frayed tempers
Sunday 27 August 2006 | I like a cookie
The other weekend, when the Brujo threw the DMV letter across the room in total frustration, after weeks of dealing with intractable California and New Mexico authorities and a totally unhelpful Geico bureaucratess named Frieda Sneed (who first took down his email address as “rita@ffrecorter.com” and then “thebrujoalloneword@gmail.com,” which is kind of like “I, state your name…”)—when, as I say, he flung it at the wall shrieking “Fuck!” and, when I laughed uneasily, snapped, “It’s not fucking funny,” and then stormed into the backyard where he…walked around awhile and came back in (it’s so hard to make those really dramatic gestures in suburbia)—when I then went outside to deal with my stuff under the grape arbor and stars, what made me smile and eventually go back inside for my dinner plate was the thought: What, you’d rather be with someone who wears pajamas and doesn’t leave the house or go to work or say anything for days? and I hadn’t; and it’s not like it’s really a choice, any more than it’s a choice between Cecil Taylor and the Real Book at the Radisson, but I decided it was totally fine that he’d lost his temper, meaning at least that there was some kind of poise in the first place to be lost, and that I’d absolutely take him, like the little folksinger says, as is. He later confessed he had no memory of saying what he’d said, and lamely attempted to blame his outburst on the fact that his shrimp wrapped around queso had in turn been wrapped with bacon and he hasn’t had meat in months, which somehow reminded me of Eddie Izzard as England hiding India behind its back after World War I, what’s that you’ve got there? Oh, nothing… We are all awfully stroppy and volatile here in Santa Fe, though to be fair what the Brujo has been put through would try the patience of an arhat. Whereas I haven’t had bacon for a decade so I don’t know what my excuse can be, besides the usual sharp drop in estrogen. Too many pecans? An excess of dried blueberries? Overindulging in white cheddar and rice crackers and fizzy water? On ne sais jamais, but I’m convinced no one loves me and I’m the loathly lady and nothing good can ever happen and it’ll all end in tears just like it always does and oh weevil weevil weevil weevil.
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