Time for another journal extract. And you thought it was going to be just another dull Sunday evening, didn’t you? As usual, I offer no edits or apologies for being the insensitive rogue I once was.
November 7, 1992
Grandma passed away yesterday. I can’t go to the funeral. My checking account balance is -$49.63, so I can’t afford the ticket. I never visited her in the home so I don’t suppose it makes a difference now that she’s gone. I never wanted to see her in her fucked-up, vegetative state. Mom said the last time she went, grandma was so out of it that she didn’t recognize her. Her own daughter! Grandpa died 22 years ago this month. I wonder what kept her hanging on for so many years? None of the other grandchildren who live out of state are going either, so I’m not the only dirtbag. Those crazy, old-world I-talians are going to insist on an open casket. Gross. Uncle Frank is already in Cleveland. I heard that dad is going to be there, too. I’m glad I’m not going. Who needs that noise? Remind me to scratch Walnut Hills Nursing Home off the Christmas card list.
I was sitting at my desk and Dennis passed the phone to me and said, “It’s a secret admirer.” Do you remember Madelynn? The tall blond with the nice demeanor and ordinary face? She said she didn’t have anything to do and asked if I would like to meet for a drink after work. I got over being better than nothing and said yes. I met her at that Irish bar on 46th and Broadway. I was propositioned by a whore on the way up 8th Avenue. I had my hands in my coat pockets and she walked up next to me and locked her arm in mine and asked where Broadway was. I pointed. She asked if I would go with her. [Note: That was then. That neighborhood hasn’t seen a prostitute for a long, long time.]
I got a stool at the bar and Madelynn was on time. She looked beautiful! I was hoping her sister would come but it was just her. We had a beer and talked. It was nice. I said, “Let’s go somewhere a bit dumpier” and she said, “I know just the place!” She wasn’t kidding. I was waiting for a knife fight to break out. It was in the appropriately-named Hell’s Kitchen. Her neighborhood. She’s got a lot of nerve making fun of me for living in Brooklyn. I didn’t drink much—because I don’t—but she got really drunk. You can always tell when someone’s drunk because they keep asking “Am I drunk?” over and over. She’s confrontational and thinks she’s an intellectual. 35 years old! I didn’t know she was that old. [Note: That old?! *sigh*] We talked a long time. I got home at 4:00 a.m.
I called her the next day and asked her out for Friday. She said yes. I told her I’m glad I got to her before her calendar filled up and she said not to worry because nobody ever asks her out.
I went up to Bonnie’s on Sunday to help move her office. Instead of meeting at her office as originally planned, she had me come to her apartment to type out her resume. I didn’t have a case for my laptop so I just carried it out in the open. On the way to the subway I bumped into an Hasidim selling laptop cases. He was so funny! We joked around for a while and I bought a padded case for $50.
I took a cab from Union Square to Bonnie’s apartment. I typed out her resume and a letter and then she wanted to go to bed. I said yes and she had her clothes off and was under the sheets in about six seconds! I never saw anyone move so fast in my life! It was like watching an old-time, black and white, sped-up film. I wore a condom and hated it. It was ghastly but at least I didn’t lose my erection. I never finished. Neither did she but it was still really nice. Sometimes, it’s all about the journey.
Afterwards, I was wiped out and would have preferred to lounge in bed all afternoon and nap but I had to move her office. I asked if we could have sex on her new desk. She laughed and said yes. We got there and I met Bonnie’s secretary, a vivacious, beautiful Israeli. Bonnie was in the other room and she heard the two of us laughing and talking and having a good time, so she walked in and announced that we had just had sex. Strange.
I lugged those goddamn boxes all by myself. Bonnie said she’d buy me dinner and I said I had already extracted payment from her *wink-wink* but she insisted. We took a cab to Café Des Artiste. I was dirty and sweaty from the move and I told her I didn’t want to eat anywhere fancy so we found a casual Italian joint. I had chicken and sausage in marinara sauce and Bonnie had chicken with sun dried tomatoes. Two glasses of Pinot noir. 110% delicious. $26 total. That meal would have cost $150 at Café Des Artiste. Fuck that joint.
This week marks the sixth anniversary of my blog. 915 posts. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. A lot of personal history.