It was the morning last week when the sleet pattered against the front windows, and I remember lying there listening and also wondering why the side of my face was throbbing like a son of a bitch.
Something had happened the night before and that something had led to my face throbbing now. However, there was just no way to know – no way to mentally reconstruct – what in the blazes that something might have been. Point Z to Point A: There was no way to get back there from here.
I reached over to the blinds. I wanted to see the sleet I was hearing.
When I reached over, I saw my arm, and I saw the word “Supertramp” written in blue ball point across my arm. I did not recognize the handwriting.
Then, the word on my arm – the word “Supertramp,” I mean – it brought the remembering, and the first thing I remembered was my voice, and my voice was saying, “I am an incurable lech.”
The second thing I remembered was Yvette laughing and whinnying and saying, “You are NOT a lech, Katy!”
We had been in a bar when she said it. I never did remember which bar.
“I am a disgusting pervert!” I said. I announced it, really, and loudly too, in order that all the people in the bar could hear it. “I am a pervert held in check only by my own freakish appearance and the paucity of lesbians in the general population.”
I do not believe that Yvette knew what that meant, but her husband, who was sitting next to her, laughed like hell.
I remembered well.
Yvette said, “No, no, no.” She was attempting to convince me I was noble after all, you see. She said, “I have known you since forever and you have never tried to get with me. You just talk about those Thomas Pynchon books and Andrei Tarkovsky movies and about black metal music.”
I should have let it go at that, but I was drunk and believed my lechery bona fides were under attack. I mean, my reputation might be a bad one, but it is mine and it needs to be upheld.
I set my hand on Yvette’s knee. I said, “Yvette, talking about those books and movies and music IS the way I get with women. It is the only thing that has ever worked for me.”
Yvette’s husband was not laughing like hell any more. His name was something like Charles or Carl or Cal, or maybe it was Brett. I can never remember. Charles or Carl or Cal or maybe Brett looked annoyed now. I do not know whether it was because of my talk about getting with his wife or the knee thing or my lech braggadocio.
He sucked at his bottle of beer and he wagged his finger at me. He said, “You… You girls can’t even. You can’t begin to understand how bad the average guy really is. How disgusting. Obsessed. Just absolutely gross…”
I said, “I can imagine, Charles!” even though I was not then and am not now certain of his name.
I said, “I talk about girls with average horny straight guys. I have watched porn with average horny straight guys.”
I said, “A guy will watch porn for eight minutes. Ten if he is lazy. I will watch porn non-stop for seven hours. All day! I will watch porn until I hate myself. Until I have to set fire to the computer I watched it on.”
I said that, and then I said some other things. Then some other things happened. There is a lot I still can’t remember.
But my memory of the night picks back up, and it picks back up where I am saying, “The only reason my Tumblr page is not just pussy galore is because of Roger Hodgson of Supertramp. For some reason, he follows my Tumblr, and I have too much respect for the man who wrote ‘If Everyone Was Listening,’ to subject him to my dark nauseating fantasies.”
Yvette’s husband, whatever his name was, sucked at his beer and said, “You are wrong.”
He said, “‘If Everyone Was Listening’ wasn’t a Hodgson track. Richard Davies wrote that one.”
Now, there are some lines in life that can simply never be crossed and one of those lines had been crossed here. Yvette’s husband – now that I think about it, I think his name was probably Ed – could steal away the good women. He could question my level of perversion. He could even deign to speak on behalf of all the human males in the world.
But when Ed (Thomas? Esai?) questioned my knowledge of early Seventies prog rock, a line had been crossed, and that’s when I threw down.
I mean, Richard Davies! “If Everyone Was Listening”? Can you even imagine?
Lying in bed that morning, after that, I felt the area around my right eye and tried to smile. This is going to be a bruise, I thought. I had suffered for music and, judging by the empty bed, had not even gotten the girl.
There was always the next night, though.
I am an incurable lech.