Miraculously, she smiled at me. So I gave her my card.
"My name's Jenny," she said.
Now all I needed was a puppy.
Life was good. I was an adult. I had a girlfriend, a job, business cards, my own apartment, the Sunday Times.
Except Jenny said I looked like I had a "pussy on my face."
I loved her for this and shaved it off immediately. Still, metaphorically speaking, I was still in my goatee period.
I told everyone I was happy. Things were going well. A few months passed. I took Jenny to San Francisco for Valentines Day.
One day we drove down the coast to spend the weekend at her mother's apartment. After about forty-five minutes I had to go to the bathroom. I told her I thought I might have to pull over.
"Wait," she said. "We're almost there, you can go at my mom's."
By the time we arrived my problem had escalated to emergency proportions.
Her mom and stepfather opened the door. I was introduced. We stood in the living room of their small one bedroom apartment making small talk. After what seemed to me an appropriate amount of small talking I asked if I might use the bathroom.
"Of course," mom said.
"It's here," she said indicating a small bathroom directly adjacent to the living room we were standing in.
There was no door, only a long curtain separating the toilet from the room. I must have hesitated.
"We
I became profoundly depressed. Someone suggested that I stop eating carbohydrates. That's the kind of advice you get in Los Angeles.
've decided to replace our doors with curtains. We feel like it makes the space feel more open, things flow better. Better energy."
"Great," I said.
I closed the curtain behind me (as much as you can close a curtain), lowered my pants and sat down. Absolute silence. After what seemed about an hour, the stepfather said, "We're going to go sit over here on the couch. Give you more privacy in there."
"Great," I said.
More silence. Another hour passed.
Stepfather called out, "You might want to turn on the water, mutes out any unwanted noise."
"Great," I said.
Everyone giggled.
Eventually I managed a near-silent shit and felt much closer to Jenny and her family.
Things continued to go well. I went to work. We read the Sunday Times in bed. We drank coffee. I told everyone how happy I was.
And then one day, Jenny vanished. She left town for a funeral and I didn't hear from her again. It was as if she had never been there. No email, no phone call, nothing. Gone.
Three weeks passed. I became desperate. Strangely desperate. I stopped eating. I couldn't sleep. I became profoundly depressed. Someone suggested that I stop eating carbohydrates. That's the kind of advice you get in Los Angeles. Lonely? Consider the South Beach Diet. Grieving? The Zone can help. Abandoned? Cut out carbs. I was so pathetic that I stopped buying bread.
On Thursday of the fourth week, I had a long talk with my boss. He was a smart man. He read novels. He knew about mythology. At the end of our talk he opened the top drawer of his desk, handed me a very large joint and told me to go home early.
"Tonight," he said, "smoke it, lie on the floor and think about what you really want."
That seemed like pretty good advice, better anyway, than cutting out carbohydrates. That night I lay down on the floor and smoked the entire thing myself. I tried to think about what it was that I wanted but I only wanted to stop seeing strange fish swimming through the asbestos-infested cottage cheese ceiling.
After a while I began to feel really sad. Then I felt anxious and panicky.
Also, I couldn't stand up.
Then, of course, Jenny called.
"Hello," I said.
"Hi," she said.
At which point I launched into a long, rambling tirade about respect and love and god knows what else. Ceiling fish maybe. When I finished talking, I said, "Are you there?"
