An Angel Disappears

“Is this a date?” she said. And I wasn’t prepared for this question. I’ve got no lies in the chamber, ready to fire. So I told her the truth.

“Yes—” And I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. “Yes,” I said, “at least it is for me.”

“Okay,” she— the Angel— said. That’s all she said: Okay. She looked at her wasabi as if it would have given her another talking point or at least some sort of out.

I decided to break the silence. “Have you ever smoked crack before?” I asked.

“What?” she said.

“Crack-cocaine. Have you ever smoked it?”

“No. God no.”

“Me neither.”

That was a lie, but it made me comfortable having told a lie; I smoked crack cocaine out of an apple once. It was a one time thing— the apple part, I mean. I used to have a crack pipe. Stilldo, actually.

My thoughts of crack-smoking filled the silence currently enveloping our little table. The Angel must have gotten over it when she asked me what I was thinking about.

“Did you think this was a date?” I responded.

“Well I thought it was clear that I’m a lesbian.”

“What?”

“I’m a lesbian, Charlie,” she reiterated.

Good Christ. What have I gotten myself into. I had no idea.

“I had no idea,” I said.

“I’ve only dated women the past three years,” she said.

“Yeah but…that still means you had 15 years of men before that. The statistics are still in my favor.”

“Not really.”

“Statistically: yes, they are.

“What, do you want me to give men another chance?”

“No. I want you to give me my first chance.” Back to silence and wasabi-staring. Great. After about a minute, the Angel started again.

“I’m going to go now.” She stood up from the table and grabbed her purse.

“Aren’t you going to pay?” I said.

“This— you said it was a date. It’s on you.”

“But it’s clearly not a date. You should pay your share.”

“You said this was a date.”

“For me. But it isn’t— wasn’t— for you. So I think you should pay.”

The Angel sat back down and gave me a hard look. “Here’s the deal,” she said, “you tell me my name and I’ll pay for my half. Hell, I’ll pay for the whole meal.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said

“What’s ridiculous is the fact you don’t know my name yet here I am on a date with you.”

“So now it’s a date?”

“Tell me my name.”

“I know your name,” I said.

“Then what is it?” she asked.

She really got me there. Would she think it’s cute if I called her “the Angel”— like how you got to know her? I wracked my brain for the most popular female names I knew. All I could remember from the list I found on the internet in 2009 were the numbers 863 and 997— Keith and Robert, respectively.

“Robert,” I said. Best to just fail this one out the gate, I thought.

“Robert?” she raised her voice. People were now staring. “You don’t actually think my name is Robert, come on Charlie.” Okay, time to think fast: You’ve got this, Charlie.

Roberta. Your name is Roberta.”

“No fucking way,” she said. “You actually don’t know my name?” She got back up and headed for the door, but not without stopping to look back at me and say one more thing.

“One more thing,” she called out, “You’ve got some serious self-esteem issues. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that you are gay, Charlie Brown.”

“I’m not gay!” I yelled back.

“I think you are, and honestly, I think that’s the only thing we have in common.” And with that final stab, she left the sushi place. People were clapping and cheering. Somebody was waving a foam finger that said “Number 1”.

I paid the bill and left and now I don’t eat sushi anymore.

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Day Twenty-One

Haven’t been out of the house since Crack-Fest 2014. It was a one-day thing buy my mind is still reeling. I mean, man, I could get a lot of shit done smoking crack. I didn’t get a lot of things done but still, it’s the crack-thought that counts, right?

It made me wonder why stepping on a crack is such a big deal for your mother’s back. What is the correlation between stepping on cracks and my mother’s spinal column? Instead of “step on a crack and break your mother’s back” it should be “knock your mother’s picture over and break your mother’s back”. That makes much more sense to me. I knock my mother’s picture over at least twice a day— sometimes on accident— and nothing bad ever happens to her. Then again, bad things don’t happen to people who are already dead.

Katy and I got in a fight over Skype yesterday. It wasn’t much of a fight, though, since I’m the only one thinking we got in a fight in the first place. She told me she went on a “kinda date” with some guy. The girl said she didn’t even know it was a date until the guy went in for a kiss.

