Dear Spatula Hand Guy,
It was good to see you while you were in town. I’m glad that all of your bones healed since that time you fell off that mountain. We were all worried when you posted on Facebook that you were going to kill yourself. I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself. So I hope this doesn’t hurt too much when I tell you, I don’t want to sleep with you.
It’s not that you’re leaving town again, and that I would be sad with you a thousand miles away after we slept together. It’s not that you’re angry at the world and you feel like you’re owed something and you won’t shut up about it. Not even the story about how on your way here you decided to stop ‘for a minute’ at a strip bar and you passed out and when you woke up the next day your car was stolen and you have a conspiracy theory about the owner of the strip bar because your own choices had nothing to do with any of that happening. It has more to do with the way that you’ve already had eleven beers, and you just used your hand as a spatula.
It was really nice that you made macaroni and cheese from scratch, and then brought it to the bar in case anyone got hungry. Thoughtful. I think of you as basically a really thoughtful guy. It’s nice that you’re buying beers for all of your friends at your own going away again party. And I like how you are tall and your sparkling, searching eyes. But eleven beers is a lot of beers, even for a tall guy. And... you just used your hand as a spatula.
You offered me some of your four cheese mac and cheese, which I was really excited to taste. But you didn’t bring anything to serve it with. And instead of letting me serve myself with this small plastic fork, you pushed my arm to the side, swallowed the rest of your eleventh beer, and scooped up a blob of it your hand and put it on a plate. Now, I’ve broken bread with all kinds of folks. I went to Sacramento after my ten days of silent Vipassana and I made chapati with my new friends. We all ate rice and yogurt with our hands. With our own hands. But no one touched my food with their hands. Look at your hands, man. Look at all that black stuff under your nails.
Ok, ok, I’ll take a bite. See? I’m doing it. