19

"I'm a dancer," she said, like a poker player laying a winning ace on the table.

I've heard this line before, and parried it admirably (at least I thought so) but this time it knocked me off balance. I never really recovered for the rest of the day. Still, she didn't seem to mind, and I was intrigued.

We had made eye contact before and when I saw her sitting by herself in the pizzeria I sat down right at her table as if I owned the place. Where I got such balls I have no idea. Ten seconds in and she's already mentioned coke. Am I that fucking bad? I barely even do it anymore. Anyway, it wasn't the time or place for an I've-learned-my-lesson sobriety lecture.

"Wanna smoke a bowl?" she asked on the way out. To tell the truth this was the last thing on the face of the earth I felt like doing. I had an appointment to get to and layers and layers of minutiae to sort through. Not the kind of thing you can do well stoned.

"Uhh... sure."

I felt like I was cutting class in high school.

"How old are you?" she asked as our knees touched.

"Guess," I told her.

She guessed wrong.

"I'm 28."

"Oh, that's a good age," she said with a note of sweetness that I hadn't heard yet.

"How old are you?" I asked with an expression of comical dread.

"19."

This time I took her trump card in stride. It was not to be the last. A few minutes later she would tell me about her three year old son, and I didn't even care. What a beautiful dance this was turning out to be. Me, feeling free from my usual switchblade judgementalness and her, not minding my occasional missteps.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked. "Sure," I said, suddenly tense.

"My mom's a lesbian."

"Really..." I rubbed my chin and the moment stretched as I had to concentrate on the road momentarily.

"So how far does the apple fall from the tree?" I asked, slightly afraid that I was about to be disappointed.

"Ha- not that far you know, but I could never replace guys. Girls are fine once in awhile, but I could never lay there and cuddle with another girl."

"So is your mom, uh married?" I asked as we passed through the intersection. She could sense the playful tone in my voice and responded with beaming cuteness.

"She has this woman and they have a forever ring," she told me.

"So she's the butch - the the other woman?" I asked.

"Yeah, kinda, I guess," she chuckled. "She's an electrician-"

"So what does your son call her...? I probed.

"The Mary." she replied.

I looked at her and we both laughed slightly. I guess a lot was understood there though it mattered very little. It was understood that though she was only 19 she had lived a bold, trashy life with a cool, unapologetic attitude and merited the respect an elder (me). It was understood by me that I was in rarified air and that the only way to enjoy it, and keep it going, was to be myself.

What a relief. I've always chased after these pure beauties, trying to capture their natural mystique and use it to fuel my insane visions of artistic rapture and global redemption. Now I realize that what I really need is a whore.

"Open your mouth and give me directions!" she commanded. It sounded so odd at the time coming from her - like a stern dyke. This would later become our second or third inside joke. You know you're on the path to goodness with someone when you start to develop your own repertoire of inside jokes and funny moments. What a pleasure it is to be with someone both familiar and new.

The next day she surprised me. I've spent years with girls I swore I loved who never surprised me once. I've written reams of agonized prose and scores of crazy, tortured letters. I've made dozens of hand wringing confessions, and sworn epic, solemn oaths... and realized later that I never even liked the bitch.

"You're a queer," she taunted as I carried cleaning supplies into the bathroom in order to prepare it for her highness.

I pissed and thought about it.

"Since you called me a queer I'm not gonna clean the fucking bathroom," I told her as I emerged, belt unbuckled and fly unzipped.

I fetched her a Bud Light out of the fridge.

"My brand," she said. "My brand too," I half said/ half thought out loud half smiling. She prattled on for a few minutes about the significance of her tattoos and I dutifully listened, figuring this was the price of admission.

When I told her that I was an unabashed Scorpio and she told me that she was a Saggit- no a Virgo, and that we were, "compatible" (cosmoligically speaking) I felt like a man in full command of a crack battalion of elite troops.

The Traitors.

"What a great band name," I thought to myself as a long lost smile of satisfaction broke out across my face. She lit up a Marlboro Menthol. It actually smelled good.

One of our last inside jokes was about our fathers. Earlier, we had laughed knowingly as we shared stories of our northern Italian fathers' abject hatred of Sicilians. Neither of us could figure out where this came from. My father, a doctor of the mind, a Harvard grad, a man who could solve the New York Times Magazine crossword puzzle with a flick of the wrist, would suddenly become possessed with indignance and bile if ever confused with one of those "fucking greaseballs." Like we were that different.

Her father, none of those things, would do exactly the same.

"How old are your parents?" she would ask.

I laughed. "How old are your's?"

"My dad's 37," she said.

"Holy shit! My dad's like 66. My dad could be your dad's dad," I blurted out.

"And you could be my dad," came her witty response.

That was it - the moment of our truest connection. The moment we both knew we could both say anything, no matter how sick or perverted, and be rewarded with a kiss. That day a door opened.

6:30 am.

"Someone once wrote, 'Hell is the impossibility of reason'. That's what this place feels like Grandma, hell. "

The alarm goes off. I can hear the chopper blades churning but I'm not yet awake.

Too be continued...