new old more book profile blog rings host

prev my floppy drive next
2001-07-05 | 5:14 p.m.

Went to see Leo in Berkeley today. Found out why he hates to come back every year. It's because he has to get his annual medical exam. He's full of anxiety whenever he's here; afraid the doctor will tell him he's sick.

We sat at a caf� and a man in a wheelchair approached our table. The man said, "Hard to talk. Stroke." He had some cards he had made, some paintings. I looked at them for a minute and said, "Sorry." Leo was irritated. "Hard to talk," he mimicked, when the man was not quite out of earshot. "We're talking!" He was annoyed with the man for interrupting us with his sad story and probably irritated with me for giving the man any of my time, implying that he must be least as interesting as Leo.

I said I'm a soft touch, which is true, and that I imagine how hard it would be to be in a wheelchair, to have to support yourself that way, to have had a stroke. "Strokes are always progressive," I reminded him. He winced. "Don't tell me that!" he said. "I don't want to know that! Now I'm going to have one." Laughing, but not joking.

I should practice brushing people off. Maybe I could have said, "We're busy now, perhaps another time?" That would have been better. Next time I'll do that.

With relish, Leo told me about a teleplay he is writing. It's supernatural and allegorical, not what you'd expect to see on TV, even cable TV. More like a stage play or a short story and something like a cross between Dante's Inferno and West Side Story. I don't want to tell you too much about it because he's so secretive. He'd never speak to me again if he thought I posted his plot on the Web. I hope he does it as a short story, too.

After I left Leo to his billion other commitments, I walked around trying to find a computer parts shop that used to be around there, so I could search for a 5-1/4-inch drive. But after I walked a few blocks, I realized it had moved across town, so I backtracked to the car and drove to the new location. Before I even went in, I had my back up from reading all the handmade signs on the doors and windows featuring prickly, attitudinous messages. But then the guy who helped me was very nice. In fact, he was adorable. He told me way more than I wanted to know, which I can find endearing when I'm not in a hurry. And then when I asked him his name, so I could take his business card from the selection on the counter, he pointed out that his card was green, in honor of his Celtic heritage---this swiftly mumbled and meant for my amusement, as he was nothing like those pasty-faced Celtic enthusiasts with their pewter rings, limp ponytails, and pants tucked into their boots. I took his last card and remarked that he must be very popular. He got VERY flustered and sort of rattled on about how people might be taking his cards just to burn them in effigy, "though I hope not"---comments so outrageously absurd that I felt a physical desire to flirt with him and see just how discomfited he could get. I'm not much to look at, but I've been told more than once that my voice can be devastating. I should have tried to devastate him. I'm so chicken. I shouldn't assume that everyone is repulsed by me. I'm so afraid of being laughed at, spurned, but if I don't take risks, where's the fun?

Anyway, I did get the 5-1/4-inch drive. So now I get to hook it up and try to peel my old notes off some of those ancient floppies. I have dozens of them, and no idea whether they'll cough up anything useful. Wish me luck.

prev archive next
0 comments

if you're not reading mawm you're not reading me
random