The reason George thinks I'm in the CIA is that I have a particularly good sense of direction. I am a man of modest abilities, very few outstanding ones, to be sure. But my sense of direction is for whatever reason superior. I can't really think of any time in my life I have been truly lost. I have wandered the tangled streets of second-tier European cities, immersed myself in the medinas of Araby, trekked the interminable shopping malls of American suburbia. I always know where I am. And I always know where north is. I had some bandmates that loved this. We'd be in a megamart somewhere or a record store (remember those?) or who knows where and one of them would slip to up me and ask, Which way's north? And I'd just casually point over my shoulder or whatever it was and go back to what I was doing. Just for the hell of it I did this with my mom last year. Her sense of direction is truly terrible. We were in a mall in the US that I'd never been in before. We were passing a Hot Topic when I asked her, Hey, which way's north? She just laughed. Which way is it, then? she wanted to know. I pointed. Then I took out my phone and opened the compass. I'd been off by about five degrees.
I had a girlfriend once upon a time with a weird ability. You could tell her any word, any word at all, and immediately she'd alphabetize its individual letters. You'd say Alphabet! And she'd pause for a microsecond and then spit out a-a-b-e-h-l-p-t!, rapid-fire. I sure as hell can't do that? Can you?
George was obsessed with the band Toad the Wet Sprocket. I mean, obsessed. It strikes me as a very, very odd thing to get obsessed with, but I suppose it takes all kinds. He and I were living fairly close to one another in Arlington, Virginia, at one point. One day he phoned, saying that he knew someone who had offered him tickets and passes and who knows what all to a TTWS show at the Tower Theater outside Philadelphia. Would I like to go (and of course to drive because as far as I know George doesn't drive)? Sure, why not? So I tool over to his house and pick him up and head up to Philadelphia. I'd been to Philadelphia many times, of course, but I'd never been to Upper Darby which is the suburban town where the venue is. Before I left I pulled out and consulted a paper map (remember those?) and confirmed my route. It's really not that big a deal. But when I drove us straight there and pulled up at the venue, well, as far as George was concerned I had either divined our route by some sort of bizarre witchery or, much more plausibly in his mind, I'm simply CIA. How an average intelligence operative would just naturally know how to access each of the nation's art deco styled theatrical installations I really can't explain. I'm not seeing a connection, but at the same time I don't really watch too many spy movies.
George published a book of poetry back when that is basically exactly what you're imagining it might be. Literally each and every time he mentioned the book to me he assured me that "it has an ISBN number and everything!"
I just checked and it turns out George's father is in fact still mayor. He was re-elected to his, what, fifth term last year? And George, alarmingly, is working at a well known, private college preparatory academy outside Orlando. I would be fascinated to know how the hell he ended up there and what the hell he does but of course I daren't contact him.
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06-19-2017, 02:35 PM
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