(17) Prodigal Son
Aside from having just listened to the Stones again, the benison of the timeless Beggar’s Banquet, with its gritty gorgeous acoustic ballads, Mick and Keith as growly blues guys, kill the fatted calf, call the family round, Andrew could not see why he felt like a prodigal son returning. He’d done little to deserve the status.
With Vee returned to her lair, where she claimed, passenger door open, in a sudden acclaim of virtue, to have many chores awaiting her, the evening was, well, open. He toasted some bread, added peanut butter and honey, and sat down to his laptop for an hour’s infotainment. There was an email from Colleen in Dubai: Holy mary mother of god it’s hot. And the room close to freezing. Off to dinner in a jiffy. My reinstated boyfriend almost choked with delayed amours pour moi. Probably promised dad a daughter-in-law with the last one. Expect a proposal between the lobster and the custard and jam tarts. Any suggestions?
With the time difference it looked as though she’d just sent minutes ago, so Andrew smirked and immediately wrote: Keep a piece of lobster aside and then dip it lasciviously in the custard and slowly lick it off while gazing into his eyes. That’ll postpone any proposal until you can figure out another strategy. There was another from Jordan threatening to return to Canada soon and check into his lakeside retreat. He did not, however, request an airport pick-up. Perhaps his foreign host was picking up the tab for a limo. He had a number of high flying clients who were usually more than happy to pay his way. As far as Andrew could tell black magic was not involved. Some glorious business advice and stock market tips yes, black magic no.
And, oh goody, a couple from his last trophy wife ad in the LRB. A Marlene from Oxford had penned what looked at first glance to be a sonnet extolling the virtues of the bride’s last blush and the maidenhead so far untamper’d. The phrase green grow the rushes o was a quote for sure, but from what? There was just the sonnet, no actual missive, but nicely turned all the same, he had to admit on second reading. Perhaps she was an actual poet looking for a downy berth amidst the flowers. Perhaps he could help her there. He typed: How do you support yourself while composing such fine a-flowing words? Next was one Polyglot Gluttony from Abergavenny. You jest madam surely. But no, she was sincerely rotund and ready to bathe any part of his anatomy in her generous mammaries. Fly me over were her parting words. He thought better of his immediate desire to reply in kind, and moved on to a large picture of a black lab snoozing on a leather couch, its head on the arm. Cute squared. Well, for some people.
From there he moved to Facebook, flicking down through his list of friends, at least six of whom had earnest lefty rebuttals and outrages over US, Canadian and British government actions, three with animals of varying species snoozing together, two bitching about the terrible Leafs track record, a few with new-age platitudes printed inside filigreed boxes, one with a link to a Guardian article, and another to a New Yorker feature. But the one which captured his interest was a link to a video featuring Soft Machine practicing arrangements for their then new album Fourth. Headphones in place he allowed himself to be enthralled.
A half hour or more of losing himself in Youtube videos followed, as it almost always did, such were the riches to be mined. A vague peckishness roused him from the couch to the fridge, where a cursory examination revealed not very much of gustatory interest; old olives, some cheese not yet opened never mind consumed. There was some quiches in the freezer he was sure and one or two pasta concoctions. But ease of consumption won the toss. Helocated his copy of Infidels and inserting himself into a coat headed out to the trusty Toyota. It had been ages since he tampered with sushi, so he parked in front of Meow, a not very Japanese sounding place that had come with the highest recommendations in the previous months. Looked sorta formal like you oughta be dressed to the nines with ladylove in tow, but hell, he slobbed in and sat down at the nearest empty table. The place was quietude incarnate, though a tinkling waterfall could be discerned somewhere. A young lady of formal demeanour took his order, brought his tea and left him to his book.
