One of my favorite things about my old job was the two hours of volunteer time we were allotted every month, which I spent with my kid brother under the cover of "mentoring troubled youth." I may have been laid off, but I'm sticking to routine, at least for now. Yesterday I met Shane at Java Joan's at the usual time. I saw my first Christmas tree of the year there, though I couldn't tell if they were done decorating it. There were only seven ornaments on it, and the lights didn't seem to work. Maybe Joan is making some kind of political statement.
We got our coffee and sat in our usual booth. Only this time when I asked Shane what was going on, instead of his usual initial response of "nothing," he launched straight into an impression of Rob bitching about how I portrayed him in the book. Rob claims he never drinks in the driveway like I said. "Never" is a matter of timing. He finished off part of the garage when I was in college and set up a card table and two chairs behind an old shower curtain so he couldn't be seen from the house. That was in response to Stephanie complaining about Shane always wanting to go outside to be with Daddy because he could see him out the kitchen window. Shane was 3 then. Please note in my book, Shane wasn't born yet. Stephanie was nowhere to be seen yet. Nothing Rob complained about was actually untrue. He just has a shit memory.
So while I was uninvited to Thanksgiving dinner, I was present as some kind of invisible guest, pilloried in absentia by Rob and his partner-in-moronity Pat Donovan at subsequently louder and louder volumes as the day progressed until Stephanie finally lost it. She slammed a wooden spoon against the table, snapping it in half and then tossed the handle on Rob's plate. Shortly after that, he and Donovan relocated to the gentlemen's lounge out in the garage. Apparently Donovan didn't find any of my descriptions of him flattering, either. (They weren't meant to be.)
Donovan's old lady fell asleep on the couch, leaving Stephanie and Shane to clean everything up. He said next year he wants to come to Drew's with me. He's a smart kid.
Once all the Thanksgiving talk was over, he asked about Laurel, whom he only knew about because of this blog. It's nice to have at least one loyal follower. So I told him about our date Friday, which I can confidently classify as an official date at this point. (Editorial note: In sticking with my "protect the privacy of the innocent" policy, I have given her the name Laurel. That is not her real name. If I used real names, no one would ever go out with me and I'd die dateless and alone, a fate which already often seems too strong a possibility.)
The documentary we saw, Searching for Ingmar Bergman, was good, but ran a little long. It was only 99 minutes, but it felt like at least two hours. Maybe that was the movie, maybe that was me just wanting a chance to talk to Laurel. When it ended, she suggested we go out Olaf's Tavern for drinks. Her face went white when I ordered a coffee and it all came back to her that I don't drink. She was fuzzy on a few details from last week when we all went out after work. She paced herself a bit better tonight and we had a great conversation, talking until almost 1:00. I could talk to her all night. I can't get over the fact that we worked together for six years and almost never spoke to each other at all. On the plus side, that leaves more to talk about now, and I don't have to worry that I'm telling her a story I've already told her before.
When I dropped her off, we made plans to go out again this Friday. She's apparently been dying to try Sebi's Bistro in Portage Bay and never could talk any of her friends (or boyfriends) into Polish food. I'm game, though. Not to get too far ahead of anything, but maybe she's the kind of girl where it doesn't matter what we're eating for dinner as long as I get to eat it with her. That said, it would be nice to hear back from her. She hasn't responded to my last two texts, and I'm going to wear the battery out on my phone checking it so much while I wait for her reply.
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