Don't Stand So Close To Me

Don't Stand So Close To Me

11.15.05 (5:54 pm)   [edit]
"Poor, poor pitiful me
Poor, poor pitiful me
These young girls won't let me be
Lord have mercy on me
Woe is me."
- Warren Zevon


I got the call. There was a message on my cell at lunch time. I listened to it as I waited on the guys to come out so we could go have Chinese for lunch. My work-friend Dave (60 year old jazz guitar nut, giant John Scofield fan) has even bought lunch for me a couple times.

"Dougie, this is me."

She sounds like she's almost crying.

"I'm so sorry, but I think we can't see each other anymore. It's my fault. I hope you can forgive me."

Forgive? Sure. In fact, I'm fuckin' thrilled. You saved me from making this call myself.

She wants me to call her one more time, just to check in. I'm not so sure. I think I'll try to call when she's gone and leave my own message and be done with it.

God, she's so beautiful.

Wet bus stop...she's waiting...his car is warm and dry...

I told my co-worker about the call. I'd filled him in on the details through the morning. At one point I said, "And the moral of the story, boys and girls, is this. Don't jack off to teen porn."

I like it when he has to turn around and walk away to keep from losing his shit. That's my job - keep the help entertained.

I spent over half an hour in the plant manager's office after work. Damn, what a cool guy. We bullshitted about a little of everything. Too bad I'm going to have to leave soon, becuase I like these people. But I have to. I can't live on this money. And there's no overtime in the forseeable future. I was told to get it while I could, and it dried up a week later. Maybe an hour or two per week if we have to stay longer at the end of the day, but nothing more.

Jenny killed my hopes of anything more from the temp agency. No part-time or weekend stuff even exists, and I couldn't have it if it did, because they'd have to be the ones to pay me overtime, and they won't.

Gigs the next two weekends. But one of those merely makes up for not working two days over Thanksgiving. The day after, I'll be out job-hunting. Nothing more to be had here. Damn. I almost like this shitty job.

I thought about her all day, which somehow made it more tolerable. I don't really feel bad things toward her. I really doubt she meant to make me feel like this. I hope she finds what she needs. But it hurts to still feel her ghost in my arms. The ghost of a beautiful young girl.

Just like the...old man in...that book by Nabokov...

I'm going to Hell.

Dougie