What the fuck is that noise?

Who’s there?

Come in!

Mommy!

Oh, the phone is ringing. Shit. The meds make everything seem hazy and dreamlike. It’s difficult to focus. I’m on my sofa, where I’d been for 2 days other than trips to the kitchen or bathroom. I’m in a pair of old sweats and a stained wifebeater that’s all stretched out from my moving around. My right arm is propped up between pillows to hold my hand straight up in the air. It’s the only comfortable position I can find. And by “comfortable” I mean “slightly less agonizing than other positions”. As I mentioned before, the cast is wrist to armpit and keeps my elbow at a 90 degree angle. No big deal until you think about the normal compulsion to stretch out your limbs every so often. Whenever I’d drift off into semi-conciousness my arm would attempt to straighten itself out. For some reason, it never did this slowly. Like a bear trap, it would try to snap outward into full extenstion. This would cause a horrific burst of pain which would then lead to an ongoing ache that was about 20 percent worse than my normal pain level. On top of that, I was convinced that I’d torn my tendon again and spend hours freaking out about it. Imagine you get surgery, spend 2 months in a cast just to get it removed and hear the doctor say, “Damn, you must have ripped this thing the first week. We gotta start from scratch.”

Fuck it. Amputate.

Wait, my phone was ringing. I fumble around my blankets and finally find it. Instead of “hello” I think I say something like, “Unnhhhh. Huh?” The girl on the other end identifies herself and I’m only kinda sure who it is. Keep in mind, we’ve never met in person and I’m delerious. This was a point in my life where half of America (and a few Europeans) had my phone number. I was texting and talking to chicks all over the country. I’m nationwide bitches. I was in different area codes long before they started rappin about it. One never knows when you might grab a Triptik from AAA and take a road trip down hostoric Route 69 to Vaginaville U.S.A.. Anyway, this girl, we’ll call her Ariel, had caught my interest a while before on Myspace. We’d moved beyond the email/IM phase and onto texting and phone calls. Truth be told, she was pretty cool and quite intelligent. Nothing turns me on like intelligence. Well, a hot ass and a girl who swallows does, but intelligence is nice too. So we’d chatted on and off for a while before my surgery. There had even been talks of a potential visit, at some point. But every girl I spoke to eventually broached the subject of a visit. “Hey, maybe I’ll come to L.A. sometime and see you.” I always replied, “Yeah, sure. Great idea.” Meanwhile, at that time I was probably sleeping with a minimum of 5 different girls who already lived in my city. Did I need to import drama? Not really. I always considered it though. It was a great way to keep myself entertained. See, one major city was not enough to stroke my fragile ego. I needed chicks in different time zones to lust after me. Even that wasn’t enough to fill the void in my black hole of a soul, but it certainly helped.

Insert need for therapy here.

Ariel called and asked after my health. How was I feeling? Was it painful? Could I sleep? I answered as well as I could with all of the clarity I could muster.

How do I feel? The sofa.

Pain? Cupcakes would be good right now.

Can I sleep? Maryland. But I’ve been here for 3 years.

After that rousing conversation she asked me two final questions…

Ariel: Is anyone coming over to take care of you tonight?
Me: No, I prefer to be alone when I don’t feel well.

Ariel: I’m getting my Christmas card list together and want to add you. What’s your address?
Me: It’s 2203 Colorado Ave…etc.

We finish up with pleasantries and end the phone call. I fart, run my fingers through my greasy hair, scratch my 3 days of beard growth, pop a handful of pills and pass the fuck out. Now, at this point, kind readers, you probably know where the story is going. I will, however, continue, just in case you’re not quite the literary detective one would hope.

Cut to approximately 10pm…

Knock Knock Knocking at my front door.
(I lived in a 1 bedroom apt. No back door)

As with the ringing of the phone, I was both panicked and confused. Enough so that I called out, “Oooooh. Whaaaat?”.

Knock Knock.

Fuck. Someone is at the door. I debated actually getting up and answering but finally my curiosity got the better of me. I rolled painfully on my side, grabbed my right arm with my left, and stood up. Swaying to and fro is not a good indication of a clear mind and I looked like a palm tree in a hurricane. But as I made the long journey from my sofa to my door, about 8 feet, I regained some of my balance. I rested my right arm on the table next to my door and used my left to unlock and open. Now, you’d think the most surprised person would be the one who’d been knocking. Anyone who knows me understands that I’m typically showered, shaved, dressed and have copious amounts of hair product holding my spikes high. Standing before someone in my condition, looking like death, was unheard of back in the day. I was far too vain and insecure to allow for that. But no, the knocker was not as near as stunned as the knockee.

At first I wasn’t even sure who it was and almost just said, “Yes?”. But before I could she started speaking…”Surprise. Hi. I thought I’d come down and take care of you tonight. Look, I know it seems crazy and, if it’s too much, I’ll just catch a taxi to my cousins house. She lives here in LA. It’s no big deal. But I’d really like to just hang out and make you feel better.”

Nothing cures pain like the insanity of a total stranger. I’m feeling better already.

Now, in a less drug addled state of mind I’d have handled this situation in a normal manner, consistent with my good judgement and cautious decision making. I’d have let her blow me and sent her on her way. But no, not this time. I’m on a week long trip of pain and drugs so I say, “No. No. Come on in.”

I’m a little disturbed but also not coherent enough to think this through. It’s funny, even all fucked up like that my first thought was, “Damn, I look like ass in a bucket.” I think I actually gave her a little shit. Not for showing up unannounced at a strangers apartment, but by not giving me enough warning to bathe and fix my hair. She protests that she doesn’t care, that I’m hot no matter what, and so on a and so forth. But I’m not having it. I get up, go to my bathroom and semi-bathe. I shave, fix my hair and put on normal clothes. I’ve effectively prepared myself for a date.

WITH A PSYCHO THAT JUST FLEW IN FROM ANOTHER CITY TO STALK, ER, SURPRISE ME.

It gets better. Because now that I’ve got female company, I do what I’d normally do. Bust out a bottle of wine. Yeah, on top of the meds and lack of sleep, I’ll drink a little vino. And as anyone who’s ever witnessed me drink knows, “a little” means I’ll kill just the one bottle by myself. So we drink. Strangely, I’m messed up but still coherent. She wants to hook up. I’m really in a lot of pain and can’t move much without wanting to scream. We end up working out a great deal…for me.

She bends over my bed, I rest my cast on her lower back and put it in her butt.

The End.

Ok, that’s not REALLY the end. She sleeps over and the next day I make her drive me to meet up with another girl from Myspace. Cuz I’m thoughtful when it comes to guests. We do that and, shortly thereafter, I suggest she go back to SF. Although she’s not excited about the idea, she goes. I fall back into my haze for a few days until I decide that meds are not for me.

Eventually, when my mind becomes clear I think about what’s happened. A girl I’ve never met, coerced my address out of me under false pretenses, bought a plane ticket, flew to Los Angeles that very same day, took a cab to my apartment and “surprised” me. Then we had some drinks and anal sex. Then she flew home.

For the next six months every time I heard a knock at my door I worried and had the same manic thought…

Who knows where I live?

And do I have any lube?