Sleeping With Scissors

I survived another Mardi Gras in the 'hood.  This is my, what, fifth year in Soulard?  Each of the previous 4 years, I've not had anyone use the bathroom or crash at my place.

And, despite what I felt was an unnecessary announcement that this year would be no different, it was different.

A stranger, no less.  Not a perfect stranger.  Because he knows people that I know--from 2 different circles of people.  And you wouldn't have believed this guy.  We'd walked over from the Pig to my landlords' party in my courtyard--turns out that he and his friend had gone to college and were friends with a Pig person (and one of TP's good friends) and had also been invited to the party at my place, because they know my landlord's brother. 

He begged me to use the bathroom, and once upstairs, he wouldn't leave.  He was requisitely fascinated by my books, my music and my art  (Well, Annie the Nude, anyway).  He wanted to see upstairs, so I showed him.  For countians, apparently, city living is "fascinating."  I knew there'd be trouble when he moved to sit on the bed.  I ushered him downstairs where he continued to take an interest in everything.

He made it very clear that he wanted to go upstairs to the bedroom.  I made it equally clear that it wasn't going to happen.  And by clear I mean he said, "Why don't we go upstairs to the bedroom," and I said, "I'm not going to sleep with you."  I'm sure I didn't use the word "sleep" but hey, this is a family page, no?

Please keep in mind that this is all happening as we sip drinks on the sofa.  We could have been just as amiably discussing Kierkegaard, or the line on the Superbowl.  He wouldn't let up.  He tried every trick in the book.  And I mean, I can only imagine that he married his high school girlfriend and has no experience with women since then, based on his tactics of a 16 year old.  And in case you are no longer 16 and have forgotten some of these, his repertoire included taking my hand and placing it in his lap.  And I don't mean lap, exactly, but this is a family page, no?

At some point, he got up to use the bathroom.  I thought I'd go upstairs to use the other one and found his jeans pooled at the bottom of the stairs.  Upstairs, I find him in my bed.  "Get. The. Fuck. Out." I said in the voice I borrowed from Regan MacNeil, sometime during the Pissed-Off Bastard years.  It worked for Regan, it worked for me.  I went into the bathroom.  Locked the door.  "If you knew I was naked," he asked, through the closed door, "would that be a bad thing?" 

"It would for you," I said, snapping my scissors. 

"Okay, okay," he said, panicking, "Just stay in there a minute."  When I emerged, he had dressed. 

I realize at this point that most people would have at the very least kicked this guy out--some would have even called the police.  I did neither.  I'm not sure why except that I knew at a gut level that he was basically harmless.  I also found it all rather amusing.  I really wanted to understand his motivation, understood why he thought this tactic was going to work.  He found my equanamity "fascinating."

But, he continued to pull out the stops.  Bargaining, negotiating, the whole enchilada (and by enchilada, I mean enchilada.  Geez. Get your mind out of the gutter.  This is supposed to be a family page, no?)

Before long, about halfway through the bottle of wine I'd opened ( "Fascinating") I realized the party downstairs had ended.  Safety net missing, now, I suggested we walk up to the 55 Bar.  I knew Blocker was there, and if it sucked we could go up to the Pig for awhile.

Blocker was there, but so were every single one of my neighbors.  There are 3 households of tenants in my building, and now, with my arrival, all of us were at 55.  "Glad we came here," I said to one of them, "There wouldn't have been anyone around to hear my cries for help."  Included in the august group were a couple who have recently moved from the building.

We had a great time.  And I mean, I had fun with the neighbors, and even with this guy.  Unfortunately, this is what led to the question.  "Can I please crash at your place?  My car is parked all the way by Big-Corporation-that-isn't-the-Brewery."  (Which would have required a stroll through the projects, or down Broadway.  Neither of which is advisable at 10 at night.)  My suggestion regarding the bus was rebuffed.

In the end, I relented.  I made it super clear that he was to sleep on the sofa, and that he was not allowed upstairs.  And this only after calling up to the Pig so that I could talk to Heidi and verify that he wasn't going to rob me.  "He's a total gentleman," she said.  I laughed.  But no, she said, he wouldn't rob me.  "And anyway," she said, "He lives 5 houses down from us, so we could always get it back."

And he was pretty good about the sofa thing.  Sometime very early in the morning, like 5ish, I heard him on the stairs.   "Can I please just lay down up here?" 

"Dude," I said, "I still have my scissors."

He walked downstairs.  I heard him get up around 7 and leave.  To his credit, he left a note.  With his phone number. 

I might call.

I might not.

Posted by: book on 2/15/2005 9:13:37 AM , 3 comments