There it is, the enemy. Not the exact one, but near enough. Fuck this guy (girl, actually).
I also toyed with some other titles based on how this story turned out. The one I would have preferred to use was “How a car accident saved my life”. That would have been thought-provoking, no? If those kind of things happened to me, this blog wouldn’t need to exist, frankly.
As my ideal post title suggests, I was in a car accident recently. I don’t wish to belabor this point because, ultimately, it’s just not terribly interesting. You might be able to make the argument that the rest of this post, hell, the entire blog is uninteresting. Well, who’s the dumbshit reading it, then? You. So, obviously, your assessment means dick. If I could tear away from dressing down foolish readers, I’ll get back on point.
The accident is mere prologue. Now, I have never been one to buy into destiny. I don’t honestly buy into much of anything, to be honest. But, sometimes, it seems to me misguided to ignore tea leaves when they line up perfectly. Unless, of course, if they line up exactly when you need them to. The universe does not work in your favor. Light does not pierce through when times are their darkest. They just don’t. Don’t be an idiot…like me.
To quickly get through this I will give you the chain of events and you can’t decide just how retarded my thinking
was is. The accident forces me to put a $300 hold on my credit card in order to rent a rental car. The dopey kid that drove into me is found at fault, returning the $300 back to me. The fucking Misfits get back together! We’ll stop here to properly muse on this point. With Prince’s death and plenty of regrets already hanging over my head, the chance to see my favorite band of all time in their most powerful iteration play one of their only 2 scheduled shows (the first shows in 33 years) was something I was not going to allow myself to miss. Now flush with additional wiggle room of debt, I delay my going to lunch from work eight days ago to buy three day passes to a festival of which only the Misfits have been announced. I’m really serious about not missing this, past the point of rational thought.
The reason this is significant is that if I hadn’t stayed in the office to buy these tickets (and, yes, I bought them on company time, using company resources; Fire me, I don’t care. Only death will keep me from the Misfits.), then I wouldn’t have been there to help V, we’ll call her. The process of what I have to help V with should normally take no longer than 10 minutes, and that’s if the customer is really indecisive and/or fucking stupid. In all fairness, I’ve had a lot of over ten minute consults, if you follow me. V, as far as I can tell, does not strike me as either indecisive or fucking stupid. You may come to the conclusion here soon that I am the latter.
We talk for nearly an hour about music (mostly punk rock, including the Misfits and Bad Religion), Star Wars, and other stuff that doesn’t really matter and are actually all that matter. Most importantly, unprompted, she said her favorite Batmobile was Tim Burton’s 1989 version. During our conversation, I give her plenty of outs. “Well, I’ve got everything I need here”, “I’m sure you probably need to get going”, and “I think your dog might be dying in your car by now”. The last one is paraphrased as well as something I file under “not my concern”, but I am trying to gauge interest here. I’m making her laugh with C material at best (though my best is probably B-) but I’ve never had trouble getting women to laugh at me. FFS, it’s like she was made for me. The problem is that I can’t just come out and ask a customer out because it could create a conflict of interest, life is not a sitcom, and I am not Sasha Mitchell.
I have no idea what he has to do anything. I just felt like no one is talking about Sasha Mitchell anymore and it really isn’t a shame.
The best thing I can do is sort of suggest that she should go see the Misfits as well and, perhaps, we can see each other there. [Side note: Guess where the Misfits are playing, with Glenn Danzig. Riot Fest. Redemption is mine, I’m thinking.] I am not anticipating seeing her at work again since I am at a location that I work at maybe once a week. You might say, “If you aren’t going to see her at work again, then why not ask her out right then and there?”. To that, I say, “Shut up, Patrick Duffy”.
Let’s stop here for a moment. I’ve even put this section in bold as to denote the halt. Am I totally off-base? I have gone on record and created an entire blog here about how shitty I am at reading signals but does it seem to anyone else the potential for something here? Obviously, I haven’t divulged the full content of our conversation but V’s sheer willingness to leave her dog in the car for a (superfluous as it pertains) 45 minutes just talking to me is cause for further review, no? Am I overthinking it? Almost certainly.
I have an addictive and obsessive personality so, predictably, I think of little else but this exchange and its imaginary significance. Gee, if all that other crap wouldn’t have happened, then I wouldn’t have been buying these tickets andI wouldn’t have been the office…and so on and on and on. The Butterfly Effect. How could I put any credence into a scientific theory that spawned an Ashton Kutcher movie?
Back to reality (briefly) and I monitor V’s reservation with the other location because I’m a freak. Even though I am not there, I work there semi-regularly so I have access to their system. She scheduled her reservation on a day that I was to be working at my regular location with no way to leave. I turn in my dignity and ask the guy that will be working there to, somehow, someway, talk me up to her. He says no problem via text, prefaced by “Haha”. Yes, I’m so very funny. My handing you my balls for the moment is very amusing.
Later in the day, I’m still monitoring her reservation because (even though I’m really pathetic) I won’t cross the line to full-on digital stalker. Lo and behold, she rescheduled for two days later at noon. When I am not working. I consulted a buddy to see if going there on my day off to “look for my lost charger” or other lame excuse was a good idea. He suggested it before I did because, while he wasn’t sure what to make of my interaction with V, he had to concur that “it wasn’t nothing”. He’s all married and shit, so I figure he has to know something, right?
The day arrives and I get the settlement for my car, not the (hopefully) larger injury settlement but it’s a start. Like any masculine, manly man, this says to me that it’s time to buy new clothes. I drop over $120 on jeans, a new belt, new New Balances, and a Punisher t-shirt because I’m a huge fucking nerd. The actual value of the clothing was over $220 so I can at least hang my nonexistent hat on my ability to find bargains. The shitty thing is that it is now 11:50 after showering and I have to make a 35 minute drive in 10 minutes.
I did not defeat the laws of physics nor did I find an old obsolete sports car with a flux capacitor. I never thought I could say this but if it weren’t for the legion of wishy-washy bags of lose that inevitably show up at noon every day, I would have missed V entirely after arriving after 12:30. That being said, she was in the home stretch of her paperwork when I arrived, having shown up on time and had to wait for the aforementioned losebags. I don’t interrupt because I fashion myself a non-asshole that doesn’t like to distract people while they are working, all prior instances of me doing just that aside.
I overhear V saying something about homeowners insurance and it made me wonder: how many single women have homeowners insurance? This, on the surface and much deeper, is a very stupid question but, regardless, it made my spider sense tingle. Once she’s finished, we talk extremely briefly as I don’t really have a good reason to be there. I was going to walk to Starbucks to get the guy working with her a drink as a thank you for offering to help me after laughing at my pathetic-ness. I had a built-in excuse to see if she wanted to get a coffee or lunch or whatever. But, as luck would have it, that black akita was once again waiting in her truck. I am a lot of things but I am not the type of guy that asks a woman to leave her dog in the car for an hour after it has been sitting in that same car for over half an hour already.
Since I have no real moment or opening here, I grasp at straws. The best I can do with the limited time I have is to bring up Riot Fest and see if she would like to go if I could get additional tickets (didn’t want to say “pay for” as to imply expectations). She said she “wasn’t sure” she could go since it wasn’t until September. What the fuck kind of answer is that? I know when it is. That’s why I took those days and the day after off. She smiled and said maybe and see you later. Not bloody likely. I knew all too well what that meant. I walked to Starbucks because I figured that I should at least make good on something.
I bring the drink back with me and give my work friend the postmortem. His response is similar to that of my other friend but much more misguided, just telling me that I give up too easily. That is one of my defining traits but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. I tell him that my powers of deduction are downright Sherlockian and then I prove it when I ask him for the name she used as her emergency contact. “Eric something and he lives at the same address”.
“See?”, I say.
“That could be her gay roommate.”
I don’t want to tell him that I once had a gay roommate (some might say several) because I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting his idiotic theory has any merit.
Then again, who am I to say how idiotic a notion this is? Maybe I shouldn’t give up on this no matter how pointless or ill-advised it might be. It wouldn’t be the first time that I pursued a non-single woman, which of course she isn’t. What, with her gay roommate that happened to live in Hawaii at the same time as her (I may have done a little digging after this). Eureka! The only real obstacle is the fucking dog. Jesus, leave that beast at home.
How did it take almost 2000 words to articulate something so inane?