Back to Lucy. This section is for some callbacks, to have Lucy insult Mr. Dawes, and to show some mild level of growth and not growth in Lucy. I like it, but, I tend to like a lot of what I write, even when, objectively, I know it should be called crap. Table of contents here. If I ever fix the table of contents page, I think I would redo everything into the X gets Y format.
- - -
I do so many good deeds, if a monster were to eat me, it would get cavities. I don’t say this because it is true, though it is. I say it because this sweetness is a gift and a curse. On the one hand, it means that I get untold joy out of helping my friends. On the other hand, it means that when creepy old bankers corner me by the bar alone, it is very hard to just say: “You’re a creepy old banker, and my eyes are not there.”
I would have to have Christine speak to Peter about his friends. That seemed like an appropriate thing for her to do. Ok, no, it doesn’t. But have some sympathy for me. Though, really, I think they are at the point in their relationship where each one gets veto power over at least one of their friends. I remember one guy I was dating didn’t want me hanging around this woman I was friends with at the time, Julie. I initially thought it was because they didn’t like each other because of politics or something. Then, I found out, it was because she was a drug dealer, and he didn’t have the heart to tell me. Though, I suppose, most the time it doesn’t work out that well.
Actually, it never has worked out well before that or since. But, you know, if you’re planning the whole two-becoming-one-in-not-just-a-sex-way, it behooves you to be able to stand each other’s friends. If you can’t, maybe you’re not destined to be together. These were all things I would explain to Christine, as soon as I found a way to politely escape Mr. Dawes’ metaphorical claws.
“And, that’s how I ended up smuggling a pair of prostitutes out of Iran and to asylum in Germany,” Mr. Dawes said. Which sounded like a bad Steven Segal movie. Only, I guess, they’d have to be waitresses or something. Then again, wasn’t Showgirls pretty much all about sex workers? Maybe it could be about sex workers. My time in Exotic Films class was clearly not helping me.
“That’s very nice Mr. Dawes,” I said. I was assuming. Asylum is a nice thing, right? Well, unless he meant that they were insane. That’s a bad kind of asylum. One of my boyfriend’s insisted that asylums were always bad; I insisted he had read too much Batman. He then broke up with me, stating simply: “There is never too much Batman.” On the plus side, I got out of having to dress up as Poison Ivy for Halloween that year; I think I went as Ripley instead.
“You’re an intriguing woman Ms. Lucy —”
“No I’m not,” I said. “I’m incredibly boring! I drink Cherry Coke when all the liquor in the world is there for the taking.”
“I like a woman with her wits about her, and one who looks good in pink.”
“I’m a flighty air head! You can ask my boss,” I said. He laughed, and I wasn’t sure how much I thought it was a joke or not. “Pink is the new yellow — the suckiest color.”
“I’m only in town for a few days, we should get to know each other better.”
“No, we shouldn’t,” I said. It was like when I’d kicked Jon; an automatic, untrained reaction. “Not that I think you’re a creepy guy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just mean that I have a boyfriend. And a night job. I love my dog,” I said. I fled without my Cherry Coke, but I feel that I am making real progress.