Me and Charles - talking dogs can't fly

The worst worst Monday

2004-12-05T17:26:00.000-08:00

Monday stumbles in with four snooze button hits, burnt toast as there's no milk, and a lunch consisting of an apple, can of Pasta-In-A-Can (the label is gone, so I'm not sure if its the little meat packet or Macaroni noodle kind), and a can opener. I have no time to shower, brush my teeth or do much more than wet and pat down my hair. I hate wearing the same underwear two days in a row, but theres no other option today.

The freeway has turned into the Idiot-apolis 500, major grid lock. Drivers are changing lanes sporadically, 'Yes this lane is moving so much faster, please cut me off.' I'm going to be late again. Why is everything moving so slow? I wish I had a flying car, I wouldn't have this problem any longer. Or a rocket launcher mounted on my roof would clear things up fast.

The problem with being late on the Monday morning drive to work, is you become exponentially late for work the later you leave. As the morning moves along, the road fills with more 'late people': panicky, sleepy-eyed people racing against the clock, all the while eating breakfast, applying makeup, and checking they're hair in the rear-view mirror. Monday mornings have to be the unsafest time to drive during the week. I have no statistics to back this up, it just makes sense.

Here we go, this was the hold up, somebody has a flat tire. They're on the shoulder of the road, out of the way, not blocking traffic at all, but everybody slows down and looks. People, it's just a flat tire! You've seen these before, chances are you might even have had one. Move along! What could be so interesting? Maybe he's using a new type of car-jack.

Speed-walking through the front door of Boxlander Inc. (where I work), I plan to rush to my desk before anybody sees me. If nobody sees me I can say that I was five minutes late, not fifteen, well actually it's closer to seventeen and a half, but I can say that I was only five minutes late which is a forgivable time for anybody to be late. Just need to get my jacket off and into my cubicle and then I'll...

The conference door room swings open, which is located right by the main entrance, and co-workers are piling out. I'm screwed. Co-workers take they're jabs as they file by.

"You're a little late."
"Where were you?"
"It's about time you got here. You missed out on the safety realignment meeting this morning. It started at 7:30am. Did you forget about it?" Jacob stops, questioning, and filling me in on the mornings events.
"Nobody told me about this meeting. Was it important? What did I miss? How was I supposed to know about this?" Panicking a bit, this is not working well for my get-to-my-cubicle-so-nobody-knows-I'm-late plan.
"Your manager should have told you about it. Didn't Gary say anything?" he responds.
"No. That jerk face, I can't believe he did this to me. He needs a punch in the..." I stop short as Gary walks out, Jacob scurries off and I'm left to face the wrath of Gary.

Smirking, Gary starts in, "Nice of you to come in today. Are you only working half-days now?" he chuckles.
" didn't know about any safety realignment meetings. Nobody told me," I snap back.
"I told you about it, I put a memo on your desk on Friday."
"No you didn't."
"Yes, I did. You must have missed it."
"Or I didn't receive it."

I get to my cubicle, unloading my lunch and coat onto my desk and boot my computer. Stupid Gary not telling me about this meeting. My ears a burning I'm so mad. This makes me look awful, and will probably be noted on my upcoming performance evaluation. What's this? A sheet of paper sits on the side of my desk, It's the safety meeting reminder from Gary. This was not here Friday.

Stupid Mondays. Why would any moron schedule a meeting for 7:30am on a Monday anyways? Nobodies going to be awake during that meeting, so why bother. And why do we need safety meetings in an office anyways? Dear staff, please stop stapling your hands with the new 100-page stapler; it's bad for you, but more importantly it's bad for the company. As well paper cuts were up last week, and were trying to cut back on the number of band-aids we go through. And a reminder that playing basketball with your scrap paper is against company policy as it clearly breaks the 'No fun' policy.

Stupid safety meetings. Stupid traffic. Stupid Gary. Stupid Mondays.

Sundays with cube vans, cheap sunglasses and Hollywood

2004-11-18T22:50:00.000-08:00

As we turn onto the street that leads up to our house, I notice a strange looking van parked on the opposite side of the street, facing us. Its not such a strange looking van, but its what is in the van: two men in black suits and cheap sunglasses, just sitting there. Why would two men be in suits in a cube van on a Saturday? I wonder what they are doing. Vacuum salesmen? Maybe they're door-to-door insurance salesmen, or a new type of plumbing company that hopes to set itself apart from the competition by having their plumbers dress up in suits. Possibly.

