"That Bob; a bigger fool was never born. Say, that reminds me: I want to take that embarrassing exchange between you and Bob, turn it into a short story."
The lesbian didn't say anything.
"Ya, see, I'm a writer. In fact, that's why I came here; to get a permission--your permission to write you into my story."
"I see," the lesbian stockgirl said.
"No, it'll be great--I mean, when I read the story in Circle. See, Bob's in my Writing Circle and, see, he will know the story's about him, but won't admit it, and, ya, then I can get off by watching him squirm."
"You're mean."
"No, see, Bob's an ass. And what you want to do with an ass is hold a mirror up it, force the ass to say, 'Damn, who knew I'd been an ass all these years.'"
"Let me get this straight; your plan is to fight ass with ass?"
I positioned my glove to fan my face.
The lesbian looked to the side. "You know, that just might work." The lesbian looked at me. "Yes, you may write me into your story. Is that all you want from me?"
I lowered my glove. How refreshing, carrying on with a lesbian. No pussy footing around, you just flat out state what you want from the girl. "Oh, no," I said, "I want more, all right--I want to take you for all you got."
The lesbian laughed. "You know, those older boys in the locker room were pulling your chain. Roses and I-love-you's get a guy in a girl's pants, not I-want-to-take-you-for-all-you-got."
I laughed. "No, really, what else I'd like to get from you is some juicy grocery-store speak."
"Juice, sir, is in aisle seven."
I laughed. "No, really; see, there are these women in my Writing Circle who like research more than writing. If I could score some ripe grocery-store jargon I could prove to them that I, too, can go the extra mile."
"Extra mile? Shouldn't you be writing for an audience greater than some housewives in a sewing circle?"
"And I will. See, what I really aim to shed light on is you; what you have to put up with--with the Bob's of the world hitting on you round the clock. And then being a lesbian to boot, well, that just makes for some good story-telling, don't you think?"
"Here's what makes for some good story-telling: That lesbian gig is all an act--my way to get the jerks to leave me alone. I'm totally straight."
I couldn't say anything.
"Save it," the straight girl said, mocking the look on my face, "the stupid puppy-dog look doesn't make it with this chick." She paused for effect. "But I will help you with your story. Any dog who hopes to improve a fellow dog, is going to need help. But right now is a bad time--I'm supposed to be working. My days off are Mondays and Tuesdays. I have classes till noon, but I'm free after that."
"I can't believe it; Mondays and Tuesdays are my days off."
The day Bob had hit on the stockgirl, I'd thought the meat guy had called her Jen. But her name was Gem.
"Gem?" I said. "Like in gem stone?"
"No," she said, wincing, "as in Gemini. I was born in the '70's."
Two things about the '70's troubled me. One, my troubling marriage spanned the 70's. Two, anyone born in the '70's had to be a twenty-something.
"Ah," I said, looking the bean aisle up and down, "a Gemini, born in the '70's, huh?"
"No, I'm Aquarius, but I was conceived in late may; thus Gemini."
What I was looking for--up and down--was an omen to get me out of my no-more-twenty-somethings vow. Seeing no omen, I said, "Oh, those '70's, what unlucky years, those."
"Lucky for some, unlucky for others."
I looked the Gemini in the one eye, then the other. "How's that?"
"There were lots of drugs in the '70's. Lots of guys getting lucky in vans. Lots of unlucky love-children getting names like Gemini."
Poor dear, every time she heard her name called out, she'd see dad shagging mom on the '70's van carpeting.
I laughed.
But, just as fast, I got dead serious. No, that's how real men get when they heed the call to serve in the fringe sciences. This poor Gemini, here, was a psychological wreck due to the name her stoned parents had given her. And, what does a wreck need? Some solid ground to stand on. And, who was the solidest ground in the rainforest? Me, Anton Sogn Celadon. Oh, sure, saving this poor dear would require some significant sacrifice on my part, but, hey, throwing out that wise vow concerning twenty-somethings was a small price to pay if it allowed this teetering Gemini to get a foothold on some solid ground like me.
We made plans to meet at Owl's Books the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.
Standing in the checkout line, meat in my handbasket, I fuzzed my eyes that I might envision Gem and I sitting all cozy in the coffee shop at Owls. Instead I saw in my mind's eye the weed I'd come upon in the vivid dream I'd had last night.
Dreams brought to mind religion. Say, that's what I could go for; some religion. Nope, no way was I going to get any sleep tonight without the blessings of a saint.
Heading for the wine aisle, I recounted the dream I'd had last night. In the dream the world had ended and I was roaming the urban ruins looking for a bearing female I could nail in the name of saving mankind. I found no bearing females--no humans, even--but I did find a lone weed growing alongside a crack in a wall. The pale bloom would have gone unnoticed in the before-time. But these were the after-times and, seeing how there was no other life forms left on earth, I sat down, my back up against the wall, waited for the bloom to go to seed.
****
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