That’s What ATMs are For

Last night at the gym I head into the locker room to change back into my street clothes and there’s this young blonde guy on his cell phone in my row of lockers. Being young and blonde, he didn’t exactly grab my attention, but since he’s only a few feet away I am priveleged enough to overhear his half of the conversation, or at least some of it. He’s talking to someone when he gets another call, and it takes some verbal maneuvering to clue the present caller in to the fact that he’s got another call. Then he clicks over.

“Hello?”

-(long pause)

“Who’s this?”

“Hi, Steve, this is Brian”

“Oh, just chillin’. ” He turns away from me and starts to lower his voice.

“Where are you?”

“something something in the Castro. Yeah.”

“um, blonde. something and Dutch.”

“21″

-(long pause)

“Well, we could do that, but you’d have to wire me the money.”

“I know, but I’ve done that so many times and ended up getting screwed so…”

At this point I leave. I take a backward glance, only to see his back, all huddled over the phone. He might not have been 21, but he was young. On my long walk home I picture him at work, kind of. I imagine all the potential clients, horny and broke, wishing for free love.

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