I settle with “vacuum-insurance salesmen”, who are going door-to-door soliciting insurance to people with really expensive vacuums, just in case they are ever stolen: grand theft vacuum insurance, to be professional about it. Or for people looking to have liability insurance, should a terrible vacuum accident occur where the neighbor's Great Dane is sucked up accidentally. They go to each door with their fancy brief cases, hand out glossy color pamphlets that graph the exponential increase in vacuum related lawsuits with projections that “next year it's likely to be in the billions of dollars in the United States alone.” Probably.

The day turns to evening, finished off with rented movies and late night television. Scooby-Doo was a bad choice for our first movie, Charles disapproving of the way American dogs were portrayed as “foolhardy, graceless and unintelligent.” This was washed down with a lot of root beer soda, and a another comedy where the supporting actress was extremely attractive and falls in love with the dorky protagonist guy.

Sunday comes and I'm quite groggy despite the ten hours of sleep. It isn't until 3pm that I shed my pajamas and hit the shower. Most of the day is spent thinking about how I wish today wasn't Sunday, not because I don't like Sunday, it's just I'm not too excited for Monday.

Who is? Work sucks. No matter how much you enjoy your job or find fulfillment in it, you'd rather not be there. That's why we are there: to work long and hard, so we don't have to work there one day.

I've worked at Boxlander Inc. for two years... no wait, three years... we make boxes as the name might suggest. It's really hard to make this sound exciting to your friends: “Yeah, we make all kinds of rectangular milled products. Its challenging, it involves a lot of science and project management...” By this time new-girl-I-just-met-at-party is looking into her drink, then looking for exit-friends to engage with. I've started opting for a more vague description: “We do... stuff.” It might keep their attention, and I don't have to come right out and tell them I make cardboard boxes for a living. Or I'll even go for an anecdotal story about how stupid or insane one of my coworkers is, or the fact that we are less than a block from the women's prison.

I don't mind working here, seeing as I do have to work somewhere, however I was pretty sure I was going to be a fighter pilot in grade three and I'm a little despondent somedays. It's great, just last week we had this large order for four feet high, black corrugated lined cardboard boxes with four external handles (or 'lifties' as we call them in the industry) and dual safety latching mechanisms, each. This was seriously expensive and labor intensive. We even had to... oh, your looking at your glass, I'll stop.

The part I hate most about my job isn't the stress, it's Gary, my boss. An overweight thirty-something with long greasy black hair caked into a ponytail. By no means is he qualified for the position he holds, which seems to be buying 'collectibles' off ebay and picking his nose. Fortunate for him, he has me as a scapegoat to brush all blame and work onto.

The thing I hate most about Gary is that he gets away with all of this, and is oblivious to the fact that he's a big dork. He continually rants and raves about 'phenomenal' jazz music he's discovered, which usually sounds department store friendly, and equates to a trio of senior citizens playing the same three jazz bars, maybe changing the tempo a few times (Or “getting crazy”, as Gary would say).

And the mopping around Sunday continues.

The phone rings. “Hello.” The voice on the other end sounds polished, a trained telemarketer who'll probably want to talk to the man of the house, and he does. An offer for me? I'm about to hang-up when he mentions “being on television”. He has my interest, and in the next five minutes he delivers an offer I can't refuse: for free, me and a guest, get tickets to be in a live studio audience for the filming of a brand new product launch. This is great. Free tickets, live studio audience, and get this, we get a prize for participating and our names will be entered in a draw for a family vacation (somewhere warm sounding, but I forget the name). I'm ecstatic, I can't wait to tell Charles. Ok, this Thursday, six o'clock sharp, write down the directions and my ticket confirmation number, and thank the gentlemen on the other line “so much”.

I can't wait, this is great. I wonder if this will be an acting break for me into Hollywood? I'll be in the studio audience, looking interested and intelligent, Hollywood scout spots me (which I'm sure all of these have, in fact maybe that's all this is: a giant Hollywood scouting clinic.), I get flown to Hollywood, ground breaking movie debut, an Oscar and a nice car. I'll be on the cover of lots of magazines, being the guy who isn't too handsome like those other guys, or too strong like that other guy; just plain-old average boy next door.

I might go for a run, I need to be in tiptop shape for this Thursday. Should I shave, or should I go for the rustic tough, yet sensitive look? What to wear? Probably should get a real haircut too, or maybe the 'rough look' is what they're looking for. I got to tell Charles, I run over, “Guess what!”

