The Portents

Not so very long ago I was busily pounding away on Lucille [Lucille was my laptop, calm down will you? Jeez.] in the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, no doubt crafting some intricately plotted and wryly humorous post involving something we have all forgotten about by now, when a really weird thing happened to me (yet again).

I had pretty much wrapped up the daily diatribe, whatever it was, and I was finally allowing myself to look around Nina's and see what had happened while I was off in Blogland when I noticed a guy sitting directly across from me in the Living Room Type Thing. He must have been new; I had never seen him in Nina's before. He was about my age, with white hair (like me), a short white beard (like me), glasses (like me), a laptop (like me), a certain seediness (like me), and a young attractive female companion (very much not like me). Of course it was hate at first sight. So I decided to eavesdrop on his conversation with the young woman so I could detest him even more. It went something like this:

Young Woman: "So you're really a writer?" (giggle)

Bizarro-Hulles: "Yeah, I'm a writer. I used to be a minister but I gave it up to write novels. Right now I'm working on..."

I don't think I need to go on. The morally-bankrupt old asshole was using being a "writer" to prey upon naive and unsuspecting young girls who wanted to be turned into literature. I was so appalled at this churlish and unseemly behavior that I very nearly went over and got Biblical on the creepy bastard just to forcibly remind him of his ex-minister days. He was totally asking to be smitten (as in smite or smote, not as in Kitten).

But I didn't. What I did instead was sigh and turn my eyes to the ceiling and say tiredly, "Okay, okay, I get it. Did you really have to be that obvious to make sure that I recognized your special-delivery portent? Good Lord, how dense do you think I am?" This last sentence was rhetorical, of course; the Portent Sender clearly felt that I was dense as lead.

The story has a second part. The Bizarro-Hulles guy kept returning to Nina's after that first episode. I never talked to him, but lots of young attractive women did. Maybe he met them in chat rooms or something and enticed them into Nina's with promises of literary intercourse and the possibility of becoming an amanuensis. Who knows? But he always pissed me off whenever I saw him, and in fact still does (yes, he still comes into Nina's and pretends to type on his laptop).

Matters were brought to a head a couple of days ago when a lovely young popsy waved and smiled at me from across the Living Room Type Thing. What's a gentleman to do but wave and smile back? She walked over to my table still smiling, but as she got closer the smile began to be replaced by a look of uncertainty.

"Hi," she said gamely. "I really enjoyed meeting you the other day."

"Hi baby, nice sweater. Um, yeah, I liked meeting you the other day too. Unfortunately I forgot who you are."

"Wait, you're not A______ are you?"

"Nope. I bet I can guess who you mean though. He's not here. I think the werehamsters got him. You're certainly welcome to sit and chat a bit if you'd like. I'm much more fun and interesting than he'll ever be, frocked or frockless."

She made a beeline for the front door after that without so much as a bye-your-leave. I have no idea why. She seemed nice enough though.

But after this little episode I once again turned my eyes heavenward and said resignedly, "Wow, you really think I'm a brick, don't you? Got to spell it out in every detail, don't you? You might as well drop a smoking stone tablet right onto the table in front of me with simple diagrams and your urgent message chiseled on it in three languages, just in case I learn Portuguese while it's in transit." However, after hearing a sudden clap of thunder outside I decided that perhaps heavy sarcasm was not really appropriate for this particular conversation and tried to look sheepish. It must have worked because the bolt of lightning missed me by a good foot and a half.

So yes, I got the message, and yes, I have indeed changed my ways. That creepy old guy can do whatever he wants, but I for one learned my lesson and no longer claim that I used to be a minister.

Why? What lesson did you think it was?

-- Hulles