I looked at Bob riding shotgun. "I've had it with that Joni," Bob was saying. "It's all blind man this, blind man that with that girl."
Thank God for wine. Not only was Bob back to the insensitive bonehead that kept me in stitches, the extra wine I'd chugged kept me from getting down on myself for reading a story that wasn't fit to read.
Which reminded me to thank God for Circles. No, a Writing Forum would have taken a guy out and shot him for ending a story with, "And that's how I put the odiousness of it all behind me."
Meanwhile my sidekick was asking, "Can you believe that girl; chasing the blind when she's got a man with twenty-twenty? I'm dumping the bitch."
Great, now Joni was available for me to chase. Or, was that the wine talking? Jeez, Anton, you get down on guys for chasing a girl for her perfect tits, and now you want to chase a girl for the perfect spoon in her mouth?
"Red!" Bob yelled. I hit the brakes. "Asshole. If you can't drink and drive, let me."
"You?" I said, backing out of the intersection. "If memory serves, you were the guy who drank and drove himself right out of a drivers license."
The light turned green, and thanks again to God alcohol, Bob forgave me for nearly killing him. Bob got back to detailing his new girl--his twenty-twenty girl, as he called her, and I got back to his old girl, Joni, how Bob really needed to forgive her like he'd forgiven me.
"That's it then," Bob said, "I'm dumping Joni's ass--dumping her over the phone. Teach that girl to get a thing for the blind."
I envisioned Bob without Joni. He'd thrive. I envisioned my life without that weed hanging on Bob's arm. It seemed rather wan. Time to wield my old-soul influence.
"Sure, Bob, dumping Joni is one way to go. Of course, a braver man might choose a road with a little more high-road going for it."
Base Bob didn't say anything.
"See, brave Bob, the higher road-to-go would be to let Joni have her way with some blind guy. That way she'd come round to learn; reality can never reach the high bar fantasy has set. Ya, and then with the blind out of her system, she'd look around and say, 'Hey, maybe life with old seeing-eyed Bob ain't as bad as all that.'"
"No way," Bob said, banging away on my glove box door. "No woman of mine cheats on me."
I chopped a finger at Bob. "The girl's got a little fantasy. Big deal. We all got our little fantasies. I got my girl-born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-her-mouth. You got your--" I stopped, for I was about to open a can of horrors that would, no doubt, haunt me till the end of days.
Bob stopped banging, looked at me. "You know," he said, his eyes reflecting the headlights of oncoming traffic, "there is one thing I want to do to a woman I haven't done yet."
I braced myself. "What's that?"
"I want to cup the under-swell of her breast with a tablespoon and lift slightly."
Relieved, I said, "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because I want to see the volume fill and spill over the spoon."
Just like base Bob; manufacturing a fantasy for selfish reasons, never giving a thought to the poor girl--how cold metal might feel up against her warm flesh.
I wanted to say, 'You're one sick-fuck, Bob.' Instead I went into guy-guy mode; reached up, turned on the dome light, flashed Bob some tongue so he could see how delicious I found his fantasy.
"Boy, Bob," I said, turning off my dome light, "that's some fantasy. So tell me, why haven't you put your spoon to work on Joni?"
Bob got back to banging. "Her breasts are too small. I'd have to use a teaspoon."
"Oh, so you need a woman with big breasts."
"Not big. I'm not into wielding serving spoons or anything. It's just that the tablespoon defines the perfect breast. Not too big, not too small."
"If you are so into breasts, why have you stuck it out with Joni, a woman who doesn't measure up?"
"Because the rack does not the roll-in-the-hay make."
Boy, maybe my sidekick wasn't as base as I'd made him out. Or, was this evidence of what I'd been fearing of late: Bob, growing on account of hanging around me, gleaning the bits of sage that inevitably flake off us old souls.
Bob punched me in the shoulder. "You know who has perfect breasts; Svitlana."