“Huh?” he grunts back.

“This Thursday we have free tickets to go to the filming of a product launch for TV!” I continue, giving him all the details, repeating most things five times, showing him the paper I wrote everything down for proof.

“Sounds like an Infomercial,” he interrupts.

“What? No.” The blood is rushing from my head. He's right, it is just an infomercial, it all makes sense. I feel so stupid, and sad that my Hollywood debut won't be coming this Thursday. Screw the run, I head to the freezer and scoop myself a big bowl of ice cream, and flop down on the couch beside Charles. “What's on?”

A "make millions" great idea

2004-11-13T18:55:00.000-08:00

An awkward silence follows Charles sharing his take on the Melissa and me scenario. I'm mad. Mad at what he's just said, it hurts; mad at the likelihood of what he said is true. If that was the truth, I guess I really didn't want to hear it.

I've decided I'm not going to say anything until we get home, a silent protest. Charles breaks the silence just as we cross the bridge, over the river, leaving downtown. “I have a great idea; it'll probably make us millions.”

“What's that?”, I ask, sounding annoyed, but actually quite curious. Every time Charles has one of his super ideas, they're actually quite interesting.

“What does downtown have a lot of?” he asks.

“I don't know. Homeless people, parking meters, bus stops,...” Flipping through my memory Rolodex of all the things we saw today at lunch.

“No, no. Think infrastructure. There are a lot of big buildings and parking lots, and they are only occupied from eight to five, Monday through Friday. The rest of the time, they just sit there. So what we should do is have drive-in movies, downtown! Think about it, you could project movies onto these giant skyscrapers, fill parkades and parking lots with cars, and broadcast the sound on a local FM radio channel.”

“That's a great idea.”

“Yeah, I know. You would need very little for infrastructure, as all these things are in place, except the movie projector and FM broadcaster. It's the same basic setup as your old fashion drive-in movie theater, with a new twist.”

This idea, like most of Charles' plans, is so crazy, it might just work. Why not? I wonder how much a projector costs, or an FM broadcaster. I wonder if I would get to wear a tuxedo, a nice tuxedo, and we'd make all the employees wear those bow ties and vests, because that's what minimum wage employers do, and that's what the kids expect.

This interlude in the day is great, for a few minutes I forget about all the garbage in my life. I'm always guaranteed to hear something interesting when Charles has a great idea, especially when “it'll probably make us millions”. Although there was a month straight where every idea involved a cat trap or cat dispenser; these came shortly after Charles had a nasty run in with the fat tabby cat at the end of the block. The big fat cat chased him around in circles for five minutes, while he screamed like a girl. I'd have taken the opportunity to make fun of him, but the cats pretty crazy looking, and I'm as equally frightened in its presence.

Today doesn't have to be all that bad, you just can't think about it that much. Maybe I need to approach life from an entirely different angle, at a safer distance. If I don't let myself get too attached to anything, or anyone, it won't hurt so bad when they're gone. And eventually everything will be gone.

Happily married for 80 years? Well one of you is going to die first, unless your so lucky that you both go in the same night, same car accident or you have a carbon monoxide leak. If you're not so fortunate, then one of you is looking at a significant loss, and tremendous hurt. You just can't let yourself get to close to anything, because everything will be gone, one day.

I'll need to iron out the wrinkles in my new mantra, however I think it has potential as a great self preservation tool. I'll run it by Charles later, when I'm not acting upset with him.

Nearing home, I can't help but wonder if I've become such an excellent driver as a result of over a decade of driving in video games. I've raced motorbikes, skateboards, surfboards, snowboards, fighter jets, and expensive sports cars; all of these must have given me some sort of advanced hand-eye motor skills that my parents never could have developed. I take my hands off the steering wheel and control the car with just my left knee.

“What are you doing?” Charles asks.

“Uh, nothing.” My hands are back on the wheel.

I guess that game where you speed into an intersection, trying to crash into as many other cars for maximum points, probably shouldn't be put on my list of video-game-driver-training-credentials. And that other one where you launch off the ramp, through the burning hoop of fire, could be argued as not being relevant to real life; though if the occasion should ever arise, I'll be ready.

And if the Princess ever gets kidnapped, an Evil Professor steals precious diamonds to create evil weapons, or Alien Invaders attack Earth... I'll be ready.

The reality of the relationship

2004-11-12T23:24:00.000-08:00

Back in the car, headed for home, Charles makes a suggestion, “You should ask out the cute girl from the coffee shop.”