“He doesn’t even speak English, Charlie; don’t worry,” she told me. So I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t worry so well that my internet accidentally turned itself off by itself and we never finished the conversation. That’s how we do passive aggression around here.

So what if he doesn’t even speak English? I consider that cheating. It is cheating so far as I’m concerned. Who the fuck goes on a date with another person when you’re already dating Charlie Brown? Not the future Katy Brown, that’s who.

Morgan’s throwing a party tonight. Going to go to that and see what’s up. Burn off some steam and try to forget all of this. I’m out of weed again too, so maybe somebody can smoke me out while I’m there.

Ugh. Carl is texting me. And Todd called again.

Day Nineteen (2).

Wait, I actually had a pretty good day today.

Went to the dollar theater (total cost: 2 dollars) with Krisandra, Jaye, and Carl. First time anybody let me out with their girlfriend since I started masturbating to Facebook pictures. Is there a correlation? I hope not.

Didn’t stop Todd from calling me and it definitely didn’t stop Carl from calling me, texting me, and— I think— getting one of his guys to show up and stalk us. That may have been Carl, the crafty Mexican. He’s not even Mexican— that’s how good of a Mexican he is. So Carl called and he asked me if I could pick him up to hang out. I pretty much coughed “yes” back into the phone because I’m a masochist. Let me be clear: I hate Carl. But I love pain— sometimes all the time.

“Is it OK if to smoke in your car,” he asked from the backseat.

“Yeah, I mean I smoke so go for it. Be my guest.”

I should have said “smoke what”.

Carl was Jaye’s— is, I’m sorry— Jaye’s dead-beat boyfriend. First of all, he’s German. Second of all, he’s got a GPS tracking anklet on because (thirdly) he’s had four DUI’s in 2 years. He’s been on house arrest for two years but that hasn’t stopped him from smoking crack out of an apple in my car.

Carl passed me the still smoking apple— “I’m driving, It’s okay,” I lied. It wasn’t okay to smoke crack in my car and I really wasn’t driving anymore; the crack was.

See, Chaz smoked me out a fat crack bowl earlier in the morning to take my mind off of the fact his girlfriend smoked all our weed again.Lets just— never mind, we’ll talk about it later. I would have smoked the crack but I didn’t want Jaye and Krisandra to think I am a crack-smoker; Katy would have found out.

Listen, I don’t normally smoke crack. I don’t smoke crack. But Chaz smoked me out this huge crack bowl earlier to take my mind off the fact his girlfriend smoked all of our weed again. Lets just— never mind, we’ll talk about it later.

Jaye is a mormon, which is weird too. Sure she’s a pot-smoking mormon but she still wears the magic underwear and the church still considers her a “trusted source”— whatever that means. But to me it’s weird that this mormon girl would be dating such a dead-beat shit-sucker like Carlos.

Carl is writing a novel about his life. Was, I mean.

“I had to restart,” he recalled from the back seat, “ the typewriter I was using burned down.”

“You mean your laptop crashed,” Krisandra said.

“No, I used a typewriter.” Carl thinks he’s brilliant And he thinks his novel is too. “It’s kind of a semiautobiographical novel about my about my life until I turned 21.”

“You’re 23,” Jaye said.

“Two years are the ‘semiautobiographical’ parts.”

I think Carl has actually killed somebody now that I think about it— maybe twice. Nothing bothers me more than a person who thinks their life is interesting enough to document before the age of 25. Court cases or not, I can guarantee that anybody alive today who is under the age of 25 and is writing their autobiography is just a hack-narcissist.

Anyways, the movie was good and so was the crack. See, Chaz smoked out a fat crack bowl earlier to take my mind off the fact his girlfriend smoked all of our weed again. Lets just— never mind, we’ll talk about it later.

I really need to smoke some weed. Maybe I should hide my weed from now on. There’s a good place under my lamp nobody will look. And behind the blinds. The blinds are a good place.

Blinds.