Svitlana was in our Writing Circle. Bob didn't like Svitlana, didn't like her writing. Nevertheless, he'd been using her as a back-up bang for years. I'd once asked Bob why he kept running back to Svitlana. He had said, "It's her perfect tits I keep running back to. And the fact that they're not enough keeps me running away."
I punched Bob back. "Have you asked Svitlana?"
"Asked her what?"
"If you can work your spoon on her."
"I ask, but she won't let me. Says I'm a sick fuck. But I keep asking. She'll come round. I have a way with women."
I laughed. No, old Bob had a lot more growing to do before he grew clear of my laughing stock.
"There's a mission for you, Anton; getting women to understand the healthy hunger we men have for volume."
"Speaking of the blind," I said, getting back to my mission--convincing Bob to stick with Joni, "I'm going to make a prediction: Never in your life will you find a better roll in the hay than with that wild child, Joni."
"She is one good . . . You know, for a time I thought Joni was . . . But I was wrong. No woman of my dreams would cheat on me."
Woman of his dreams? I'd never heard womanizer Bob refer to a woman with such finality. I wanted to ask him about this, but his reference to the woman of his dreams reminded me of some dreams I hadn't had in years.
I looked out my side window, saw a sign.
OK, maybe this wasn't an omen, exactly, but certainly a clear call to treat myself to some talk about myself for a change.
"You know, Bob, I had a woman of my dreams once."
"What, and you let her get away?"
"Ya, but, see, she wasn't a real woman. I mean, she was real, but she was literally the woman of my dreams. You know, only existed in my dreams."
"Pecooliar," Bob said.
"What's plenty peculiar, Bob?"
"You, having an imaginary girlfriend. See, Anton, if you'd let me teach you how to pick up a chick, land a real woman, you wouldn't have to settle for these adolescent substitutes."
"No, Bob. This woman wasn't imaginary. I didn't dream her up. She came to me in my dreams. You know, at night."
"You need to check yourself in. First you go gay on me, and now you're going schizoid to boot."
"No, no schizoid. She was real. Or, as real as a dream woman can be. What got me, though, was why she quit coming."
"What, you were giving her orgasms in your dreams?"
"No, I mean she stopped coming to me in my dreams."
"Well, there," Bob said, slamming the glove box door and sitting back. "Maybe if you would have given her an orgasm every once in a dream, she wouldn't have dumped you."
"Na, she wasn't into sex. In fact, I think to some extent that's what she was trying to teach me. See, sometimes I'd not recognize her and start feeling her up or something. And then she'd just stand there, looking at me as if I was an idiot."
Before Bob could call me an idiot, I went on. "See, the woman of my dreams always looked different. Always beautiful, of course, but always with different hair, face or body. And I'd always succumb to the visual--the object, never considering the being behind the facade."
Bob didn't say anything.
"She'd even speak to me and I still didn't get it. Which was quite phenomenal, yes. For the one thing about the woman of my dreams, was her voice--it was always the same. No, I can close my eyes right now and hear her voice as clear as Gabriel blowing his horn." I closed my eyes, tipped an ear heavenward. "Oh, Bob, if you could only hear it; a voice so pure, so clean, the kind of voice one only hears in a dream."
Bob hit my arm. "Idiot! Don't you be closing your eyes while driving me."
Eyes open, I indulged some more. "Ya, it was right around the time I was going through my divorce when the woman of my dreams stopped showing up in my dreams. I was devastated. See, my entire life she'd been there for me. There to tell me stories I'd never heard, show me things I'd never seen, introduce me to the damnedest dream beings who said things so phenomenal, yes, I had to wake up and write them down. And that's another thing; the woman of my dreams would always wake me at the very hour I'd ask her to wake me. 'Anton,' she'd call out. But then she up and disappeared the spring of 1980. And the worse thing was, I had to buy an alarm clock to keep from getting fired at the job I had at the time."
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