“You mean the blond one?”, I ask. Of course he means the blond, I've only been thinking about her every five minutes since we saw her this morning, but I'm trying to act casual, you see.

“No, the dorky haired guy. Yes the blond one!”, he snaps back.

“I can't, I already have a girlfriend.”

“No you don't.”

It's true, I already have a girlfriend, kind of. We're just on a break, kind of. It's actually the seventh or eighth “break” in our relationship and the fourth in the last month. I'm not really sure how the fights that cause these breaks get started, as I don't start them, and they're never my fault. Well, there was that one time when I invited Melissa to a movie, I ended up picking her up too late, and we missed all the shows we wanted to see and were forced to watch an army movie. A good army movie though, but she was still mad. Lately, nothing I do is right, I feel like she's the relational 'monkey wrench'.

Females tend to do be the 'monkey wrench' in relationships more than the males. In an effort to brew passion in their courting male counterparts, the female will put up an obstacle that the male will have to surmount, which in her mind logically means that he loves her, has proved his love her, is worthy to continue courtship and will do so now with more fervor than ever. All a bunch of hog wash really, but this is how it goes, and goes, and goes. When this ploy is continually used, relational deflation soon commences.

I'm not sure if that these breaks are all relational monkey wrenches, or a sign things are ending. I really don't want things to end, I like her a lot, sometimes. She was really great when I met her, we had so much in common, and she was an incredibly interesting person. She's changed, I haven't: she's no longer happy, conversationally creative or sharing. It seems like she spends most of our time together complaining about me or her friends (merely girl type gossip, regarding “I can't believe she said that” or “wore that”).

I haven't changed; She's changed.

But I think things will workout.. I've invested seven months with her, and I'm not going to let that all crumble just because of a few dumb fights. She'll come around, we'll come around, we just need some time and a good talk.

“You guys aren't dating anymore, trust me. Stop trying to hang on to the last little thread of your dying relationship. It's written all over Melissa's face: it's over”, Charles delivers, and it's a little harsh.

“Whatever. We'll see,” I respond, thinking about how happy I would be if these relational-breaks weren't hanging over my head. Not to mention that Cute Coffee Girl is quite cute. But I can make it work with Melissa, I can't think about other girls, I won't think about other girls. What am I missing here? “What do you mean it's written all over her face?”

Charles first point: “Body language, her actions make her feelings transparent. For example, have you noticed that she doesn't put her dishes away when she eats at your house? The first sign of not caring, losing respect and love. On a first date, both of you would be scrambling to clean up after yourself and one another.”

“You might be reading into that a little too much,” I suggest.

“Fair enough. Another example: When she sits and talks with you, her legs and arms are crossed a lot, and she tends to look up and away from you a lot. This isn't good. Looking up and away, indicates annoyance, inconvenience and 'I wish I was some where else now'. The only time 'up and away' looking is good, is when there is big stupid smiling or lip biting – both indicators of heart throbbing. You follow?” Charles finishes his second point.

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Though she is nice sometimes,” I defend.

“Yeah, the in-and-out tides, the last breath of life in the relationship. She has already decided she's done, emotional bags are packed, but every once and a while she comes back for just one more breath of fresh air, remember what was. These are becoming less and less, as she'll move onto another source of fresh air eventualy. I'm telling you, things are done, and the sooner you accept this and move on, the better you'll be.”

I'm not taking this news to well, as my heart is still in relationship-revival mode, and maybe we can make this work still. The bottom of my stomach feels heavy, sick, and stressed. Now what? A little annoyed at Charles, I give back, “Well, you don't know everything, you don't know us, and you don't know how things are going either. Maybe things will workout.”

Maybe things will workout. I'm not sure where things started going off track, but if I ... if we fix this, then we'll be rolling again.

Downtown Lunch & Downer Eric

2004-11-11T22:57:00.000-08:00

Lunch was good. I felt like Italian food, Charles felt like steak, and we met somewhere in the middle with Chinese food. We order our usual dishes, I'm a chicken type guy, and Charles settles with something 'beefy'. We both opt out on tea, realizing that our caffeine levels are getting dangerously high.

On the way there Charles kept punching me in the arm every time the chorus to that classic rock song kicked in; a little too wound-up, and excited for Chinese food.

Charles orders everything in Chinese, I'm not sure how fluent he is, but I get what I wanted off the menu and he seems happy, so he can't be half bad.

I always put too much spice on my food and end up sniffling for an hour or two afterwards.

