Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Making dinner for Steve

Sometimes it's wiser and gentler to remain in your fantasies. Your fantasy probably smells better, owns his own home and doesn't degrade the environment.  Your fantasy thinks you are the most attractive woman ever, but mostly when you are not either busy already or feeling very tired. Your fantasy will notice dirty dishes and wash them. Your fantasy will babysit your sick children and when you come home from a long day at work your child will be sipping juice from organic fresh carrots, rosy-cheeked and eager to show you their paper mache project, and the evidence of making this project will be thoroughly disposed of. Your fantasy plays guitar for a successful band in which you are the lead singer, but also is a devoted and adoring partner. In most cases, fantasy will have a more favorable outcome than reality for you and possibly your children.

Fantasy is not only preferable, it is also more real to me than most things. Fantasy is majik. Fantasy is locomotion times potential. Mathematically speaking: l(locomotion) x p(potential) = fantasy.

And we all know how important a person's potential is. Usually more important than what they're really like! It's what a person talks about, the magazines they read, their fictional self that says volumes more about who they are on the inside. If you want to get to know someone, explore their fantasy for a while. Or a least until you become a little frightened. 

This particular fantasy begins in the streets of downtown Spokane. Lincoln to be exact. And it's first Friday. Leticia, Jaeda, Shannon, Carly and myself are leaving Terrain to drink cherry Schnapps and vodka outside of Leticia's car. Most of us are working at lowering the veil but Jaeda wants to prepare her set list for her performance that night. As we pass the Sapphire Lounge, Leticia spots a guy. A cute guy.   She yells, "Hey! I just drank shots with your mom and your sister! We were drinking on the street and we were like, 'Hey! You want a shot?' and your mom was like, 'Shit yeah, I want some.' Come with us! Come drink some shots."
Like most men, my fantasy is morbidly curious about Leticia. He smiles in an enchanted way, and eagerly follows us to the car. While some men that follow Leticia are no fantasy, I begin to notice that he is not trying to screw anyone, and he's dressed rather, stylishly.
In other words, clearly his shoes were not purchased at Rite Aid and his coat had been laundered recently. He didn't appear to be homeless.
He went straight for the schnapps and introduced himself as Steve. Not the name I had imagined, but I'd roll with it, we were after all, drinking without as much as a brown bag across from the Davenport Hotel.
Steve tells me and Carly he is in town from Seattle playing music with his Dad's band at the Sapphire Lounge. Blues. White guy Blues. My favorite genre. Then he tells us about his Mom and her lesbian lover crashing the show where Steve and his Dad are playing the white-guy blues. And she's been drinking shots on the street with Leticia.
Sounds like his fantasy could use a little fine-tuning frankly, and I do believe I can provide whatever delusion he may need. I accurately peg him as a bass player. We establish a connection with James Brown. I talk about his frequent costume changes, he talks about his cable access show with him all cracked out and all too shortly, Steve disappears into another Spokane night.
I drink a shot to console myself and figure I'll run into him later.
The night plays out. Leticia uses Jaeda's set list to wipe her ass, we get our picture taken in the photo booth. Shannon gets tired and we leave Leticia and Jaeda dancing up in the window at Terrain.

Sunday evening I begin to prepare the ritual delicious vegan dinner. I think of Steve as I prepare the marinade for portobello mushrooms. Even though he was drinking on the street with us I didn't get the impression he was an alcoholic. His skin looked too good for that. He's probably a vegetarian. "Put a little more ginger in there," I can hear him say. He would love my cooking. I put on my import James Brown record. We would come up with a cool Zumba routine for "Payback."  Steve would be envious of my Slint albums.  He would laugh when I informed him that my youngest may have pin worms, and then offer to launder all the sheets. He would insist on nothing but dinner dishes and a foot massage. And in between making arrangements to move back to Spokane and playing some tunes on his bass, he could tutor the kids in the foreign languages he picked up on tour.

Fantasy, you're too good to me.