The conversation started as many conversations do with the standard, "How are you? So good to see you". How long do we have you in town for?" And my new favorite, "Would you like to live in a 150 year old Victorian home (rent free) for about five years in California wine country in a picturesque small town right outside of San Francisco?" All the clichés screamed at me for their attention: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. If it's too good to be true, then it probably is. That's what friends are for. It was the second one that I should have paid particularly close attention to.
Yes, there should have been a binding agreement such that it would take one, or all us, to die in order for this arrangement to be dissolved. After all, this was an amazing proposal, and would involve quite an undertaking to pull off. I would need to quit my job at a time when unemployment was rising at an alarming rate, foreclosures were the new black, and Madonna had launched a new world tour. How could I do anything so risky right now? The opportunity screamed for a host of written, notarized documents, but we went with the That's What Friends Are For option, and suffered greatly for it.
It was October 2008, and we were still coping with living in an area of Seattle that had one too many college students, a few nasty neighbors (one named Jerome - an evil six year old who referred to my guy (Aster) as Stupid-Muthah-Fuckin’-Whitey and was able to do so without removing his crack laced pacifier), and a few prostitutes. These prostitutes were all male, and seemed to get most of their work from one of the other townhouses in our complex. Now, throw in a job that I despised (dental office manager) with the stress of starting our own greeting card business, and you’ve got me prone to fits of sobbing and uncontrollable calorie consumption. My friend Darcie says I’m an emotional eater. I've never been comfortable with that label. I prefer "effusive grazer." Whereas the former likens me to Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias having a diabetic fit over the dessert bar at Country Buffet, the latter sounds far more dignified. I've also been told that I have an addictive personality. I prefer to think of it more as having a "devoted temperament." It's all about the labels. I’m gay. We love a labels. I make no apologies. Needless to say, it was at this time in our lives where we were easily bewitched by charming, intelligent, highly successful gnomes who were traveling the world and following their bliss. Not my words. This gnome was like a snake oil salesman, making promises of new beginnings, helping us get on our feet, and following our bliss. Again, not my words. The gnome’s name? Todd. To complicate matters, Todd is Aster's ex, but at the time he had proven himself to be nothing short (pun completely intended) of being a genuine, good friend who had gone so far as to invest thousands of dollars in our greeting card business. How could this man deceive us?
Todd arrived at our abode, miraculously avoiding gunfire; which was probably due to his small stature as from a distance he resembles a balding ten year old girl. I opened the door, looked down and there he was! Dressed in the best that Gap Kids had to offer for Fall 2008. I was amazed at how far I had to stoop down to hug him. Looking back, a pat on the head would have sufficed. I also noticed that he was very, very happy. From my own experience I knew that an individual only acted this way either due to a brain injury, an addiction to prescription medications, or both. Considering Todd's devotion to all things organic, I went with brain injury. Besides, his cranial structure seemed so small it must have been quite delicate. I was hit by an image of him wearing a protective helmet and drooling uncontrollably. Adorable.
After the typical rounds of "How are you? What's been happening? You look so tall." he offered to take us out for coffee, a pastry, and some gossip. We went to tea instead as coffee is evil and exploits those that cannot help but be exploited. At least that’s what Todd thinks. As we waited for the digital timer to alarm us that our tea had been properly steeped, Todd began telling tales of his travels to Thailand, the Philippines, Vietnam and Cambodia. He waxed poetic about how he had fallen in love with Laos, and how he wanted to move there permanently, and embrace Buddhism. How simple life was, and how living there would be the greatest reward for a life of hard work. Once in Laos, all of his available time would be devoted to creating a library for all the poor, illiterate Laotians. Right there! That is when the light should have gone on. That is when Mama Universe, God, Jehovah, Allah, Xenu...ANYONE should have slapped me from the Great Beyond and shouted, "Beware the small ones! For it is they who shall take possession of your soul, and your bank account, and eviscerate you!" Dramatic? Yes, but the point is I should have known better. Furthermore, this was a gay man who had just returned from a prolonged vacation to Asia, and was still riding the endorphins that only come from months of daily, cheap massages, manicures and sex with underage youths. However, before I had a chance to further examine his psychological condition, the conversation detoured into how our lives, and our business, were progressing in Seattle. Todd was prepping his hook, and we were the worms.