As we head back to the car we run into Eric, a guy I went to college with, and whom I don't care for too much. It's not my fault really, Eric is outright annoying as every conversation he has with anybody is about himself. I guess you have to feel sorry for the guy, wanting everybody to like him so much that he feels the need to sell himself as being great to the world. “Things could not. Be. Better”, he draws out, trying to highlight the greatness. Shifting weight from one leg to the next, back and forth, as Eric, 'the center of the universe', talks about himself. “Blah blah, I just bought a new car, blah blah... and it was amazing... blah blah... new girlfriend blah blah...”

I keep giving him the “that's great Eric, glad to hear things are going good”, looking for an exit, shifting hips in the walking away direction. Good gosh Man! Learn to read body language; I want to go, I got to go, I have places I need to be. Eric keeps fixing his already perfect collar on his new shirt that he just bought because he's so wonderful. I contemplate faking that I have an important incoming call, pulling out my wallet, cupping it, looking at it as though it was a beeper on vibrate with an important message that would require me to leave with the great urgency.

When we finally get away and out of sight of Eric, Charles chirps up, “Wow, that was painful.” I nod, agreeing.

You have to feel sorry for Eric, the poor sap. Trying to get people to like him, he tries to sell himself, and usually fails. He doesn't seem to realize that it's a two-way street, that people don't want to just hear about him. And those who know him are especially uninterested in his success and how “great things are going” spiels, as we all know that the his dad funds all of his toys, education, crisp white polo shirts with perfect collars, and generally everything “great”. The one thing he wants, acceptance, he chases away with his only bait, talking about himself.

Fat & Plaid

2004-11-09T17:04:00.000-08:00

In the parking lot, two men, who look to be in their forties, both wearing plaid, long sleeve shirts are leaning, against a pick-up truck on opposite sides, and are talking. The one on the passenger side sporadically throws his head back, laughing uncontrollably as he tells a story, full of gestures, to his truck-leaning friend. I nudge Charles and point with my chin in their direction, knowing he'll be as amused as I am – Charles has had a few negative run-ins with plaid farmer types, and isn't too fond of them, to say the least.

Without any prompting, both of us start into the dubbing game – a passionate tribute to old, English dubbed Kung-Fu movies, that always involve a drunk old guy who teaches an underling how to fight through chores and cooking chicken. Charles does the voice for the larger man, the one who does all the laughing, arm flaying and most of the talking; I'm the voice-over for the other guy.

“So there I was, just minding my business...”, Charles says in his most baritone voice.

It's my turn, the other guy is talking, “And what? What business?”

“Well, this thing, this flying thing...”, Charles waves his arms, mimicking the fat man in plaid in the parking lot.

“No kidding. What color was it?”, I start on cue.

“Doesn't matter, it was bright, like a flying Christmas tree. A UFO or sometin”, responds Charles, as the fat man in plaid.

“No kidding. Then what? What? Tell me what?”, I ramble, as my character, is talking more than expected.

Suddenly C.C.T. (the Cute Coffee Girl) is at the table next to us, both of us look at her, startled, does she know what we've been doing?, did she hear us?, and does she think we're weird now. She puts a dirty cup on an adjacent plate, gives the table a clean wipe, smiles at us, the kind of smile that says, “Silly boys...”, and leaves. Charles has both arms straight up in the air, presumably a “UFO kidnapping” voice-over was to follow. We look at each other, quickly 'act cool', flipping through our papers and taking sips of coffee every 5 seconds; both of us are a bit embarrassed.

Its time to leave, Charles agrees, and we head for the door. It's been an eventful morning, and the day looks like it might just get better, with Charles suggesting lunch downtown. He always pays when we go for supper downtown.

C.C.G.

2004-11-04T22:41:00.000-08:00

Heading home, Chars insists on leaning out the window, as usual – this actually really amuses me that an ivy league grad enjoys such silly activities; although, he is a dog.

“You want to stop at the Java Jerks?” I ask, half suggesting, I don't know that I need to go, it is Saturday though, and there aren't really any consequences for excessive coffee consumption today.

“Uh, yeah!”, Charles spits back, tounge hanging out of the side of his mouth as we cruise. I'm debating playing the 'oh my goodness the car is out of control and I'm swerving all over the place' game, and seeing if I can scare Charles. Last time he covered my eyes for a good 5 seconds, which is actually a long time when driving down a freeway, and I opt out of playing the game.

