Last night, John calls me from down the street. He’s walking home from rehearsal, and I’ve been at home drinking wine and watching DVR’s Glee, crying because parents love their kids in the A-plot and kids are finding self-esteem in the B-plot. John likes to call me while he’s walking places because his generation must always be entertained; while I’m walking, I typically go over my to-do’s or compose songs to the rhythm of my walking (and then cleverly not write them down.)
On this particular evening, I’m possibly maybe a little tipsy from drinking wine at the condo board meeting, where a special assessment was discussed – the drummer and the actor drank the most. And maybe I’m having more wine.
John tells me he’s on the sidewalk outside about to come in, and I decide that I have to create a spectacle for his entrance. I lay on the floor and put one foot up on the ottoman, the other is splayed out, and then I rest a heavy Asian cat sculpture on my head. I look like I’ve had an accident! I put the phone inches from my fingertips as though it fell there, and I can hear his voice coming up the stairs and coming through the phone like a scene in a movie where the loved one is coming home just a bit too late to save the murder victim!
“Oh no, Andy has an Asian cat on his head.” He looks at me, then hangs up, then goes to the bedroom to drop his bag and change.
“I’ve had an accident.” I was still lying under the cat.
“How did the cat get ON your head?”
The logic of this had seemed obvious to me. “I slipped and fell and skidded under the cat and it tipped onto my head. Or a MURDERER came in and clobbered me with the cat and left it on my head.”
“I don’t think it would stay on your head. It would slide off onto the floor.”
His analysis of my prank makes me lose interest in him immediately. He wants nothing more than to chat in the kitchen while he eats his evening meal of cereal and a peanut butter sandwich (ignoring the heaps of leftovers slowly getting too old to eat in the fridge). But I am suddenly compelled to transfer Isaac Asimov books to my Nook Color (the iPad for shut-in spinsters who only go out to book clubs at Barnes and Noble). He calls me from across the apartment, “Babe! Come talk to me.” He over analyzed my funny prank, so I will not give in. “Babe, your beautiful boyfriend is home, why won’t you talkt o me.” I hate it when people yell from the other end of the apartment, it reminds me of trashy people and of my family growing up and of me after a few more glasses of wine.
Then he’s yelling to me from the bathroom, then from the living room. “Why are you on your computer? Come pay attention to me.” Probably not his exact words, but that’s what I hear. Now I’m focused on transferring lots of books to my Nook. Dostoyevsky. Malcolm Gladwell. Madeline Lengle. Stephen King under different psuedonyms. I’ll totally read all these books, and it’s very important that I do this right now, at 11:45 on a Monday night.
I realize that John’s been calling to me from the living room for a while now. “Come pay attention to me. Stop working in your office. Come look at me. How can you be on your computer still?” Asimov and friends have successfully transferred to my Nook, where I’ll read magazines and ignore classics, so I shut down the computer and go to placate my lover. He is lying on the floor with one leg on the ottoman and an Asian Cat on his head.
“How did the cat get on your head?” I ask.
“It fell on my head.” He says.
“Have you been like that for a long while?” I ask.
“Yes.” He’s annoyed, but the cat is still leaning on his head. I move it and sit on him. “You’re gonna make me puke” he says and I can smell his peanut-butter breath. I sit on him a moment longer. We are both tired. We go to bed.