When Jozet put out the call for guest bloggers to provide content while she
And then, of course, I had no idea what to write. If you've visited The Flies before, you know that I rarely have any idea what to write, so at least I was in my comfort zone. Still, though. What to do...?
Oh, I know! I can tell you all about the first time I met Jozet.
It was a Saturday afternoon, in one of those dark, close bars where playing the wrong song runs a good chance of a quart of Jack upside the head. At my feet I could still make out the chalk outline of the last guy who punched up B-17, and the air still hung heavy with the echo of the girl who said, "It was our song, it was his song, but it's over," right before she stuck him.
Gives me shivers to this day, it does.
Near to hand was a glass of the most foul, rotgut, cringe-worthy Brandy Alexander I'd ever tasted, and a pack of Nicorette. It was a smoke-free establishment.
The door swung open, leaking in a slash of sunlight, and she walked in.
A fog of silence crept through the bar. Behind the counter, a glass shattered in the beer wench's hand. She glared at the visitor, who let the door swing shut and shouted my name.
I was doing roadie work in those days, living gig to gig, running sound for the desperate to play, the struggling bands paying their dues in bad bars in worse towns. I looked up to see who wanted to talk to me.
She was cute. Perky. And she was wearing some sort of weird body suit cut high at the thighs. It was an animal print, cheetah or something, and I spotted a long tail. How odd.
But what really caught my eye was the set of ears up top her head, like she was some strange cat person.
Oh, crap. Wait.
That was when I met Josie.
Not Jozet. Oh, man. My bad.
In the Fall, when the world is colorful and the air carries the promise of winter, I enjoy a tradition or two. My office is in a building on a piece of land adjoining the local university campus, and when the weather turns a touch cooler, the students are less willing to walk, so they like to park here in our parking lot to shorten the trip to campus, and most importantly, prevent anyone else-- our visitors, for example-- from having a place to park.
So when I have a minute, and I spot a student leaving a car to clog up the lot, I like to throw water balloons down from the second floor.
Because, you know, they hated the paintball gun.
So I was having trouble with the government-issued balloons. They were breaking before they got to the targets, spilling their contents ineffectually over the ground and generally being a waste of time. I put in a requisition for new supplies, or at least someone to take a look at my stock. They seemed to think it had something to do with shoddy materials.
And one day, Jozet showed up at my door and said,
"I'm here to help you with your rubber."
You know what? I don't know if that was her, now that I think about it.
In fact, on further pondering, I'm not sure when I met Jozet. I could look it up, I guess. She took a wrong turn on the internets one day and ended up in my comments. She may have been crying. I took pity on her and she was able to find her way back to the real bloggers.
And when she needed a hand, I was happy to do it.
After all, she may or may not have helped me with my rubber.