“Java Jerks”, is actually “Java John's”, but one day, a year ago we met John, an inconsiderate jerk who gave Charles funny looks for being, well, a dog. He had the nerve to suggest that we might want to sit outside, Charles took care of a retaliation that somehow involved the fifth or sixth Amendment and the Boston Tea Party Reparation Act, which I'm pretty sure he made up. Thankfully John is a lazy jerk and is never at Java Jerks, or maybe he died in a terrible car crash and the place is under new management. I don't know.

Charles is jumping through the stations on the car radio, pushing harder and faster in growing frustration as each station serves up an even less palatable song or syndication than the last. Finally we land on an AM oldies station, both of us a little relieved that relative goodness has been found.

Charles has been a little stressed out lately, not really sure what's up. Usually when I call him on my lunch break I can hear him typing like mad on the computer, strained and focused on the task at hand; and a quick brush off follows. Not to sure what he's so busy with, as when I ask I usually get a “Saving the world numb nuts.”

Ah Yes! A great song by Diana Ross comes on. We both make up actions that generally consist of waving our index fingers back and forth, shaking our heads; followed by pointing our fingers, still shaking our heads. Charles is a pretty good dancer, as am I. I'm pretty sure we'd take gold at the 'National Pairs Cool Dancing - Ball Room Dancing Sucks – Finals”, should such a beast exist.

Inside an attractive coffee girl stands at the till, blond, mid-length hair that goes behind the ears with a few chunky strands that hang down in front of her right eyebrow, or wait her left eyebrow, my right. I haven't seen her here before, oh and I better call her a 'caffeine technician' or 'coffee artist'... she's gorgeous.

Charles has his nose up against the pastry display, asking her co-worker, dorky hair, pasty white skin boy about the ingredients of each pastry. Charles could make the boy's life much easier by going in a nice linear fashion starting at the top left and working his way down to the bottom right, instead of from one side of the deli display to the next and back. And his “hotter, hotter... ok now your getting cold, colder... No! Now your getting ice cold, I'm on the dark side of the moon cold! Your killing me!” isn't nearly as effective as a simple “up and to your left” might do.

Paying for the drinks, two lattes with one for Charles having so many adders that dorky hair boy is sure to screw up, we make some small talk with 'cute coffee girl', C.C.G. for short, pronounced 'Seee-Gee'. “Enjoying the lovely day, yes.”, I put in, deciding I won't mention the few incidents that occurred earlier at the park.

We're forced to sit a few tables down from our usual tables, which Charles isn't too happy about, as two elderly ladies are in our usual spot. Our spot. No worries, there's a 34% chance that seats are always taken, and irregardless Charles and I both 'pffft' underneath our breath each time we somebody in our spot. Sit down, three stirs, sip, burn upper lip; three stirs, spoon up, blow, sit. I always do this, burn myself on these stupid drinks, which they make so stupid hot. I don't know how Charles can handle the heat.

We're nearly settled in, I bring over the few remaining shreds of what was once the Saturday newspaper, the one we don't buy because it's not nearly as well written as the one we subscribe to – or so Charles has informed me. I manage to get the Business section for Charles and find what might be the section that has the comics in it for myself. Charles takes a deep breath, pulls a little stretch, and looks at me.

“Robbie. Did you know you hold your breath whenever you're talking to attractive women?”, starts Charles.

“What? No I don't.” Yes I do. How does he know? “Oh wait, help me, an attractive girl, I can't breath... please help... tell family... I love them...” I cough and spudder.

“You do. You get nervous and you stop breathing. I'm sure you don't mean too.” Charles doesn't take the let's-change-the-subject-your-wrong-bait and continues, completely serious.

“Oh. Maybe I do a little. I'll stop.” What am I saying. I don't why I do this. I don't purposefully try to stop breathing, I don't know what's going on: room spins, palms sweat, speech gets jumbled, and time seems to stop, spitting me out a few minutes, or hours, later.

Charles continues, “The key is confidence. When you walk in and attractive girl is present, don't think: 'she's gorgeous, amazing, out of my league'. You need to have the attitude: yes, she's attractive, but I'm pretty amazing myself; I don't need her to like me, but she will because, well, I'm amazing. In fact, I'm so amazing that I'd be just as happy sitting on an island, alone, thinking up great Plato caliber philosophy.

