Plathological

Tweed Gets You Hot Men

Get this:

Hop on the bus at around eight in the evening after coffee & brownie with Bulford at Il Torrefazione (the usual, random, homeless man mistaking us for a couple, “give your lady a flower!!” Yeah, Bulford, who the fuck do you think you are, leaving my plastic cup empty of carnations?? God). So, I’m on the bus and rest my knees on the back of the seat in front of me as I sink lower into mine and when I’m good and sunk, this guy gets on at the next stop, sits in front of me. Oh great, he’s pushing back on his seat with his back—he’s irritated with me for making his seat rigid with my propped knees.

Glances back, furtively. Twice. Oh. Well oh. Holy shit, he’s stunning. Holy SHIT I want him. This is what I’m thinking. There was a way in which I didn’t quite know where to look. Sure, baby, I’ll move my knees down for you. Is what I think. And I do. And I start breathing harder. And he turns around, says, “Hi. Sorry, I saw you downtown earlier. Just wanted to say that I think the jacket is fabulous. It’s herringbone tweed." HE KNOWS THE TYPE OF FUCKING TWEED.

HOLY SHIT THE JACKET XAVIER GOT ME AT VV IS GOING TO GET ME LAID!!

Is what I immediately think.

“Oh, thanks! What are you reading?” I wait for a beat or two and then can’t help myself (he has gorgeous locks and looks so fucking academic and tweedy I’m nearly squirming) and sit upright, lean forward into his seat. His aquiline nose.

Why, he happens to be reading John Ralston Saul's new book. I try not to froth. I ask him may I and grab the book, flip through, read headings, first paragraphs underneath.

“Oh,” I say. “Have you ever seen him read?”
“ No, but I’m going to see him this Friday at the main theatre downtown.”
“The McPherson Playhouse?”
“Yes, tickets are five dollars.”

We’re at Cedar Hill X now, and he asks me out for immediate coffee. I counter with a proposition for immediate drinks--sweet rum, gin. He immediately agrees. We hop off and walk through the residential area, the park, talking about literary theory, Chomsky, TS Eliot, Atwood. . . . .

As we walk, I ask him his name.

“Elliot,’ he says.
“Like TS,” I say.
“Yes, but he spells it wrong. With one L.”

Did his BA in English in Holland. Is now doing is MA in Economics here, at uvic.

Used to be in a Jazz group (under his full name). Plays jazz guitar. We have drinks and he goes on, and on and on and on, talking about jazz and music theory. I relate what he is saying to various writers. He knows of the writers and particular works I am referring to. He's frantic and damnably European and slightly mad (sound like anyone we know? . . .ahem), but also a Jazz musician.

Over coffee, Bulford said, “I think you’re destined for an older man.”

Elliot (God HIS NAME is Elliot and he’s OBSESSED with TS Eliot) is, I would say, about 30 something or forty something. Who knows? Who cares? He talked my ear off about everything from: why he is too critical and too overtly outspoken sometimes because he once answered his Israeli friend’s emails with . .back-story about Jewish Ascension, called the Aliah (?--spelled WITH an H?) &tc., . .
Answering simple, direct questions takes him as much time as it does me. Which is a long, long time. Everything has a too many contexts. I talked his ear off, in turn.

Gin, and a walk back through the park to get me to the bus stop. He stopped off at his place to get a literary comic for me that is done by the guy who does comics for The Guardian. It’s about, who else, but: TS Eliot, Joyce, Woolf, &tc. &tc. Oh, there's TS again! Oh god the references are brilliant. It's a detective story. THANKS XAVIER. Oh, did I MENTION that he went to the same high school that I went to, in Calgary? What the. His mother lives in Kensington. She's here in Vic for a visit.

& cute boy (HB boy) phoned again last night, at 9:30 or so. I obviously missed his call-- again. Hope he tries again. He IS cute, after all. A lot of agains. Pardon. Men will put that word into you. They have that tendency.

Posted by caroline at June 9, 2005 3:39 PM