Escape from Boys Town

I spent most of yesterday working at my remote office. Meaning, I spent the day shopping for Puma branded items at the coffee shop on 9th and Downing Street.

At some point, when I was lost in a world of trail running performance shoes a gentleman named Don walked up to me to strike up a conversation. Although, I know Don very well he started the conversation the way he always does, “I can’t remember your name, hi I’m Don.” He has started his conversations with me like this for eighteen years. Give or take a year.

When I was a skinny ingénue-like twenty-two year old, I needed to find a new apartment and in a quick manner. I can’t remember the details of why I was so under the gun to find a place, but there you have it. A boney kid in search of a new pad. On my hunt, I responded to Don’s advertisement in the back pages of the Westword newspaper. I showed up promptly at the appointed time and tried to disguise that I had taken that day’s shower in a McDonald’s bathroom sink. Don owned a row of tiny apartments and after a lengthy tour and being interviewed he explained that I didn’t have enough provable credit to get the apartment. He then proceeded to start stroking his bulge through his pants. I would have provable credit if I proved my credit. I did not prove anything that night.

Ever since that night, around once a year, Don randomly approaches me as if it’s our first meeting. For eighteen years. Yesterday, as I dreamed of new Pumas, he again tried to “stroke up” a conversation. I calmly started to reminisce about how it seemed like just yesterday I was a kid in desperate need of an apartment, and how he was in desperate need of me presenting my ass. I then inquired if he was still a landlord. Like a “Boys Town” kind of landlord.

I wonder if next time, he will remember my name.