NEEDLING

She calls at 8h30. It’s my fault, the directions I gave her yesterday weren’t very good. She’s a bit turned around, she says, and she’d rather call me before getting even more turned around. Twenty minutes later, I call her to see where she’s at.

“I’m on 45th and Bull Creek...”
“I’m not sure where that is,” I say, “but just keep going East until...” I give her more directions.

Ten minutes later she arrives.

She’s very clean, paused woman. She’s forty years old she told me in one of her emails. I like her right away. She seems like an easy person to get along with. The dogs like her right away as well. Brutus and Little Bear are all over here, tails wagging, snoofling about. Good sign. Always trust the dogs, they’ve got good instincts, better than us.

I show her the house, explain to her that I wasn’t expecting anybody to move in before the first of July, and that I’ve got a few things to do, like put a new door on where her room would be. Brian took the door off years ago, before Tracie moved in, and earlier I was asking Tracie whatever happened to that door, and she said it disintegrated, and no longer was. So I’d have to buy new one, or build one.

PH#2 really likes the place, likes the neighborhood.

“Why did you move from Virginia?” She arrived in Austin about three weeks ago.
“Well, I’d been stuck in this no-end job for the last few years, and I’d heard that Austin was a cool friendly place. Music and an art scene, I figured I’d give it a shot.”
“Yeah, I just moved back here myself, I’ve been in Paris, France, for the last seven years, and I kindda wanted to come back here and eventually go back to school.”
“To do what?”
“Well, ten years ago, I used to work in the film industry a little, and I’d like to go back to film school. My job’s a little bit of a no-end job as well, and I’m looking for a housemate to lower my bills, basically, so that I can save some money. Right now I more or less barely break even every month. Plus I also like to write poems and stories, so that’s another reason to go back to school, to get back into that whole aspect of things. I haven’t been writing much lately.”

She lights up when I say I try to write.

“That’s funny, I’m an English major,” she says.

I show her the kitchen, and we continue talking.

“It’s kindda like a little commune here,” I say, “They have two dogs and two cats, I have Brutus here, and we help each other out, you know. We often just hang out outside and have a few drinks... you’re...” and I’m not so sure how to say this, “you’re open minded to all kinds of folks? I mean... all kinds of people from different places come here, you know. I’m French, Glenn and Kari are English... and every once in a while, my little sister and her girlfriend come over and visit for a couple days or so... I don’t want any problems there...”
“No problems,” she says laughing, “I realize we don’t have such a good reputation for such things in Virginia, kindda like here in Texas, but there’s no problem with me.”

She sees the dried apricots on the kitchen table.

“Apricots,” she says excitedly, “I just love apricots. You know, when I was in Turkey – I did some intense linguistic studies, and I was studying turkic languages – I finally discovered apricots. Back in Virginia, I’d never had anything but dried apricots, and when I arrived in Turkey, I tasted some fresh apricots for the first time, all kinds... wow, they’re so good.”
“Yeah, I love apricots, too.”
“They’re so good for you, too.”

“Well... I’m really interested in the room,” she says.
“All right... well... I still want to meet a few people, I’ve got another girl coming in to visit a little later today, and a fellow tomorrow... I kindda want to see everybody...”
“Just keep me in mind.”
“I sure will.”

Wow... after last night, I was a little nervous. This woman is very calm, clean, and definitely a good potential. The only thing which bothers me is that she doesn’t drink.

“You don’t have a problem with alcohol?”
“No... I mean, I don’t drink, but it doesn’t bother me.”
“Because I work in a liquor store, I like to experiment making home-made liquors, home-made beers, and eventually I want to try home-made wines. So... I drink, is what I mean, and I enjoy it.”
“There’s no problem there.”

Which is probably just as well. I could see PH#1 coming with his buddies one weekend late at night when I’m not home, and polishing off a couple of my 75 to 100 dollar bottles of single malt scotches. Probably mixing them with coke or something horrible like that. I’m looking at my little menage a trois I’ve got standing in front of my poetry books: a 15 year old Lahroaig bottled by Murray McDavid, a Caol Ila 18 years, and a Lagavulin 16 years, and I cringe at the thought.

PH#2 is definitely on the running list. On the PH#3, who should be here any minute.