“It's all just a game, it's not as serious as your grade seven teacher made it out to be as he pointed to overhead slides of circles which represented relationships with the pinnacle being 'Mommy and Daddy making babies'. It's about selling yourself; it's the hard sell. 'I really don't need you', therefore she thinks, wow, he must have something going for him, 'not needing me or anything'. And once one notices the flocks will start to come in. Hard to get, therefore: wanted, desired, and needed.

“If diamonds lined the shores of every ocean would women insist on having them on their engagement rings? No. They like diamonds because they're rare, expensive, hard to get, cost an arm-and-a-leg and everybody likes shiny stuff.”

“Wow”, I'm slack jawed at all of this information. “You mean, I shouldn't be myself, really. Basically, be as narcissistic as possible – setting a trap – and then bait beauties. Right?” I guess this makes sense. Its still going to take some time to absorb all of this, I wish I was taking notes.

“Yeah, and if you get lucky, you'll get the prized catch,” Charles says.

“What's that?”, I ask, confused.

“The coveted, legendary, perhaps mythical: 'virgin whore'”

“What?” I hate both of those words, and together they make my face crinkle up in discomfort and disgust. I give a quick glance to ensure that elderly ladies don't hear us; they'd probably drop dead in horror – on a positive note we'd get our table back.

I hate the word virgin as a result of a dumb game played in elementary school, in which an unsuspecting youth is confronted by a group, generally of older kids, and asked, “Are you a virgin?” Poor unsuspecting sequestered youth immediately, without giving it much thought responds “No way!” Thinking that being something, couldn't be as good as not being something. Why don't we just ask, “What is a virgin?” Not wanting to look dumb, and appeasing the leading looks, we say, “No way!” The laughing, pointing, and 'do you know what that means? That means you...' soon follow.

Secondly, I hate the word whore, because well, what's there not to hate about it, it's a bad word. It feels bad when you say it, tongue curled at the back of the mouth, breath coming from the bottom of the lungs, lips out.

This deadly mix of two words I really don't like has me wanting to take a conversational mulligan with Charles. Maybe a car will crash threw the front window, or a robbery, or both: a car crash through the front window, the robbers getting out and robbing the place, forcing me to leap into action, saving C.C.G.'s life (remember: Cute Coffee Girl) – any of these would great right now.

I hope I don't regret this: “Please explain Charles. I don't ... what the heck does that mean. Why would I want one of... those.”

“Well, every guy wants one. A girl who is pure in character, thoughts, and past; yet, most importantly, the potential to be ... a great lover... and only for you of course ... and forever and ever.” Charles cross his arms and nods, waiting for my epiphany gasp. It's not going to come.

“This is a lot to think about.” I think this will be an ample out for this conversation.

Charles raises his cup, giving an imaginary toast, “That's the way it is.”

I don't know what to think about all of this new information that has be bestowed upon me. It contradicts a lot of what I know, but I don't really have remedies for my holding breath problem, so this might be worth a try. And let's face it, what I'm doing now, whatever that is, isn't working so well. Charles is right though, walking tall with confidence that radiates, he gets away with anything.

Charles starts again, too soon, I know this is going to be down the same alley as the last conversation, “Coffee Chick likes you.”

“What?” Taken back with disbelieve, “How do you know that? Or why would you think that.”

“Well, romeo”, Charles begins to explain, the Romeo name completely uncalled for, “As soon as we walked in she started playing with her hair...”
“So, maybe she has really bad dandruff.”

“Maybe. Then when you paid she didn't put out her hand cupped for you to drop the money into, but she put her hand into the 'downward swooping crane', ensuring that she would make contact as she pawed each coin out of your hand.”

“Gimmie a break,” I laugh, but the thought is nice.

“And she gave back your change quite slowly, a few coins at a time -- getting more contact. And she was smiling a ton at you.”

“They have to, 'service with a smile', its a big must in the service industry I here.”

“No dummy”, cuts in Charles, “Her eyes. Watch the eyes, they tell everything. Her eyes we smiling. And she kept looking down and to her right, still smiling, while making your drink.”

“Oh.” I don't know what to say. Shy, and quite flattered at Charles synopsis of what I thought was a completely innocent interaction with an attractive girl. Even if it isn't true, a boy can pretend.

Charles shatters my bliss, “And she's probably a 'virgin whore' too”.

“Let's never use that word again.”

Dog Park Antics

2004-11-03T21:28:00.000-08:00

Trying to be extra chirpy, doing my best laundry-commercial stretch.“Today is going to be a great day.”

“You say that a lot Robbie”, Charles replies, not lifting his eyes from the weekend edition newspaper.

