terrible that I actually told him so (before the subject of meth came up) and MORE terrible to me to realize how quickly I could turn from just me, Violet, to one of those 58-year-olds at art gallery receptions hitting on the volunteers. This is going to require vigilance, because I've seen the future, and it is pathetic.



Star of the day. . .Anne Bancroft
posted @ 2:08 a.m. on March 13, 2005 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......