Sunday, August 13, 2006

I Am Fido

The penultimate week at Wuperior Soodcraft went pretty well. The boss's husband took it pretty well when I gave him the news that I was leaving. So well, in fact, that he didn't fiire me on the spot, as he's done often in the past. He takes it personal. And it totally felt like I was breaking up with him. "No, Patrick, it's not you, it's me." Literally.

And of course at Starbucks, these are halcyon days. Everybody is wishing me well, congratulating me. One guy, a really nice guy, a general contractor I've had some good conversations with, essentially told me I'm one of the smartest people he's ever met and he was glad to hear I was going to work in a place where that could be put to good use.

And it's kind of weird with the guys I work with. Suddenly, I'm set apart from them. From those honest, dawn-rising, hard working blue collar men. The questions I get--So I guess you'll have to wear a suit and tie now?--tell me that they understand what's going down in that light, too.

And it's occcurred to me that financially, I'll might be doing pretty alright. I'll be working in Phildadelphia, and making a salary to allow someone to live in Philadelphia, which like every city sucks the money out of your wallet because there's so much available to buy, but I'll be living in Bucks County. Where there's not too much going on at all. So things could work out well.

The outgoing executive director and I are trying to schedule a phone conversation to talk about the transition, so she can brief me on all the dirty laundry. And, she'll be there my second week to introduce me around and go through the administrative aspects of the job. The first week, I guess I'll do my best not to get in anyone's way [g].

And all week long, I had a date with the hot tub guy to look forward to.

Well... Not quite a 'date' of course. Since hot tub guy seems to have decided that we should be 'buddies' of sorts. He's been feeling poorly, and so I offered to make him chicken soup.

"Really?" he said, "You'd do that for me?"

Duh! Of course I would! Pass up an opportunity to cook for a man? Not likely.

Since Fidel is also feeling poorly these days, I decided to make it a cuban chicken soup, adding chorizo, squash, and tomatoes, and flavoring it with sazon Goya, cumin, lime, cilantro, and lime.

And it was great spending time with him. Really great. I get on so well with hot tub guy.

And last night, we slept curled around each other, taking turns spooning, me holding him, him holding me, me holding him, him holding me...

By way of thanks, this morning he bought me breakfast at Morning Glory, a great place to have breakfast if you're ever in Philadelphia. He regaled me over eggs with the tale of a former roommate of his, who announced that he was going to have some major surgery done. Only it turned out, this guy was having extensive facial cosmetic surgery. He had been promised by the plastic surgeon that he could be transformed into the face of Colt model whose picture he had cut out of a magazine. (Of course, when he showed hot tub guy the picture, hot tub guy was like, "Oh I know him, that's my friend Joe!") And, of course, the results of the plastic surgery were pretty bad. You don't have to be O'Henry to figure out how that's gonna go.

But then, during breakfast, hot tub guy also threw a bucket of cold water on me. He lamented that despite all his efforts, he hasn't met any nice guys since he's been in Philadelphia. Guys who are solicitous of him, inviting him to do things together, welcoming him into their lives.

I guess I could have said "Hmmm... I don't see chopped liver on the menu, but there seems to be some at our table." But I didn't.

Because I am Fido. It's the Ur name for a dog, I know. From the latin, meaning "Faithful." Semper Fidelis, Fidelio.

You call, hot tub guy, and I'll come. You text message me, and I'll answer. The rest of the world might look at you as a sweet hole and an easy lay, but I like you. I think you're a good man with a good heart.

And maybe someday, you'll look across the table at the guy who drove all the way down to Philadelphia to make you the best chicken soup you're ever likely to have in your life, and start wondering if something might be possible there.

Or not.

But either way, I am Fido.

After all, smokin hot men I like spending time with aren't exactly pounding down my door out here in the howling wilderness.

And like I said, I'm not passing up the opportunity to cook for anybody.

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