IV. José (or, That Damn Cat)

José was a good man. He spoke just enough English to make real communication only tantalizingly out-of-reach. Having lived in Chile long enough to pick up the language myself, I had been taken on as much to communicate with him as to play office assistant to Becky. José and I used to chat. We enjoyed each others’ company—as much as possible with an age-gap of 30 years and a cultural divide of what felt like thousands—and to this day I regret not going to his daughter’s wedding reception to which he, personally, had invited me. I found out after I had left the business that he had contracted a flesh-eating virus from a stray cat that his wife had taken in that had licked a sore on his heel as he lay, napping, on the couch. Within three days he had nearly lost his leg and accumulated tens of thousands of dollars in hospital bills. He never told his wife that it was her damn cat, he just had one of his children insure that it “ran away.” He was a good man. That’s all I heard, really, but I like to think that he’s doing well in spite of everything.

III. Todd

Todd was plagued by health problems and the rest of us were plagued by hearing about them. He had married a woman from Taiwan who he met in his home town in Idaho as she visited the Mormon missionary who had converted her to the faith years before. It was love at first sight, apparently—had she heard him first and fallen in love after I would have questioned her sexual orientation: his feminine voice was perfect for his rug-related responsibilities, which consisted of entertaining the ridiculously gay designers as much as anything. The rug business is as good a place as any for a guy to find a boyfriend.

On a Saturday

A little while ago I went on a date with a chick named Erin. I went out with her a few times way back in 2006, but then she moved to London for the summer. She came back and we ran into each other on campus so I dug up her number and gave her a ring (telephone - not a band (ring - not a group)).

On a Saturday we went to the Lonestar Taqueria and then to the Coco Cafe where the hot chocolate is so thick, afterward, you needn't eat for days. After this we went to my place to watch Annie Hall (Woody at his best).

As it turns out, Lonestar and hot chocolate don't mix well. - You know, in the belly? My stomach was a bit disgruntled, but hers! - her stomach sounded like it was trying to get out of her body. We ignored it for an hour and a half. An hour ... and a half. Can we just talk for a minute about how awkward that gets? It was as though her stomach were commenting on the movie. It would say something - boldly, angrily - and we would continue watching the movie in silence, as if we agreed.

Dating is awesome.

Saturday Night in America

I spent the evening in Provo with some friends of mine. After a battle of the bands at BYU, we stopped at Wendy's where I purchased a Baconator: two beef patties, two slices of cheese, and six slices of bacon on a premium bun.

In theory, this burger is like the holy grail of burgers. In execution, however, the Baconator is one of the worst burgers I've ever eaten. It's just too much.

After attempting to express my dismay with the burger, Mike (my friend, not me in the third person) whole-heartedly agreed, saying: "I know exactly what you mean. The first day that came out I took the day off of work to try it out and it was just bad."

Parker laughed.

"That's a good story," he said, shaking his head with admiration. "I wish I had stories like that. What have I done with my life? Where have I been?"

He was kidding but he was serious.

And I kind of knew what he meant. Kind of.

The Queen is Now Dead

The other day I was chatting with a friend of mine who lives in Virginia. Somehow the Smiths came up and I learned that V (as she shall hence be known) had no idea who they were. It is a sad commentary on contemporary society when someone doesn't know who the Smiths are.

In the '80s (a decade not nearly as deprived of good music as the average music fan would have you believe) the Smiths released a series of albums and singles that kept guitars cool in the face of rampant overindulgence in synthesizers and the like. While this is neither the time nor the place to mount a why-you-should-love-and-respect-the-Smiths campaign - you should.

I figured the best way to introduce V to the Smiths was for her to hear my favorite Smiths' tune, "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want":

Good times for a change
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad
So please please please
Let me, let me, let me
Let me get what I want
This time

Haven't had a dream in a long time
See, the life I've had
Can make a good man bad
So for once in my life
Let me get what I want
Lord knows, it would be the first time
Lord knows, it would be the first time

Morrissey's yearning, almost-over-the-top desperation and Marr's lush, textured guitars make this one of my all-time favorites (you may recognize the music as covered by the Dream Academy - an utterly forgettable '80s band with the exception of this borrowed glory - in the museum scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off).

I found it on the Hype Machine (http://hypem.com/) and shot her a copy of the link. A few minutes later, V responded:

"I guess this is OK. Weird lyrics: 'Some girls are bigger than others'? I don't know."

Needless to say, something had gone wrong. V was hearing the Smiths, but she was hearing a Smiths song that no first-timer should ever be exposed to. She had clicked the "play" button on one of the "Please Please Please" results and received, instead, the following:

From the ice-age to the dole-age
There is but one concern
I have just discovered:

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

As Anthony said to Cleopatra
As he opened a crate of ale:

Oh, I say:
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl's mothers are bigger than
Other girl's mothers

Send me the pillow...
The one that you dream on...
Send me the pillow...
The one that you dream on...
And I'll send you mine

Yup. "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others." Even Marr's excellent music isn't going to save this one completely. I'm not going to say it's not a good song. I won't say that; but, clearly, some songs are better than others.

The moral to this story is to always check your links, I suppose. That, and keep the Smiths to yourself.

II. Becky, Todd, José

Becky and BJan met at BYU and fell in love. They were both much less round in the ‘80s. Becky, in fact, was almost ravishing. While sorting old files one day I happened upon a photograph of the happy couple from their newly-wed days. Dark and coldly attractive, her past figure shocked me as much as I am sure it now haunts her.

Becky had a head for business that complimented her husband’s expertise and general lack of common sense. Together, they were unstoppable—or at least would have been in a state that cared more for interior fineries than it does for green lawns and a day at the lake, or shoveled driveways and ski slopes. As it was, they did well enough to eat out two meals a day, every day, and employ the most homosexual heterosexual secretary I had ever met (Todd—they’re all Todds, aren’t they?), an illegal immigrant from the Dominican Republic (José), and a poor college student who lived in his parents’ basement and spent more money on records than all other expenses put together (me).

I. BJan

BJan, a short, round Iranian, knew all there was to know about rugs. His father had met his American mother through a remarkably boring turn of events (considering the match and geography) and I no longer recall the specifics of the peculiar systems and operations that had led to his conception; nevertheless, he was. A Mormon rather than a Muslim (the maternal influence respectfully overriding the paternal), he had come to Utah to go to school at the church-run Brigham Young University. He was the only fully accredited rug appraiser in the state—the kind of distinction the average youth dreams of only after being hit in the head and even then never takes seriously. BJan, however, was no average youth. He quickly mastered all there was to know about the field—no minor accomplishment—and with a loan from his parents entered the rug business, initially operating from his home—a small, log-cabin-style affair behind his parents’—and then from a large showroom downtown by the time I came along. Knowing all he knew (which is really quite a lot) explained, at least in part, why he didn’t know much of anything else. His wife Becky ran the place; his role was more like that of a consultant. He ate lunch a lot.