February 10, 2005

I'd Tell You, But Then I'd Have To Kill You

When I finally awoke from my tequila-induced slumber this morning, the painful if not completely fuzzy memory of last night's reverse drunk dial having been momentarily replaced by that of a dream in which I was for some unknown reason sitting at Pop Burger (the burger stand part, not the bar) flirting and holding hands with someone on whom I have harbored a slight crush for some time now (not that I would think that sleeping with him was inevitable or anything. I'm talking to YOU, Ex Boyfriend, you cowardly prick...What do you know, everyone? I've entered the "anger" stage of the grieving process) I decided to get out of the house and work off the previous evening's festival of margarita flavored carbohydrates.
Far too lazy and incoherent to put on actual clothes or groom myself, I threw on a pair of warmups and my standard white t shirt and blue hoodie, and covered it all up with my full length gray winter coat. Because I was not yet looking nearly as hopeless and grubby as I felt, it became necessary to put on a bandanna and the biggest aviator sunglasses I own. I mean like Anna Wintour big. The way I was feeling, I really wished for a pair so large that it would require two people to walk along side me carrying each temple, the lenses like plate glass windows shielding my entire body from the sun and creating a neat smooshing effect as hapless pedestrians were dislodged by my forward motion. Sadly, budget constraints forced me to opt for the less austentacious pair that fits in my breast pocket (Damn you cutbacks!). Headphones on, Ipod set to repeat Damien Rice's "The Blower's Daughter" (See
Previous Post, "After the Fact", RE: Desire to be Natalie Portman), I headed for the gym.
As I was passing Port Authority, a heavy set woman in her mid 60's approached me. Relatively clean and well kempt (is that a word?), She was holding neither a begging cup nor a copy of the The Watchtower and did not appear to be domestically challenged.
These obvious threats absent, I assumed she needed directions. I was soon to discover just why she looked so lost.

Dan: (Removing one headphone) Yes?

Nice Lady: I think they've got the alias that you've been living under.

Dan: (slightly confused, wondering if this life is all a delusion, that I'm really a deep cover agent and went all Donnie Brasco and let myself go too deep and now I've forgotten that I am really an ass kicking secret agent on a mission to save the world and slightly hopeful that my life is about to take a turn for the Sydney Bristow) Huh?

Nice Lady who I Now Think of as My Point Man, Possible Codename "Mother Hen": The alias that you've been living under. I think they've got it. You really don't remember?

Dan: (Now preparing to dive to the sidewalk and behind concrete barrier in case attacked by rogue agents, throwing myself on top of Mother Hen to protect her if necessary. Also thinking she may have wrong person and I am about to be shot due to further failures of Bush Administration Intelligence) Excuse Me?

Mother Hen: (Now leaning in, completely conspiratorial and cloak and dagger-like) Gloria!! Gloria! I think they've got your number! (breaking into shuffling disco on sidewalk) Gloria! I think they've got the alias! Gloria! That you've been living under!

Considering my fragile emotional state and the impending arrival of Valentine's Day, I though it wise to walk away before she reached the part about "If everybody wants you, why isn't anybody calling?"


Blogger A* said...

Ahh yes the crazies that meander around the PA ALWAYS have your number...

10:57 AM  

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