Decameron Night

Friday after work found my trudging up to the Future Bakery and Cafe on Bloor Street from Queen and Adelaide, bowed down with the weight of 12 beers and a big bottle of wine, nestled among the printed matter in my napsack. A sweet sweat sheen grew to cover my forehead.

I reached Bloor and found a seat on the patio, only 10 minutes late and no sign yet of Laura.

To my amazement, I didn't immediately light a cigarette, though I did order a beer as soon as opportunity presented itself.

Laura soon made her appearance and we (mostly) managed to keep our hands to ourselves. I kept my drinking to a minimum and Vern showed up around 8:30. After another round, we made our way the couple of blocks to the home of
missnegativity, who was hosting a soiree in celebration of the demise of one Ronald Reagan (may God condemn his murderous soul).

I wasn't much of a party animal that night. Laura and I and Vern kept mostly to ourselves, Laura and I trying not to be too disgustingly cuddly and Laura and Vern getting to know each other, bestfriend to girlfriend (somewhat to my pleasure and a little to my surprise, he told me - while she was upstairs heeding nature's call - that he he liked her). Though I swept a lot of water into the gutter, I did not really participate in the party.

Anyway ...

At some point relatively early, frustrated affection became lustful need.

"G'night Vern," I said, and Laura and I went out into the night, hailed a cab and found our way to my place. It was all we could do not to rip one another's clothes off right there in the cab.

And again: anyway.

We got to it, to the point where ... well ...

Saturday night, I was exhausted and preparing for an early retreat to my bed, nodding to the sounds of live Bob Marley under the influence of a bowl.

When there came a tap-tap-tapping at my apartment door.

Who, I wondered, could that be? Despite the bowl, I opened it.

Bernice, my 85 year-old, orange-haired superindent, stood in my doorway, a hint of a smirk playing her rouged lips.

"Were you," she started slowly, "by any chance moving furniture very late last night?"

"Furniture?" I said, then remembered where my bed ended up. "Uh, well, furniture was moved," I acknowledged, remembering that my bed had moved from one end of the room to the other the night before.

"I had a complaint from the lady downstairs," said Bernice. "She said it soundn't like you were pushing things all over the floor."

I nodded, embarassed. "I, uh, I can make sure that doesn't happen again," I said.

She nodded gravely, then said, "I have another question. Did you have a young lady with you last night?"

"Er ..." At this point, I couldn't help but laugh as I admitted that, yes, I had.

"The woman across the way came to me this morning saying she'd heard all kinds of moaning and screaming coming from your direction. She said she had to scream at whoever it was to shut up."

"I remember that," I said, still chuckling with embarassment under the gentle grilling of my 85 year-old superintendent. "It was pretty hard to miss."

(It was hard to miss: a horribly frustrated and angry voice, screaming, "BEEEEEE QUUUIIIEEETT! SHUT UUUPPPP!")

"Well," she said, now laughing herself, "Try to keep it down, all right?"

I nodded. "I'll put the windows back in," I said.

"Good," said Bernice. "I'm glad your friend was enjoying herself."

I laughed again. "So am I," I said.

And with that, she went on her way back down the hall, shaking her head with bemused indulgence.

I closed my door, embarrassed and proud and went (quietly) to bed.