[1]My dog, Rose just waltzed in to find her usual napping spot under the desk. Rose is generic, some kind of poodle-bichon mutt, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. But sometimes, brand makes a difference. Like this one time, a few reckless years ago, with a guy I met online.
He worked at a local TV station, and our meet and greet date was at a cheery park near my office. What I noticed first was the moustache, which looked dated, but okay, he was enthusiastic, and I liked that. We agreed on dinner the next night, and the night after that, I phoned him at 10 PM, with sultry confidence, and asked for directions to his house.
His neighborhood was unfamiliar, on the outskirts of town, and as I was navigating my way, I suddenly realized the risk. (So kids, don’t try this one at home.) Here I was driving to an unlit suburb across the bridge, to a virtual stranger’s house, for a booty call. I didn’t tell any of my friends where I was going in advance, for fear of being talked out of it. But that meant no search party could find me, if I didn’t show up for work the next morning. After a few missed turns, I found his house, and walked up the uneven path.
He had an 8-year old daughter, who was with his ex that night, but her toys were strewn everywhere. His place was a wreck, with dust balls the size of oranges, clinging to the baseboards underneath the couch. (It’s not that I was snooping, but we ended up splayed out on the carpet, which gave me a birds-eye view of the mess.) I was in a sex fog, so though the shabbiness of the surroundings slightly registered in my psyche, I didn’t let it settle. I didn’t want anything to take away from the giddiness of the moment. He was a superb lover (whose high rank has stood the test of time), and I was willing to dismiss a little dirt. We could always hire a housecleaner.
After a few go-rounds on the rug, the couch and finally the bed, we took a break for some chow. It was too late for take-out, so we were stuck with leftovers. That’s when it started to come apart.
His refrigerator was barren, except for the requisite condiments, and a half-filled box of Round Table Pizza, which we heated up in the microwave. There was no booze around (he was 7 years sober) so we cracked open a bottle of soda. Not Coke exactly, or Pepsi, or R.C. Cola, but a jumbo plastic container of Safeway generic brand. Now I could try to be a sport about the moustache, the blown-dry hair, his uncool clothes. I could handle his tiny residence in a tacky suburb, 45 minutes from civilization. I was willing to look the other way, when it came to scratchy sheets and a level of squalor in the bathroom that I don’t care to relive. But bad chain-restaurant pizza and generic soda, was more than I could bear.
Image: 64 Crayons Made in the USA, 2009, by Yu-Cheng Chou [1]