In other grown topics, Shea and I discovered whilst lunching that we are on the same pay schedule, so we are now going to get lunch again on Friday, September 15th! I love having my lunch buddy back!
And today, in a clever move, I left for lunch at 12:50 p.m., in order to secure a table at Monster Sushi and give Shea enough time to get back to work. Arriving back at 1:50, I now have about 24-40 minutes of time to transcribe our lunch date, while those from Blargon 7 trickle back in:
“SUP Charli,” Shea taunts, sticking out his tongue and sliding into a blond wooden captain’s chair, upholstered in orange vinyl.
“Nothin’….” I smile, sipping my Diet Coke with lemon wedge through a straw.
“Did you order me the lunch special?”
“I sure did,” I say, “She said miso soup is coming right out.”
“Excellent!” he grins, “so how was your long weekend?”
“Ha ha ha, it was good! I got spirited away. But not to any hotties’ bedrooms… What about you?”
“I almost had a threesome, but–” the miso soup arrives and Shea takes the bowl with two hands and drinks the whole thing, steaming hot, “Mmmmm,” he slurps down the silken tofu and seaweed, “But, it fell through and I just wound up hooking up with one chick,” he says, tightening his short, stubby ponytail.
“Well, I lost my prospect to …. Some others….,” I say, catching myself.
“Who, that dude from that band? What are they called, Sturn?”
“Hull,” I say.
“I heard that band sucks,” he utters, biting into three edamames at a time, sometimes eating the shell.
“I dunno, I haven’t heard them. They are supposed to be playing somewhere in a basement near Other Music with some friends of mine soon,” I shrug.
“I thought you were dating a boring blogger,” he says, mixing all of the wasabi into a little black dish of soy sauce.
“I don’t think we are dating… I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I spent two nights at his house fully clothed, and all I heard from him last week was that he has to do laundry and needs a haircut…”
“Damn, Charli, dry spell! All the boring dudes are boring up your bedroom! But I heard you went home with Whitey!”
“Who told you that?” I demand, as our sushi rolls arrive on a raised rectangular wooden platform.
Shea uses chopsticks to toss a piece of spicy tuna roll into his mouth. “Mike Industrial was on a tear about it all weekend,” he says, eating another roll, “He wouldn’t stop sobbing about it.”
“Sobbing?”
“You know how he is. He’s emo. He dedicated his weekend to a ‘best friend’s betrayal’ and got extra fucked up.”
“But nothing even happened! Whitey gave me a ride home and literally tipped his hat to me and kissed my hand.”
“Yeah, right, Charli, come on…”
“It’s the truth. And Mike and Whitey need to get honest with each other. I’m not going to be in the middle of their stupid drama because they are so close that they enjoy torturing each other,”
“Well, people saw you stumble off from Daddy’s with Whitey.”
“Well…. He gave me a ride home.”
“What kinda ride??” Shea downs the wasabi and soy sauce mixture as if it were a shot. Three seconds pass and his face reddens quickly. “Eeeeeeuuuuuuuggggccccchhhhh!!” staggers out of his mouth, as his face contorts and eyes water over the wasabi’s sting.
“A polite ride home in a shitty van. Nothing happened, and it’s none of anyone’s business, you freak,” I say, plunking down $21.32 cash and gathering my bag. “I have to go back to work.”
“See you later, Charliiiiii, maybe for a JOY ride, heh heh heh,” Shea snickers, “Mike’s coming by if you wanna hop on.”
I flip Shea the bird and put on my giant sunglasses, serpentining my way out of Monster Sushi, east on 46th Street, then left to go up Fifth Avenue. I take another left on 48th Street and then swipe my ID over the turnstile, cruising up 28 floors in the elevator alone.
deux mille six 