Love Thy Neighbor

The thunderous knocking pulled me out of my subconscious dream world with a start. With the blurred vision of slept-in contacts, I stumbled to the front door yawning away Neverland. The cold brass knob at my fingertips did little to wake me as the door swung open, revealing my next door neighbor. The nonchalant words that came flying at me from her mouth snapped me back into the living world, "Can I borrow three condoms?"

There we stood, frozen in time, as I processed with a dumbfounded glory her request. Who borrows condoms? I could understand asking for a cup of sugar, but why would she need three condoms? But neither of these logical questions passed my lips. Instead I blurted, "Pearl (name changed for my naughty neighbor's sake) It's the Sabbath!"

After equipping her with three Japanese Tie-Dye condoms that I had received as a gift several years ago, Pearl went on her nymphomaniac way. I thought my non-sexual relationship with Pearl had reached a peaceful harbor, but the textual bombs were only beginning to be dropped at my door step.

"Hi LeeLee, look out and tell me what you think of the guy who is leaving my house! QUICK!" read the first text. Not fully aware of the consequences for my actions, I looked out of the entry way and saw a middle aged man with remnants of blond hair and a tummy that looked tired exiting Pearl's abode. I texted back, "He creeps the hell out of me. Reminds me of my old Boy Scouts leader. Why?" In less than 10 seconds my phone chirped in announcement as Pearl's victorious reply arrived, "I JUST DID HIM!"

Over the next 3 days, I received similar texts from Pearl informing me to peer through my peep hole and give her feed back on the men that she was romping with. An Asian disk jockey, two blond lumber jack types, a bearded man who wore Teevas, a elfish looking critter with chicken legs, a middle school History teacher, a mechanic named Rusty, a mid 50's gentleman who drove a silver Buick Park Avenue and a very large ginger all tumbled back into society after experiencing Pearl. 

Diagraming the battlefield's pros and cons of each encounter has become my latest hobby, and like most addictions, my heart begins to race when I hear the excited tone of a text message from Pearl. Thank you, Pearl, for reminding me that it doesn't pay to be a whore.

The Extra Inch

An inch is 2.54 centimeters, one thirty-sixth of a yard, half the length of an average french fry.

I entered the aircraft with all the fan fare of a coach seat ticket holder. The flight attendant greased a grin across her faded face as I passed into the rear of the plane. My seat was located on the very last row, tucked in the corner next to the soon to be rocketing restroom. As I wedged all six feet and 2 inches of my body into that cramped cranny, I caught sight of my row mate's dark eyes gazing at me.

His brown eyes verged on the spectrum of black, his skin was far more bronze than any tanning bed had hopes of making my own, and his turban was tied tight: my neighbor was an inch by inch specimen of a Middle Eastern man. Every piece of post 9/11 propaganda flooded my mind as I ignored my open minded and accepting upbringing. In conditioned ignorance, I began plotting the epic film script that would depict my lion-hearted rescue of the hijacked airplane. My heroic thoughts turned into dazed dreams as I laid my head on my lap, slipping away into slumber.

I woke suddenly, quite unaware of where I was. My legs were bound in place, my head was held captive against my knee and everything around me was dark. Memory raced back to my last conscious thought and my heart began to panic. Without a moment's more hesitation, I began screaming, "Help!" and a few far more colorful explicitives. But the man who had reclined his chair directly infront of me, pinning me in place, was in his own dreamland. All I needed was a little wiggle room, but this snoring giant would not spare me an inch.

As I lay, squished between my own fleshy thighs and the padded backside of the lowered chair, I was reminded of a meeting I had been in some months prior. As the executive leadership of Utah was gathered around a conference table discussing the needs of our diverse company, an argument was raised about the cost of a smaller product versus a larger product. I calmly stated, "I don't care who you are, it's always worth an extra hundred bucks for that extra inch." My response may have been inappropriate at the time and whorrish, but the message rang true as I was jammed in that jet next to a harmless new friend.

An inch is 2.54 centimeters, one thirty-sixth of a yard, half the length of an average french fry.