You’re a twentysomething vision who sold me some peat moss Tuesday. I’m a 46-year-old male who’s more cultured than you. Isn’t it time we met?
As you’ll recall, I praised your choice of coffee, noting its bouquet, to which you riposted, “I added more cream than usual.” The way your upper lip — splashed in what I instantly recognized as Rusted Tuba (the Maybelline shade we buried my great-aunt in) — teased the syllables and danced along your most visibly naked incisor was erotically quaint, spiced with a Nabokovian pout.
If you’ve read this far, you’re unconsciously unbuttoning your blouse. You cannot help yourself. I am this zip code’s Springsteen and Beaudelaire, Mercutio and Marshall Mathers — trick comparison! For they are the same! — a scoundrel/scamp who weeps audibly to cat videos and dougies to Beethoven’s Eroica. I wish to squire you to local functions, feed you waffles and ’80s anecdotes, and maybe drink beers with your father, who likely graduated from high school some years after I did, a bone of contention we’ll settle like men in your parents’ driveway: shirtlessly, with pistols.
I speak and write in an affected English trill; you see, a Kent-born woman sold me a King Kong novelty tie in 1991, a trauma from which I’ve never recovered. Naturally, we’ll see Nick Mason’s Saucerful of Secrets in Seattle this spring and I will tell you how Pink Floyd’s “Cymbaline” changed my life. Moved by my earnest recollection, you will insist upon making love in the backseat of the nearest Impala. I will dutifully caress your hips in the words of Bates, my grandfather, an urban planner for the city of Watts, California, from 1960-67. Your flesh shall quiver as my breath, sweetened by old-man lozenges, recites interoffice memos from memory, sending you into twisted paroxysms of orgasmic confusion. At the pinnacle of coitus, I will shout page 42 of E.L. Doctorow’s Ragtime and lovingly hail you an Uber. At this writing, I assure you we have successfully completed the act of ape-congress 16 times in my mind — 17, had my mother not knocked on the door, demanding to know who was groaning in the bathtub.
Join me at Applebee’s. Seven o’clock, tonight. The one between Safeway and the 7-Eleven. Wear a yellow rose in your hair. Go to the bar. Ask for Harold. And when you reach my table, wake me up so I can take my pills, and so that you may experience an enchantment unequaled.