Last night’s events again confirmed that I attract crazies like a black hole snatches small wandering stars.
Here’s what happened: it’s about 10:30PM and I’m escorting the Malt out for his final constitutional of the day. Lovely evening, a susurration of trade breezes for which wind is too strong a descriptor; quiet enough to hear the nail taps of a small dog on the lobby floor.
We exit the condo and approach the circular driveway as a taxi pulls up. The passenger door opens and a lovely young lady alights. Actually, she staggers out followed by the distinct scent of liquor and lots of it. She’s dressed to impress with logo everything, French names and saucy styles from Miu Miu, Boo Hoo and Koo Koo Ka Choo.
Make no mistake, the young lady is plastered. Not drunk enough to grab the taxi door, pull on it and shout “Take me to Hogwarts and let’s stop at Narnia on the way” but way beyond that pleasant state called tipsy.
By the way, what did the bartender say after Charles Dickens ordered a martini? “Olive or twist?” But I digress.
My sense is that our inebriated resident is a Korean girl who perhaps is employed in the ethanol dispensing trade. We have several fine establishments nearby where one may un-parch her throat with a potent libation or four so the sight of a lady with a load on is not something worthy of remark.
Here’s where it gets strange. She spots Max and its love at first blurred sight. She kneels on the driveway (keep in mind we’re talking high priced hose, those fancy shoes with red soles and a tight frock that screams credit card abuse) reaches out her arms and cries to Max to come here, come here, come here – apparently she believes in the Beetlejuice theory of dog calling. Max likes this idea and the first one of you who says anything about dogs and their masters and mutual attraction to drunk women gets punched.
So Max runs to Liquor Lady, is enveloped in a huge embrace, kissed all over his shaggy little dog face leaving lipstick marks, and is told repeatedly and at high volume, “I love you! I love you! I love you!” (Beetlejuice again.)
By this time even I am a bit embarrassed. I pull the dog, she pulls back. We have a tug of war with a Maltese. Finally I break him free expecting to hear the sound of Velcro letting loose so tightly has she held my dog.
I start to walk away with Max fighting tooth and nail to get back to his new yobo.
Just then a car pulls into the driveway, its headlights illuminating Max, me and our woozy friend kneeling on the ground with her entreating arms outstretched, pleading in a very loud voice, “Come back, come back….please…I love you, I love you, I love you!”.
It is at this point that I realize what this must look like to the newly arrived party. I cannot scream out, “She’s talking to my dog!” lest I look like the crazy one. I can’t pretend not to see or hear the woman. I can’t deny that my dog obviously favors her over me. There is no escape for me.
No, I am truly compromised and to enhance cruel fate, I recognize the driver of the freshly arrived car as one of the worst gossip mongers in the building, a prissy of inordinate prissiness, a hyena of falsehoods.
By now, less than 24 hours later, I have no doubt been accused by the Biddy Association for breaking hearts, slandered for leaving fashionably attired women to cry in driveways and being an all around heartless bastard. Wait until my wife finds out.
I have become a cad. It’s Max’s fault.