So hear I am a bit tipsy with my head on a dresser drawer and writing with my right hand while my lips are tasting the great cherry wood of my own beautification.
Beautification, you say?
That's right. Beautification. A wonderful night of small moments and extraordinary ones. It started with laundry. I did a load. It went well. I was proud of myself. I had been saving the growing pile for a little wash and fold at a dollar a pound becuase that's how lazy I am when it comes to laundry, but I found it within myself to do a bit, so I did.
There is something so relaxing about doing laundry. Going to
Spaceland too.
Mickey rolled up in his usual Ford Tempo. I had to push down the window and figure out how to get the bucket just right, but I did. That's when intentions were laid for our Monday night out.
"I go to Spaceland every Monday night," the Mickster said.
"Sounds fun."
"Yeah," he agreed. "I got to find my all girl band."
Anything "all girl" piques my interest, so I was extra thrilled to be going on the excursion. I even entertained a nice moment where we were able to recruit 4 beautiful women for his group in one swell swoop, before reality came through in the name of Sarah.
I jump straight to her because she was a bombshell. Mickey had been fronting lip to her as we drank our way through the first set of a mediocre band.
"The drummer is the shit!" Mickey shouted over the music.
"He's okay," I said. It wasn't until later that I really watched the guy that I could tell the man had a point. He was feeling the music. He was passionate. I can see how that turns people on. It even turned me on a little bit, but not as much as Sarah, so lets take it back to her because that's all I really want to talk about.
Mickey was ready to split. I pointed out Sarah and asked if he knew her.
"I just met her," he told me.
"Introduce me," I said.
Mickey did a dip of the head way back and let out an empty laugh, "Yo, man! I'm not good at that."
"Just say the truth," I said. "Say this is my friend Pirooz, he wanted to meet you."
Luckily, Mickey is a man of action and one of the coolest emcee's on the planet so he did the trick, introduced me, and it was just me and Sarah - who from a brief sound byte - I was told was a band promoter.
"Hey," I said. "Pirooz."
"What's your name?" she said, and grabbed my jacket to pull me closer.
"Pi-rooz," I enunciated.
"What are you here for?" she asked, pulling me back again. "Are you with a band?"
"No," I said. "Just here to meet you."
She smiled.
"What do you do for bands?"
"I sell merchandise," she said.
I looked down at her leather gloves, with the fingers cut-off. She was a throwback between
Madonna,
Blondie, and the
Donnas - my God what a bundle of joy.
"Do you sell those gloves?" I asked.
"Maybe," she said, thinking.
Then I got thoughtful. I had nothing really to say, and the band kicked it into a higher gear, trying to see if Nigel was right, and amps could really go to eleven. This was when Mickey pulled the international sign for split, with his hands like a pair of scissor and his gait ready to step when the drill sergeant yelled march.
Sarah saw the exchange. She yanked my collar and got her mouth close to my ear again.
"What is it?" she asked.
"He wants to split," I said, doing my part to touch her taste her earlobe. "I just wanted to whisper in your ear one more time."
She smiles and draws away.
I start walking.
She blows me a kiss. Damn, I think. That is one fine Blondie-Madonna-Donna hoochie mamma. We would have fun.
"That's for sure," Mickey agrees, as he strolls at a fast pace down the street.
"I wouldn't even mind sloppy seconds," I tell him.
Mickey laughs. He is so effortless. He knows. We are both the same.
Isn't that the bomb about great friends? You know what reality is. You know things don't need to be sweat over. It's just a beautiful woman. It's just a band contract. It's just life or death. It's just friends, best friends, going out on a Monday night to find laughter, joy, and an earlobe to whisper in.
"She is a fun one," Mickey nods.
"Yeah," I say and open the door to the Ford Tempo. "You got her number?"
"No," Mickey frowns. "I just met her."
"Oh, man," I say. "I would have gotten her number. I thought you already had it."
"Nah, I just met her."
I don't give it another thought though. There are certain things that are meant to be. Sometimes it's just getting to whisper in someone's ear. Sometimes it's riding in a Ford Tempo with your bestfriend. Sometimes it's hearing your friend's band play as you roll up the 101. Sometimes it's the sound of a laundry machine breathing it's last turn through a spin cycle.
I get out of the car, do the old hip hop hooray shake and go straight for the laundry room at the back of the complex.
My clothes have that toasty feel.
"Right on time," I think. "Where else can I start laundry, hit a club, and finish my laundry on the way back?"
No one answers though. I am alone. It is 1:27 AM. I take a sip of Diet Coke. I pull the mouse across the screen. I hit
