She kissed me. Inger kissed me. I haven’t heard from her in a minute. She PM’s me saying she needs to see me. Ok. So . . . I pick her up on Southside. Well, more than that. I did the usual pull-over, get out to open the door and two things happen: she sits up front and before that, I get a big hug and a kiss, “I missed you.”
Oh. Uhm . . . “Missed you too.” There is so much in my head as I walked around to the driver’s seat. So many questions. Starting with, “missed me“? That’s boyfriend language. I’m a grumpy old man being kissed by a SHYT who says she misses me. WTF?!
This feline SHYT adjusts the seat so she can stretch out reclined, buckles up and waits for me to start driving. Where, tho? “Let’s go to your place,” says she. My place? Really? Oh my lord!
You can fill in some back story here. We started chatting on the way to Oak Grove where I live. The update is that she’s been laying low in hotels since last summer. She didn’t show up for court on her vandalism case from when she trashed the counter at Black Hand coffee. So there is a capias warrant out for her. The cops are watching her 16th Street place. Peachy.
Hot Mess Cat
This sucks. Inger is wanted by the cops and she’s flirting with me. I put a lot of effort into achieving boring. I’d be an idiot if I got too close to somebody that would challenge all that hard work. I’m an idiot. “Alan, can I ask you something?”
“Can I stay with you for a while?” No. Hell no, “Sure. The extra bedroom is kind of a mess. But I can help you with that.” Don’t remind me that you should not feed a stray cat, “You are awesome.” I don’t know about that.
Woo. I’ve acquired a stray cat as a pet. Even better, she’s a wealthy hot mess. Everything was good with her until she had a breakdown, accused a coworker of raping her, and ran away from her wealthy, first-world family and life. Since then she’s lengthened her criminal record and psych-ward chart. Since March of 2019 with COVID-19 she’s set up camp in the 16th street bungalow and self-quarantined (sort of). she’s picked up a pit bull from a rescue shelter per the fashion of our neighborhood. I keep finding girl flotsam in my bathroom and the guest bedroom even though I have an alarm system to which she does not have a code. She kissed me.
She kissed me on a Friday night in the thick of bar close when my fondest wish is a string of tipsy young women headed home. Our dear guvnut Knawthem has decided that one answer to the apocalyptic pandemic is to force bars to close by 10pm. Because that way people won’t share the same air and spread COVID-19. As if COVID-19 is sentient and obeys the guvnut’s dictums. Bar close, thus, has been underwhelming. The kiss was nice–familiar like been dating for a year.
No Tell Motel Kiss
Right on Commerce to head to my house, “who was the guy?“
“Just some guy. I don’t think you know him. I hate being alone.“
“No. I met him in Santa Clara when I lived in the park. Just a friend.” Then dead air while we drove home.
Instant Decorator Nice
At the house, it was clear she’d been there. We came in through the back door. The guest bedroom and kitchen were clean and organized. Curtains replaced the blinds. I have a day bed I didn’t have before, “what’s all this?“
“Like it?” No . . . erm . . . yes, “I guess. Your work?“
“My Mom’s decorating company. You are welcome.“
Bother, two women who have good intentions but didn’t include me, “Thanks. It’s nice.” One of those gifts. Like a husband giving the wife a gas grill. Though . . . they have me pegged. The guest room has a leather “Poppa” chair. That’s a secret wish of mine, “Is the leather real?“
“Yes. I hate those fake things the Dump sells.” She has a point. “So do you like it?” accompanied by tugging on her shirt bottom so that more cleavage is visible.
Cringe. I like it in very taboo ways, “Yeah, it’s good.” A little secret. I like small women with itty-bitty titties. Inger is just under 5′ and probably 90lbs. Short pink hair showing red roots. She had on yoga pants, a cotton tank top, and a half-buttoned Pendleton shirt, “I think I still have quiche in the fridge.“
“Nope. That was my breakfast,” Inger’s eyes smiling.
“Ok, I need to know something. Are you my burglar?“
“No. Would a burglar decorate your guest bedroom and clean your kitchen?“
“How are you getting past my alarm?“
“I have your code.”
“Only three people have a tag with a code, TJ, Tim, and me. None of them are written down.“
“Your laptop pin is 4261.“
“I helped Saito-san’s people with access because you have a door in your living room closet. Your living room closet is the closest door to Paradise. I use it to get to Saito’s casino.“
Oh. I need that door. I guess Inger needs it also. It isn’t so free, bother, “You can’t use your 16th Street place?“
“Seriously? You don’t know?” Her face says incredulous.
“Hungry? We can order take-out.”
“I’m not hungry,” crossing the room to hug me. We kiss, longer and sloppier this time. I try touching her chest and she presses my hand into her left tit. 10 pm.
Saturday morning. I usually start work around 10 am. Inger and I didn’t get moving until after lunch, “Anything planned today?“
“I have to stop by 16th Street and check my mail. Maybe do a load of wash. You could come over and save your laundromat money.“
The laundry basket overflowed a few days ago. It smells bad, “Sure.“
It was a domestic weekend. Self-care stuff got done. We walked Belle Island. Inger’s 16th Street house is the same model as mine. 672 sq. ft., 5 rooms. She set up the front bedroom as a yoga studio. Her closet door has a Nest Yale lock on it. So that was a fib that my living room closet door is the only nearby door to Paradise. Whatever.
“Honey, I need to go see my Mom. Are you staying?“
“I miss my house. I think I’ll walk home. Thanks for letting me use your wash machine.” I’ve graduated to being honey. One thing that happens in relationships is that you lose your first name. You become a title–honey, babe, and later, husband, wife, Dad, or Mom. Until you are in trouble. Then it’s “ALAN!” or worse, “Alan Webb!”
“Text me later, ok?“
“Ok. Thanks again for everything.“
“Anytime, text me.” Last word disease. It’s chronic in my family. Seems like Inger’s got it too. The cure is to shut up.
I walked home. We walked the laundry home yesterday after I got back from church. Inger is spiritual, she says, but she doesn’t like church. Her parents are members of Tabernacle Baptist. I’ve been a member of St. Giles Church for 20 years. She likes it that I am faithful. I know how Jesus tends to bleed into our hearts until one day we find ourselves talking to the pastor about a confession of faith.
Tuesday morning I was dressed and ready, keys to the Flex in one hand, coffee in the other. I finished my ten hours and booked $165. Not bad.
A weekend with Inger had me wound up. I was nervous about her. So many ways that an old guy like me should stay away from a SHYT like her. She’s young enough to be a granddaughter. It was a good weekend. My phone lights up, “Hey, can we go to Paradise this weekend?“
“Sure,” Just walk through my living room closet door. Phone again, this time from an unknown number, “we need to talk.” I reply, “why?“
“You could get mixed up in Inger’s mess.” Too late.
“Who is this?“
“The Red Roof Inn friend.“
“Remember the finger she found in the abandoned Cadillac?“
“What about it?“
“The cops think she’s good for it.” Great. I break my dry spell with a wanted rich girl. Now I’m getting attention I don’t want.