Sunday, January 10, 2010
My wife and I were waiting for the Girl From Moscow upstairs at the Smiling Moose. She was late as a result of some car trouble. Mechanical, and presumably traffic also. Time was elapsing. Irritation was growing. Mood was souring. Beers were draining. We called. She’s still coming. We decided to play pool to pass the time. We slipped our quarters into the table, racked the balls, and played. She broke, barely. We are each terrible at pool and loving it, two games. Each of which was long and drawn out and played very badly on both sides. It was wonderful. The Clash played on the jukebox. Actually, it seemed like somebody programmed up most of London Calling. Awesome! We forgot about the time, the Girl From Moscow, and trying to sleep with her. We made fun of other people in the bar. It was full of hipsters and posers and kids who want desperately to be punk. Eventually the Girl From Moscow arrived, and she looked beautiful. We all talked about her on-again off-again dipshit boyfriend and all of the asinine things he’s up to. I couldn’t have cared if you had paid me. I would make a shitty therapist. I’m sympathetic and try to be helpful, but the whole thing looks really simple and obvious from here. We talk. We leave. We walk her to her car to confirm that it’s still in working order. It is, and we part.