“Yeah, it's a new thing I'm trying: being positive everyday, starting with the beginning of each day.” I'm still holding the stretch.

“Hmph”, is all Charles gives me.

“You want to go for a walk, Chars?”

Chars, being the more affectionate, abbreviated form of Charles I like to use; and he doesn't seem to mind too much anymore. I started using 'Chars' back when one of his lady-friends would phone, asking for 'Chars' in a thick snobby English accent. Its stuck since then.

“Come on Chars, it's a nice day, lets go”, I pester.

“Fine fine... Do I have to wear a stupid leash?”, he grumps back.

“Are you going to poop all over the place again?”

“Touché.”

“I'll get my keys.”

Into the car we go -- argue with Chars for 5 minutes, as usual, defending my stance why he can't drive. It usually boils down to the “because you don't have a license” defense.

His latest rebuttals: “Those laws don't apply to dogs.”

I'm hoping he isn't taking the same stance with other areas of the law, namely murder and theft. That reminds me, mental note: confront Charles on where he gets his money. He doesn't have a job, at least not that know of, yet he always has an ample amount of spending money. Strange.

“Robbie, it's kind of weird that we drive to where were going to walk, don't you think?”, Charles states. A little early in the drive for the usual conversational 'monkey wrench', but he did have two glasses of coffee today.

“Umm, well... not... not really. We just know where we like to walk, and that's not here.” Shoot! I should have sounded more confident. The insecurity in my voice is an opening for a 'Charles verbal attack'.

“I mean really, if we like walking so much, why don't we...”

“Do you want me to pull over!? We can just walk around here! I mean, the dog park has lots of other dogs, and nice trails, but if you'd like to stay here on our empty suburban sidewalks, that's cool. I'll turn around right now!” I had three cups of coffee this morning, checkmate Charles.

Charles, a little taken back, gives me the 'fine, case closed, but your defense was pretty weak' nod. You know the one. Left eye brow slightly raised, smug. Jerk.

The afternoon at the off-leash park was refreshing, and would have been a bit more enjoyable if Charles wasn't there. Sure, sometimes we have good walks and talks: stimulating conversation that bring revelations on life, etc. But today was another 'attitude Charles' day. It usually starts with Charles walking with me, and just before a dog passes us -- the type with a really long breed name, with a Soviet state at the beginning of it – he jumps in animated horror, gags and gasps a few times, and screams: “Amazing, they taught that dog to walk backwards!”, or “Keep it away! Diseased! What ever that mutt has I don't want to get! Please save me!”, or something along the lines of, “I thought Frankenstein was just a story! Ack!”

Stupid over-actor. Charles frightens me, funny looking dog and funny looking dog's owner, with a long awkward silence following as Charles goes into his hyperventilation routine. The real strange thing is: I don't get that embarrassed by it anymore.

For such a bright scholar, it's surprising how Charles can turn into a such an immature prick, so well and so often.

Back to the car, “No, you can't drive”, and we're off.

Political Charles

2004-11-03T16:54:00.000-08:00

“More eggs or toast, Robbie?”

“No thanks. Hey, so who do you think is going to win the presidential election?” Charles is a pretty good cook, I love having him around.

“Oh, don’t even get me started. President Bush’s monetary policies are about as elegant as his public addresses. I mean, could he not foresee the potential for a surmounting debt in the trillions of dollars from delivering good old fashion democracy to Iraq?! And then there’s the tax breaks for the rich…”

“Wow, take it easy little fellow. A simple Bush or Kerry would suffice.” I have to interject; things are getting out of hand. The worst part about having a talking dog is that sometimes they…well, they talk back.

Charles digs in, “If my political bantering is above your head, perhaps you shouldn’t solicit me for my opinion. Oh, and another thing, ‘little fellow’ is a little condescending, a little too ‘K-9’; would you like a ‘Hey there big dumb white guy’?” Charles is marching around the room, arms swinging wildly, bumping head first into the door frame repeatedly. Jerk.

We adopted Charles from the local SPCA 3 years ago, and soon realized he was no average dog, with an affinity for American Politics, the BBC news channel, and “Coronation Street”. Although I’m older than Charles in man-years, he’s technically older than me if you factor in his 5 years multiplied by the universally accepted 7-year man-to-dog-year conversion ratio, and I think this plays a big factor in his confidence, intelligence, and grammatical mastery. A fairly normal dog otherwise; oh, and he can talk. I dare say that some people have found that a little unusual.