FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS: CHAPTER TWELVE (Raven)

I didn't think anything was capable of distracting me from a third row center court view of Maria Sharapova's legs. So it was much to my surprise when I found myself paying little attention to her match against Serena Williams, who I also don't mind watching run about. What mesmerized me instead for the near three hours their contest took up were the gams and everything northward on the woman seated beside me. She possessed the tranquil beauty one usually associates with women who accompany middle aged celebrities to televised award shows to make them even more enviable. Her skin was the color a brand new penny, but worth considerably more to my appreciative eyes. Her attire subtly hinted at the extravagance of what she had to offer. She had a regal bearing, remindful of a tanner Princess Di as she watched the green ball whiz back and forth.

We played the game that people play, sneaking peeks when the other wasn't supposed to notice, graduating to eye contact of increasing duration, eventually accompanied by a smile, a hi, small talk about the match, then about anything that would keep the conversation going. By mid-third set I was bold enough to inquire what her plans were after the match. Her schedule was tied up by her companion one seat over, an absolutely hideous woman who greeted me upon introduction as if meeting a leper. They had probably been friends since high school, for my recollection of that period is of the prettiest girl's best friend always being among the ugliest, and having the worst attitude problems to boot. What caused this I never did figure out, though I do have a few theories which I won't bore you with.

I had to settle for exchanging phone numbers. Raven's business card informed me that she was a lawyer, and her aura suggested she was a high profile one. My friend Jamal would have termed her a first class lay, but I know from experience that bank accounts and social status neither improve nor detract from the quality of sex.

It was a bit tricky arranging to get together. Raven seemed to have prior obligations for every minute of her life. After two and a half weeks of phone tag and tentative engagements which never panned out, we managed to meet one Thursday night for a late dinner. The period of anticipation had heightened my already substantial interest in her, as well as given me time to rehearse my intended spiel. I suspected that she may be more expert at detecting bullshit than the average woman, so prepared to be at the top of my game. Time was obviously a valuable commodity to her, so it was imperative that I make what little I had count.

The restaurant I selected was suitably elegant and wallet thinning, with atmosphere to spare. Raven looked even more resplendent than I recalled, and if I do say so myself, I was her match. All of the fairy tale elements were in place, except that happily ever after was not a consideration. Happily all night would suffice.

I entertained her with anecdotes about my life as a Navy pilot who braved the dangers of Desert Storm, went on to be a real live cowboy on a cattle ranch in Montana, and then secured a life lasting fortune by patenting a software program later sold to Bill Gates. It's amazing what you can convince a person of due simply to having varied acquaintances, being a good listener, spending a few hours reading, and possessing the ability to lie with absolutely no compunction. Give enough obscure details and they'll take you at your word every time. It wouldn't require much probing to expose my fabrications. But no one ever calls me on this stuff. You can only sell folks what they want to buy, whether they are aware of the desire or not.

Raven told me about her experiences as a corporate lawyer, of which I took note so as to include the profession in my cast of characters. This is what I do. I use the lives of others to create ones for myself. What would you prefer, that I tell the truth? Why subject others to the tedious facts of my existence? I want to entertain and be entertained. Truth would only spoil things.

But it would make me a better person, is that what you're thinking? Better than what? What crime am I committing? Who's getting hurt? Some feelings and egos may suffer damage on account of my actions, but neither are made of glass. Your problem is that you have a preconceived notion of what to expect from a confession. "Where's the remorse?" you ask. And where is the Freudian interpretation of my actions? You want me to proclaim that I do what I do because I miss my father or want to fuck my mother. I recall some childhood trauma and everything is neatly explained and justified. There has to be a rational explanation for how the monster was created, so you won't have to fear becoming one yourself.

Who gave you the right to judge me? The only difference between us is that you merely wish, I do. You stubbornly persist that love is the answer but have no idea what the question is. You're so smug about knowing who you are, but what does that accomplish other than keeping you from seeking a better self? Why be grateful for being fairly certain what tomorrow will bring? That's only because you plan to live it exactly as you did yesterday and today. Not exactly a great accomplishment, merely re-treading what you have mastered rather than venturing to explore new territories. And what's so tragic about dying alone? Is there really any other way?