written inaction

I am a wreck. An absolute wreck.  The idea of being a rockstar is fine, but as it was after 9 before I even opened my eyes, I can’t hope to get anything done today.  To emphasize the I-told-you-so vibe this day is giving me, it’s absolutely gorgeous outside, and everyone heads out to jog, run errands, and play in the park.  I decide that today will a wonderful couch a rehydration day.  It isn’t that bad.  By 11 I’m actually eating solids, and once you hit that point it’s just a matter of waiting it out.

One way to not wear off a hangover is to walk a lot.  While walking is a great way to sober up, once the damage is done, you’re done, and this will be another hard-learned lesson for me.  Today I am to look a room in a house full of engineers with Victoria, the self-proclaimed “mama” of the house.  I’m as excited as I can be because she’s been really cool over emails, and English nerds can always derive coolness from syntax.  She’s cool. 

Instead of attempting to navigate the busline for the scant distance, of a mile and a half, I opt to hoof it.  About half a mile in, I’m lost in U-district and can’t get oriented.  I walk to what I think is north, and find out it’s east.  Now I can’t even figure out how to return to my starting point, and I curse the absent sun.   I know that the house is near Ravenna Park, so I start looking around for any large grassy area. 

Two golf courses later I decide to revise my plan and email Victoria to tell her I’ll be late.  Walking on I pass University Village and know I’m off course.  I’m tired, hungry, afraid to eat anything, and decide to casually lean on a fence and watch a softball game.  When I come back from my spaceout I notice that some parents are looking my way and it is then that I realize that sweaty, panting mid-twenty year olds should do well not loiter at a 10-year-old softball league’s practice. 

Like gift from God Victoria calls me and asks where I am.  “Where are you?”

I have no idea.  Some directions and wild gesticulations later Victoria has divined where I am and offers to come get me.  “You’re way off course.  Do you want a ride?”  Does a fat kid want cake?  “Victoria,” I huff, “you’re awesome.”

We meet in a Tully’s parking lot and drive to her house.  Victoria insists on apologizing for the state of her car and her—she’s just come from playing ultimate.  I KNEW she was cool.  She takes me through the house, which is cool; lots of little nooks and crannies and more storage for gear than I would have ever imagined.  Victoria and I will have our own common area, and we’re on the top floor.  It’s perfect.

“I have a few other places that I’m obligated to look at, but you are definitely my top choice,” I tell her.  Then she grants my secret wish and drives me home. 

At 138 the rally crew is in full swing: there will be a multi-sport evening, so I am to change, eat a granola bar, and get my “ass out on the field by Green Lake”.  In 20 minutes I am shivering in the cool afternoon air on a field that is more dirt than grass.  Among the 7 or so of us are a football, a Frisbee, a kickball, and a set of gloves with a baseball.  Tonight we will cover all the bases.  From the far side of the field a tall figure walks towards us.  It’s Fred in full business casual wear, making an uneven 9. 

“Looking good, Fred!” shouts someone.

“You guys said you’d be at the park—you didn’t say we were having a fucking decathlon.”

Fred graces the field in slim business denim, a white collared shirt with sweater, and a pair of very expensive looking boots.  My concern wavers between having for a teammate or being responsible for trashing $500 I clothing, but it soon become clear that Fred is going to be our thrower when we get to ultimate.  I shakily launch the disc to him and he effortlessly answers back with a faded throw that glides inches above the grass.  Fred is a pro.

The games start with kickball, progress to football, and then ultimately to ultimate.  My competitive streak comes out and I find that I love actually playing again.  Running and jumping, sprinting and tumbling like an idiot—it feels so good to me.  What does not feel good to me is my asthma.  As the temperature drops it gets harder and harder for me to breathe, and at several points I have to stop and weeze myself back into a regular breathing pattern.  Thanks to my weezing, the new nickname I had been pleased to get—Che—gives way to Milhouse. 

“How you doing, Milhouse?”  Asks Mick. 

“I don’t think I like you guys anymore.”

“What’s going on with Milhouse?” Asks someone else.

“Holy shit.  Fuck you guys.  What happened to Che?” I ask, sounding more desperate than I intend to.

“Oh man, no way, you’re forever Milhouse now.”

Great.

I can feel my lungs being shredded raw, but I’m having too much fun to care.  I know I’m going to pay for this, but every time that disc hovers near me I have to chase it, and I sympathize with every dog I’ve ever met. 

The best aspect of our all star team is that while everyone is an athlete in some form or another, no one takes winning seriously.  The plays get increasingly absurd as each team tries to one up the other in its flagrant rule-breaking.  Opposing team members are pantsed, teams moon one another, Mick hides behind the large telephone pole in the middle of the field as I guard him, and there are beautiful illegal football fakes as everyone sprints for the end of the field pretending to have the ball. 

As the last of the sun fades we decide that tonight will be a great night to watch Caddyshack since several of the girls are unfamiliar with this cinematic masterpiece.  With this in the works I head off to see another apartment with Aria.

The apartment does not give me a good feeling from the get-go.  I try not to be judgmental, but the pipe-railing-concrete-motel look lends itself too easily to a place where plaid-panted neighbors try to get me to invest in a business plan for a neighborhood mini golf course franchise or something.  I knock and the door and say hello to Wendy’s breasts, which she is apparently just as eager to show as she is the apartment. 

Being a male, my usual response when asked for my opinion on breasts is that I am in favor of them.  Not today.  Wendy’s breasts are not appealing, or at least their presentation is not.  The cut of her shirt—that imagine was to be sexy—just seems offensive on her.  It’s not sexism; I’d have greeted an ill-fitting banana hammock with the same trepidation.

Wendy shows me around and I decide in the first minute that this really isn’t for me.  It’s a sublet with another woman who isn’t here. Regardless of how nice she may be, that’s close quarters in a neighborhood where homeless men sleep in the trucks at the UHAUL across the street.  I’m done thinking about this one.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell Wendy.

“What’d you think?”  Asks Aria.

“They could have been a little perkier, don’t you think?”

“Really.  What was up with that shirt?”

“Who knows, but I’m thinking no on this one.”  

After a hot shower I am thrilled to sit and watch Caddyshack.  Emily introduces the unenlightened of us to “hippie cuisine” by putting brewer’s yeast on our popcorn, which is actually really good.  After we finish Caddyshack we follow it up with the modern low-budget classic, Waiting.  It’s a wonderful way to end the day, but I keep being nagged by persistent cough.