Americaphiles

The Story Of My Fucking Life

Sixty-seven

Posted by ilbebe on January 8, 2012

Before I knew I was going to write this post, I knew it was going to be about my girlfriend, B. I knew this because just three days ago, I finally explained my views on numerology to her while drinking beer in the afternoon at McNally’s. I explained that my views revolve around summing all numbers in a sequence until you arrive at a one- or two-digit number that has emotional currency with you. It works like this:

Say you wish to know what your birthday means to you. Write out the date as you would on a bank draft, or at school, i.e. MM DD YY. Then add of the numbers in sequence, i.e. M+M+D+D+Y+Y=Sum. If the sum is a two-digit number, see if that number means anything to you or perhaps merely reminds you of something. This may be the first meaning your birthday has to “reveal” to you numerologically. Then sum the two numbers of your product to produce a number no greater than ten. If the number is ten, you may regard it as either ten or one, or both. These are the second and final “meanings”, so see what if any meaning they have to you.

An example:

Say your birthday is September 15, 1980. Write it out 09-15-80. Add 0+9+1+5+8+1=24. What does 24 mean to you? Is it the hours in a day? Is it the day of a different month that someone you care about has their birthday on? Is it the street address of the house you grew up in, or perhaps the number of a nearby highway? Anyway, then add 2+4=6. What does 6 mean to you? Is it the day of another month that your grandmother and uncle were born on? Was it the first lucky number you chose when you were growing up? Is it the number of Lucifer? Or is it the number of days God worked to create the world before he rested?

It is up to you, and ultimately all the meaning that you can derive from these methods of investigation will simply be the reflection a number generates in your mind, based on your past experiences and observations.

I didn’t see B last night, because I was staying in Oakland to attend an art walk, and she was working in SF, then meeting a friend she’d seen earlier in the week at a taco bar for a margarita blitzkrieg. Apparently the blitzkrieg was a success, one she notified me of via text before I even left my house for the evening, at about 6:35.

B: Five.

Me: Five what?

B: Margaritas at da taco shop.

Me: (Oh shit.) [text unsent]

I went to my art walk, the Art Murmur in Uptown Oakland, and wandered around by myself for a while until I ran into some friends. Em was drinking a tall can of high life out of a jack links jerky box with Sasquatch on it. I was impressed. He was with Bee and Bee’s pal Ma, and they were similarly outfitted, though with more conventional plastic and paper bags. Bee I had met recently and was getting to know and like. From his recent jail stint to his SP cap to the way he asks me to buy him a beer when he finds out the bar we head to first is cash only, I knew that an interesting road lay ahead with this guy.

Ma was originally from the capital of Louisiana and had spent her later childhood and adolescence in Anteater Territory before moving to the Bay. She was more than willing to investigate the contrasts between the world of her youth and her later youth and young womanhood. She described the prevailing cultural pose of Southern LA as “Everything sucks, let’s get fucked up.” Southern OC she described as boring. “Let’s go smoke weed in a parking lot.” Berkeley she was liking, and I was happy for her.

After a brief time at the birth bringer, we headed to the non-namesake venue of the district, which was not too busy when we first arrived at 8:30. I stayed outside to get a hot dog from the vendor stationed outside, and not only was it as tasty as always, I had a nice conversation with the girl manning the stand. As I neared the end of my hot dog, an old friend of hers from high school walked by and said hello. She said “You’re looking like Chris Brown.”

He walked on, and then she said to me, “Funny how people change so much you barely even recognize them.” I said that was very true; I had run into an old high-school acquaintance for the first time in eleven years a few summers earlier, and while she recognized me by name, I didn’t recognize her at first. In high school, she had been a cheerleader with long blonde hair. Eleven years later, she was a hairdresser in SF with short black hair, and multiple tattoos and piercings. Huh.

“I was supposed to go to senior prom with that dude. But I didn’t. He was just a big nerd, and he flaked on me. I didn’t care. Now’s he’s looking all slick. I look the same.”

Then an acquaintance of mine, Ev, walked down the street, and I called out “Hey!” She had just been spotted by other friends as well, and was greeting them as she heard me call out. I took the moment she spent hugging her other friends to say goodbye to the girl at the hot dog stand, and then turned back to Ev.

“Ev! How are ya?!” I leaned in for a hug. I had the impression she was a hugger, and did not think this was out of line.

“Oh, heh, OK, well, I don’t know you that well, but…” She reluctantly hugged me.

I began to get a hint, and said Well, Don’t Let Me Keep You From Your Friends. She said, oh, they’re going that way, and I’m going in here. I said I was going in here too. She said, oh, if that’s the case, then let’s go in. I said, It’s So Funny To See You, because I had seen a mutual friend of ours a few days earlier, and that friend had talked about Ev a lot, and it had made me think Hmm, It’d be nice to see Ev again sometime. Ev got away from me as soon as possible. She speed walked the ten feet to the front door and didn’t turn around. I didn’t see her again that evening.

I got a drink and headed for the back patio, where Em and Bee and Ma were standing around, smoking and chatting. The sudden and strange encounters with the hot dog girl and then Ev had me feeling a deep melancholy all of a sudden. The rest of the evening was all right, with a little mirth amidst a general sense of ennui throughout the crowd. Talking to Ma at length about Infinite Jest was definitely a highlight, though. I hadn’t really had a chance to talk to anyone about the book in depth, not too many people have actually read it. Ma reminded me that one of the central themes of the book was the need for identification, and I thought about that for the rest of the night.

I woke up Saturday morning to find a text from B that read “I lost all my stuff last night.” I called her back immediately, and she didn’t answer. After I sent her a text asking her if she was OK, she responded “As OK as I can be.” I asked her to call me. She did, and we talked for about fifteen minutes. It turned out that she was herself OK, she had just lost her purse in a blackout the night before. She had become worried that if she did not make it home from the friend’s apartment where she had initially been planning to crash that night that she wouldn’t make it to work on time the following day at noon. In a strange twist of fate, it was the losing of her purse after she left her friend’s apartment that was making her late for work as I was talking to her at that moment.

0+1+0+6+1+2=10=1. It comes down to you. What were you thinking? What have you learned from this experience?

I took BART out to see her at work and hopefully cheer her up. I brought her a banana. She was able to take a break and stand in the sun on the sidewalk outside together. She seemed really happy to see me, and damn if I wasn’t happy to hug her.

0+1+0+7+1+2=11=2. Better together. It’s hard to do this life alone. Stick with me, and I’ll stick with you.

This one’s for you, B. Lucky 13. Love ya.

-1/8, 7:42PM, home, drunk again, calm.

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One Response to “Sixty-seven”

  1. Remember when you’d read the horoscopes from my Allure magazines and be all “Jenny, these are eerily TRUE! This is crazy! How do they know?” Or something like that. Maybe it was more like “Hey, I read the horoscope in your outdated Allure magazine and funny enough, everything it predicted actually happened to some degree. Eery.”.
    Love reading your new posts!
    Who’s the hairdresser? Tell me, tell me!

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