In another, my friend has asked me to be the one to do an intervention with mystery dude.
"Absolutely not," I told him, and then said something that burned with newness when I said it aloud. "This is really none of my business."
More time has passed. More emails. One day I got 14 phone calls from my friend. Many of those came when he decided to drive up the shore "and think." On this day I thought of the women in Rom-Coms who piddle around the apartment listening to Gloria Gaynor, while giving themselves facials with Chunky Monkey and hitting refresh on G-mail. He's taken this to the next level, in a way I wish Hollywood would capture.
So obviously I'm not going to say anything to the guy. Get real. But I do want to judge his book by the cover and see what my friend is up against. Because my guess is a dude with S-posture and facial hair that looks like it was manicured by the grounds crew at a country club. Unfortunately, when I pulled up his Facebook profile, his photo was of a 2001 Ford Taurus. So now all I know is that he's like super into cars -- well, and white trash squirrel faced skank buckets, if I am allowed to include info I know about the company he keeps.
"You'll think he's cute," my friend said. "You think everyone is cute."
This is true and false. I do find most people more attractive than the casting experts at Maxim would sign off on, but I also have a super-serious mental category that takes into consideration whether a dude can read,whether I am going to have to explain my jokes to him, and what to do under the awful circumstances that he is a Jimmy Buffet fan.
Honestly, I was at the mall anyway. I decided to check in on this "King of the Hill" fan. So I found a sherpa and made my way toward Sears. Now, there really is nothing at our mall that interests me beyond Barnes & Noble. But here and there, I'll stop in, look around and think to myself: This place would be so great if everyday was Halloween, and my costume was whore.
Once you move in past the food court it gets worse. I walked toward Sears, which is the vortex in a wing of irrelevance, and began scanning name tags to find this douche lord.
I wandered past the clothing and shoes -- tumbleweed -- and into appliances, and remembered that our dishwasher is broken. I decided to do some comparison shopping when Sears No. 1 asked me if I needed help. No, I told him. Explained our dishwasher situation. He gave me the phone number of their service line. Thank you. Still no sight of the character I will henceforth refer to as DL2010 (Douche Lord 2010). I moved on toward things that are electronic. I stepped into treadmill zone, and was approached by two employees within 27 seconds of each other. All blue shirts and helpful.
In the TV section, there were six Sears employees hanging out by the cash registers. I browsed record players; TVs; DVD players. It was like my life was a musical when they all asked me in unison if I needed help. By my count, there were at least six employees per costumer. And not one let me within a 20 foot radius without asking if I needed help. I gave every one of them the elevator, looking for the name tag, and dismissing them as a DL, but not my DL2010.
I didn't find our guy. But it is obvious to me that the white trash squirrel face skank bag is getting good service.