she'd received an email from a friend that was cc'd to the photographer. the photographer isn't from this state, didn't attend college in this state, has a few relatives in this state, but didn't necessarily enjoy his three-yearish stint in this state. at least not the part that involved hurricane me and the most horrific finale ever finaled.
she wrote back to the sender: is that m. photograher photographer? the one who lives in [city that is quite fun, but probably not on any of your destination lists because you dread the entire state and the way it dulls your soul one plain at a time en route to denver, which doesn't suck at all].
yes, the sender replied. do you know him?
know him, the fanster answered. he dated my friend for two years.
here i imagine there a pause.
oh. that's your friend? he asked. yeah. um. she's the one who broke his heart.
five years later all i can see are sad brown eyes and his disappointed frown and hunched shoulders. i always told him that when we broke up, i'd forget what his face looked like and instead picture bruce springsteen. unfortunately, with the advent of myspace, i can see what he looked like last week.
i hate being reminded of times when i've been a self-centered asshole, oozing with self-entitlement and convinced that i was an axis for the entire world. its like seeing pictures of myself with a perm times nine hundred fifty kajillion. i really don't consider myself a dick.
i crawled back into chuck's bed groaning and gagging and feeling like the reputation i'd buried had resurfaced. then he reminded me that i'm not like that anymore. [i hope, he added. twice.] then fannie told me that i'm a nice person. then i remembered that the photographer had absolved me a few months ago via an email that contained some f. scott fitz wisdom and some kudos for a poem i'd writen him years ago. so i let it go.
let this be a lesson to you. if your last interaction with someone is a bad one, that is how you will be remembered.
chuck and i were leaving the crap factory last nite and i found a business card on the windshield of my car. the name: mb, a man i'd had about a two-month fling with many, many, many personality flaws ago.
what the? i studied it. looked up and down a deserted fourth street, including sniper spots on building tops to see where this had come from. mb doesn't live in duluth, and if he did we'd have not had that fling. mb doesn't visit duluth, as far as i know.
chuck got the wrong vibe from my confusion and thought maybe we were about to be attacked.
"can you, um, unlock the door?" he asked.
i spent a few blocks explaining mb to him. then i called the cell phone number listed on the card. mb was at the crap room and he mumbled some drunken inaudibles to me. he called again later, but by then had dulled his speech patterns to a preschool level, so i continued to have no idea why he is here or how he found my car or what the what the what.
[let me note that mb is not a bad person, i just wouldn't get myself in a similar situation in the present time]
time span: 12ish hours.
sighs of relief for my current situation: seventy two.