Short stories. And even shorter almost-stories.

A Facebook Update

Upon rereading my last blog (does that make me sad, reading my own stuff?), I realized that a little bitterness can be interpreted if one so chooses. Don’t. I felt blessed on my birthday, I really did. And Facebook has reconnected me to a few long-lost friends. So while I’m not taking back the whole “it’s strange to be inundated with massive one-sentence birthday wishes,” I’m certainly not grumpy about it. Miss Giggles, that’s me. But the status thing still weirds me out a little….

The BBMW (The Boy Behind My Wall)

I will write a movie about him one day. Or a novel. The genre is yet to be determined.

Late at night, he plays his guitar. He tries to sing along, often just a little too loudly. And if I’m tired enough, I’ll contemplate sitting at my piano, joining him in a midnight duet. Perhaps we’re soul mates, separated by drywall.

Months ago, for a 48-hour stretch, hard rock blared from his apartment. I heard no signs of life apart from the wailing guitars. So I came to the logical conclusion that the music was his alarm clock. And he did not wake up. Or he was bleeding to death and was using his music as a cry for help; He turned up his stereo with his last ounce of strength, hoping someone would hear and come to his rescue. And no one would. His corpse would not be discovered for days. I would sleep with ear plugs in until the stench led me to complain to my landlords.

I am not the only one who thinks about the BBMW.

I came home from church yesterday to find a note slipped under my door. It read:

Hey Nadine,

It’s **** from upstairs. I tried knocking on your door but there was no answer. The reason I went down was to know if you heard the loud banging that persisted from 5:15 till 6ish in the “singing guy’s” apt.

I’m not complaining, just worried. It sounded like someone was trying to break in. What are your thoughts?

Call me.

###-###-####

I don’t live in fear, so I often find it difficult to relate to people who feed their worry or thrive on paranoia. But the BBTW scenarios highly amuse me, and I secretly hope that the girl upstairs continues to fear for him. Maybe the Greek mafia showed up to collect…uh, something.

A Little Bling

This morning, a coworker gave me the most gorgeous necklace for my birthday. She knew I wanted something turquoise (Girls talk about these things on lunch breaks. I would suck at being a boy. I’m not sure I’d have much to contribute to a-- Oh, yeah. Guys don’t talk while they eat), so she made me a rather exquisite piece of jewelry. Which means that if I’m ever famous, I will endorse her line of jewelry. Proudly.

Bourne

I love him. And I want to be him.

I was almost late for a cheap matinee today, so I thought to myself, “WWJBD?” And the answer? RUN.

So I ran to the movies. I zigzagged through pedestrians, jumped over strollers, hailed a cab only to use its hood as a springboard for some pretty fantastic gymnastics, and made it to the wicket chic without a moment to spare. Not a drop of sweat. And no recollection of my day.

Best movie of the summer.

Bob Dylan

I’m Not There. It’s gonna be crazy. Hopefully crazy-good. Seven actors each embody a different aspect of Bob Dylan’s life and career. And Dylan himself has given this project the go-ahead.

Some pics have been released. I’m sucked in. My faves? Cate Blanchett and (big surprise) Christian Bale. I can feel award season coming….

Grandma

My grandma called me this evening to wish me a belated birthday. While saying our goodbyes, we each said, “I love you.”

I don’t say “I love you” enough. And I only say it to the same few people, even though I happen to love significantly more.

Walker (it always comes back to Walker) is on the phone with a Russian cop. The cop is going undercover. He might not make it out alive. Walker mutters a few important instructions. The Russians signs off with, “Okay. Love you.”

If he can say it, so shall I.

I love you.