I’ve reached a milestone working on a program for Tristram, when a woman shows up at our office, ostensibly sent by him for me. Through a series of awkward exchanges, it gradually becomes clear that this woman is a prostitute. Perhaps Tristram means for me to celebrate with her, but I’m not about to act on an inference like that before convincing myself thoroughly that this is in fact exactly what Tristram means for me to be doing right now, especially not if she is meant for him himself. I ask her to wait a moment while I look back through his recent messages to me. She climbs into bed, waiting patiently.
There is, like, a mile of texts Tristram has sent me, replete with big image files. There’s even a string of messages which state a simple idea, but do so extremely inefficiently, because Tristram has made a joke out of starting each new line with the next letter of the alphabet, starting with A and ending with Z.
This prostitute is extremely ugly. She’s pasty, has eczema, is squat, flabby, old, with awful fashion and burgandy hair. I don’t want to sleep with her even if I’m meant to. She’s pulling me toward her into bed, but I resist.
Now a repairman shows up. Somehow, this prostitute knows at least something about what he’s here for and how to direct him (I don’t know a thing). After I stammer long enough, that is, she interjects and shows him where the particular supply cabinet he needs is located.
At one point I realize that I haven’t actually been reading Tristram’s recent messages to me, but rather a really, really, really long webpage that seems a lot like such a string of recent messages from him to me. I have to click back in my browser and re-figure-out how to get back on track. I did at least learn here that the prostitute is a filmmaker who makes short films, like me. Perhaps I could talk to her about that some other time in a less complicated situation.
The prostitute has invited her friend over now, too, apparently, adding to the number of things I’m juggling simultaneously. They’re in bed together now, not having sex, just chatting, bored, while I keep reading.
I finally finish Tristram’s messages, only to turn up empty of anything helpful to work with. All I know is that he doesn’t want to alert anyone to the fact that this is happening, in case it were to blow up into a party… whatever “this” is, goddamnit! And is even this one friend of the prostitute not supposed to be here — have I already messed up?
Before I can kick her out, I am accosted by the repairman again. He asks me to carry something fragile outside to put in the trash pit. He instructs me to use patience and logic when transporting it across the yard, to avoid dropping it. All it is is a bunch of screws and bolts in various haphazardly stacked tool kits, though, so I do the opposite and beeline across the piles of junk he’s already thrown out there. When I literally jump on top of one pile, the yellow toolkit on top of my stack literally flies off, spinning, and comes down hard on the lawn. Fortunately it doesn’t sound like anything breaks, plus it seems he trusted me to follow his directions and hasn’t been monitoring me.
I pick the toolkit back up and continue on my way to the composting area. It’s a three foot deep pit of black gooey liquid, demarcated on the surface by white pegs connected with twine in a 4″ x 4″ grid. Later I will use my hand as an example of 4″ when explaining this to people even though I know it’s bigger than that.
Now I understand that Tristram systemically buries this industrial waste to cover up the evidence of his philandering. I guess that answers the question of whether or not Lindsey condones this.
I lay down on the lawn and look up at the sky. The clouds are racing across. There are at least five layers of cirrus-type clouds moving in different directions as if the wind is completely different at different elevations, and their lighting is completely different too, as if the light is being refracted totally differently across elevation as well.
Karin is laying there with me and says that she doesn’t like the clouds too small like this. I wonder aloud how the angles of water crystals to the sun could account for these wacky formations, but Karin points out that we’re contributing to this directly by flapping our wings like snow angels, launching the pappuses from the dandelion blowballs. Jeez, this sky must be really close, then, I think.
Glancing around me to gauge the height of the sky, I realize that Tristram’s lot is packed. There’s a high-rise residential building going up. Huge billboard. Driving around now, I see that there’s a 1-story red brick hospital, a ranch, etc. We must be in Mexico since everything is in Spanish. Most blocks are serviced by dirt roads with road signs.
At this point I start writing down the names and types of all these establishments because I like the Spanish proper names and the variety of establishments I see — I want to share them in a post on my blog later – but I run out of time before we get where we’re going and have to put my notes away and begin committing the rest to memory. Sadly nothing lasts too long, which is why I only have a couple down here — sorry.
At the gym with Tristram now. A bunch of guys surround us, large guys, varied race but all large, and all wearing the same outfit: white shirt and grey sweatshorts. Perhaps because I’m just standing here not getting into gear I’m coming across like his gay lover or something, Tristram is putting on a big show as if trying to prove that he’s not gay (with me). I never planned on joining him for this workout, I don’t know what he was thinking. I’m headed out.
In the parking garage later after his workout, Tristram is wondering how to pronounce his own last name, Walgreens — isn’t it usually with a long ‘a’, like Whale-greens?