Hello, I'm Patricia, and I have
absolutely nothing to do with this story.
I'm gonna call it a close encounter of the Robin kind.
Of all the weird circumstances that could befall me on this stupid day in this stupid month in this stupid year, my year of relationship-recovery in which I never really get to enjoy the company of any woman in any real sense. Of all the ways she could have dropped in on me. I mean, here I have sat for a good week and a half shaking off the heeby-jeebies from humid heat-addled Houston off and on again thinking about her and whether I should call her.
I'm sure this is quite beyond the comprehension of most of my male readers, but lately I look at getting laid in terms of whether or not the social hassles are worth it. Mostly, I'd rather be alone and write. It's a recent phenomenon. Hunter was probably the first witness to it. In Houston, he kept reminding me of this woman or that women who was hot for my bod and what the hell was wrong with me. Frankly, Hunter, I don't know.
But now that I've classified the hell out of my impending story, here it is.
Here I sat staring at the fucking computer all day, utterly mesmerized by my first experience with DSL, that disease of the "Always-On-The-Internet," the Wal-Mart of the World Wide Web, when suddenly a noise calls my attention away. I go to the door to see if someone is there.
And what do I see sitting out front in the dry, drought-dead grass than Robin herself. Robin. Creature of mystery. Thing of legend. Long talked about in these parts, she of the deep, manly voice and the tall lithe body of a Greek god. Dess.
What's with this girl? I have had to suffer through years of utterly delicious and taunting details about her up-and-come-ence from child to woman of legal age, from legal to lethal. Not that she wasn't always lethal. Utterly tantalizing, and as such utterly horrid for me who loathes vicarious excitement. I would rather fuck an ugly whore than ever be caught sitting home pining over some hot trinket in a bikini. Never. I abhor hot trinkets in bikinis.. unless of course they are my hot trinkets.
No. I would rather NEVER have heard about Robin and her blossoming into womanhood.
But thanks to a longstanding friendship with Swami, it couldn't be helped. I got all the gruesome details. Throughout years of exile from this incestuous little green pubic mound-mountain east of Riverside, through Oregon rains and Arizona's hot baking sun, through seven years of Burning Man, two years of a wrong turn at Albuquerque, several desperate, humid Texas months and one brain-bashing three-month drunk in New Orleans, I heard about Robin. All about Robin.
And I stepped out the door and into the light of day and she turned her head, her sitting there in a swarm of kittens, some twelve little pussies pawing and languidly licking themselves on her lap. Oh, Jeezus. What next God? Surely this must be a joke?
Robin with her raspberry dirty blond hair long and straight down her back, straight as the line of a naked thigh and long as an angel's contented sigh. Robin with her larger-than-life eyes, blue maybe, I can't be sure so blinding are they. Robin with her dark brows, starkly standing out against her auburn hair and fair, satin skin. Robin , self-conscious as a mole, a mumbler worse than me, her barely coherent verbiage spoken low and in to her lap, affording me every opportunity to say, "What's that? What's that?" and to hear her sweaty musk-dusky voice again.
Robin, soft innocent dagger in my heart a decade long. Robin, outside my window with a lap full of cats.
Who would have figured? Who could have known? One couldn't script such a meeting. It just wouldn't fly. No one would believe it. Neither could I.
So I engaged angel Robin in conversation, offered her a beer, anything, anything Lord to keep her there until I snap out of this dream.
And it worked. Sort of. There we sat talking about cats and cradles and niddies and naytles and biddies and battles when at long last she confessed to a bit of hunger and I dove right in, tres Romeo, tres Riley, tres Cassinova, Rachmaninov, Rapunsal, whatever. Dinner! said I. And so it was.
But it wasn't what I expected. First, in the spirit of a great chef I offered her anything. Second, to my mind dinner came at dinner time, not four in the afternoon. But Robin was hungry. Hadn't eaten all day, she said. After she'd crawled around in her truck for five minutes only to scrounge a box of Scooby-Doo macaroni and cheese mix, I believed her.
"Hmm. Scooby-Doo, huh?" Delightful.
Savvy suave Tavi that I am, I withheld my impulse to laugh and said merely that her culinary wish was my command. If the mack and cheese thing was on account of that's all she had, she needn't worry. But after a great deal of hemming and hawing on her part, I understood. Mack and cheese it was. That's what the Divine Robin wanted, and that was what she would get.
So I cooked. She and the pussies came inside. I gave them scratchin's and I gave her wine. Port wine, that is. Tawny Port, as I was all out of beer. God, I love tawny port. It's just soooo tawny!
Then a millennium passed in the matter of the mack and cheese's 12 minutes of cooking time, and she ate, and I ate, and the kittens ate, and she packed up her pussies and left.
It was a close encounter of the Robin kind.
[Postscript: In the 12-minute millennium Robin gave me, I saw a lot of the smooth skin and erato-cello movements of a young, devastated, utterly-unreasonably, pointlessly self-conscious, beautiful cello player. And I was grateful for it, whatever it meant.]