So, Friday night I was sitting there in my chair, watching the street and people passing by (I’m on street level), with Pollini’s Chopin interpretation playing on my ears and my hands around an Irish Stout. I know that doesn’t really fit, but that’s the kind of guy I am. Chopin and beer? Sure thing!
Anyway, I’m used to getting all sorts of insults and requests through my open window.
I remember this time a crackhead ducked his head in and asked for a cigarette. Which is a request I usually grant, since by then they are already halfway inside my effin’ window and I want them to stay on that other particular side. You know, the street. Anyway, he said that what I should do was open some sort of cigarette franchise right there in the window. I said, well, if people would only pay – they come here like you and ask for a cigarette, not to pay for a cigarette. He said I, despite prior established fact, was such a nice guy that I’d make millions (yes, he actually said that) selling one and one cigarette out my window late at night. ‘Cause I was so nice and talked to people. I didn’t actually reply to that one, since I don’t know how the paranoid guy would react if I said I really did mind. He invited me to come visit him and have a beer one day when his psycho friends were out of the building. Thanks.
Back to the window situation. It’s not like people can’t avoid seeing me, but at the same time I’m in my fucking livingroom (and wardrobe, library, diningroom and bedroom) so I mostly do my best to ignore people. I’ve got privacy issues there. I don’t have none. Which is, again, another reason for moving the hell outta there.
I’m getting up, it’s about 1:30 am and this prude girl with glasses is squinting at me. I flip her the finger and walk away. You see, I’m lucky enough to have the kitchen in another room. And I tell you it’s great to be able to take a shit and stir your eggs at the same time. But I digress.
After all the Japanese tourists this summer I wouldn’t remember any particular face, but that girl with the squint really stuck to my head that night. I settled down that it prolly was the fact she’d taken an interst at 1:30 am, just about the time you’d expect her to jump to bed with me.
I wasn’t naked.
The night after, same position, different beer, I remember: SHIT! She looks like this gal at work! I send out a semi-humorous (I’m never funny) SMS text-message to a couple of other gals, tell them about this prude outside my window eyeing my beautiful, masculine body (ladies, you should’ve seen it) and ask whether they know if she lives in the city or not. Just to check if it was her or not. No biggie.
Not even today, Sunday, day of reckoning. What did I do now?
Relax, fellas. When it comes to drunk remarks, phonecalls and text-messages, girls are more tolerant than the Teletubbies on weed. A word to the wise. What you do is that you open your inbox, select all and erase. Then you go to your outbox, select all and erase. It’s a new fucking day!