Slut Talk

Another little bit of nonsense for this post. Bear with me.

*****

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

SLUT TALK

          I don’t know why I took coffee with Phil every Saturday morning at the university’s sidewalk café on the quadrangle. He was a friend, but not an especially close friend. Don’t even remember how it started. I didn’t particularly enjoy slut talk, and that’s what our sessions inevitably became. Let’s think about that a minute. That’s what I did once every weekend of this entire semester. So maybe I was into that kind of shit more than I thought.

          Phil was shunned by most of the student body because he was pretty effeminate. That turned off some people. A lot of the kids called him Philomena… sometimes to his face. One man’s macho is another man’s come-on. I always said. And the same was true for the other side of the coin.

          I wasn't quite as obvious, although some of the footballers called me Pumpkin because my name was Peter. They took it from the old kiddie story about Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Well, you see where I’m going.

          This particular Saturday morning we claimed our favorite table sitting off by itself in the shade of the overhang where there wasn’t much chance of being overheard. We sat in silence for the first couple of sips before Phil turned his blue eyes on me.

          “Did you see who’s waiting tables today?”

          “Angel,” I replied using the Spanish pronunciation.

          “Angel. That describes him.”

          “It’s pronounced AN-hel.”

          “It’s pronounced Angel Baby.” He let out a low growl as the Angel—or AN-hel—under discussion walked out of the café and waited on a table of three girls.

          “Oh, man. I wish he’d smile at me like that. I’d die and go to heaven.”

          “I can think of two ways to make that happen. Pronounce his name correctly or promise to die.”

          “Don’t be catty!”

          "Catty is as catty does.” I was pretty big on clichés.

          “Oh look,” Phil pointed with his chin. “There’s Roger Dodger the Fullback. Who’s he with today?”

          “Evelyn… his steady.”

          He ignored my reply. “Too bad there isn’t a position for a Fullbutt. He’d be perfect!”

          “There is. It’s called tight end.”

          “Ohhh! Describes him perfectly.”

          “You do know he’s the one who started calling you Philomena, don’t you?”

          “He can call me anything. Anytime. Anywhere. Please!”

          After a few more sips of coffee, Angel—reluctantly, I thought—came over and asked if we needed anything. He’d created a big opening with his wording, but Phil behaved himself, ordering another cup and a scone, even pronouncing his name right. Angel rewarded him with a beaming smile.

           “Oh, my God!” he said after the waiter left, “I thought I’d swoon. Did you see that smile!”

          “Told you.”

          “Told me what? Never mind, here he comes again.

         I noticed Phil gripped the edge of the table, probably hoping Angel would lean too close as he served us. No such luck.

          “There goes that Jana Yetsin. She always looks so trashy. Doesn’t know how to put on her lip gloss.”

          “You should teach her,” I suggested.

          “Yuk. But the girl with her always looks so cool and collected.”

          “Cheerleader,” I said, knowing that took her down a notch or two in Phil’s estimation.

          A guy walked in and took a table on the other side of the patio. Angel appeared to take his order.

          “Well, well. There’s Dickie. All alone this morning. Must have had a fight with his girl.”

          “Oughta be called Big Dickie,” Phil said. “I know. I’ve showered with him.”

          “We all have after Phys Ed. But you’re right. Humungous.” I glanced at my watch, took some money out and threw it on the table as a tip for Angelic Angel. “Gotta go. American Lit.”

          “Don’t know why you take Saturday classes. Tiresome.” Phil stood and opened his coin purse, extracting a couple of bills. Looked like Angel was going to get rewarded for his smile.”

          “See ya next Saturday,” I said.

          “Same place, same time.”

*****

I’ve always been told a story—no matter how short—has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This one doesn’t seem to have an end, just a pause until next Saturday morning.

Let me know if the story strikes a chord. My email is markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.