There is an attractive woman sitting across from me. A very attractive woman. A “9,” in the parlance of those people who use numbers for these things. An “L.A. 9.”
She looks familiar. I feel like she was the casting assistant on some movie I worked on. It is completely plausible that such a person would be sitting across from me on that bench. But if it is her, she doesn’t recognize me, or doesn’t want to acknowledge me. Maybe it’s not even her though. All good looking people essentially look alike. All perfect looking people.
I would never in a billion years go over and talk to this person. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to say, aside from some obviously fabricated ruse that was just basically– I think you are good looking, and I would like to have sex with you. There is no other reason on the planet anyone would ever speak to anyone out of nowhere, except maybe abject loneliness. And yet here I am. I am thinking about her. I am writing in my stupid journal about her; she is looking at her phone and eating a ham sandwich. On wheat bread, with lettuce peeking out from the crusts. Homemade sandwich. Someone made her this sandwich, or she conscientiously packed it for herself. Good for her. More people should take the time and care to prepare their own meals. It’s good for your health, it’s exactly to your tastes, and it saves money.
But I can’t believe people aren’t asking this girl out to lunch every day, wherever she works. Every man and lesbian on the planet is just like me; they can’t come up with some ruse to pretend for six to eight hours that they don’t want to have sex with her so they can have sex with her.
Never in a million years would she ever remember what type of sandwich I was eating. She also has a can of regular coke. Not diet coke, regular. Two hundred calories. God bless her, this woman. The last person in Hollywood who can enjoy a fucking regular coca cola. I certainly couldn’t.
She stands up to throw things in the trash. Her coke can, her sandwich wrapper. This is a moment when I can actually look at her without quickly looking down, pretending not to look at her. Fully take her in without getting caught. I wish I were like the Terminator, who can scan down a visual image and call it back up perfectly. I wish I would be able to masturbate to this girl later. But you can’t; no guy can– you try to beat off to a girl you’ve only seen briefly and her face quickly morphs into someone of the same approximate face shape and hair color, but invariably less attractive.
She has moved benches now. A guy talking on his phone has vacated the bench that’s in the shade. Easier to leer at her now, at an angle. With her back half turned toward me. No doubt in disgust at my clownish appearance and obvious interest in her, like a dog’s interest in a fresh piece of shit in the cat’s litter box. A shameful and debasing interest. Now the guy is here to feed the koi. I should say something to the guy feeding the koi. So she can hear my rich soothing baritone. So she can hear how quick I am off the cuff. I wish I had taken the time to build rapport with the koi pond caretaker so I could bullshit with him and display my sharp wit for her; she would notice me. Then the next time I see her here I could talk to her. I did not do this though. Because the person who feeds the koi is not a hot chick, so who gives a fuck. We are all the person who feeds the koi.
Maybe she’s over there on her iphone composing an essay about me. Who is this guy at his little laptop; why couldn’t I ever talk to a guy like this. He looks so intense, like he’s really concentrating on whatever masterpiece he’s hunt and pecking into Microsoft Notepad. I wish I could go talk to him and lead him by the hand into that bush and have him fill me with babies. I hope he has a small penis and is into classical guitar and writes a blog about drug induced impotence and prematurely ejaculates, is what she is thinking. He is probably the man of my dreams but I am too chickenshit to talk to him so I’m just gonna sit here and pretend to play with my phone like a jerkoff. And my stupid fucking ham sandwich. Why Lord, she asks, can’t I be the type of person who talks to people.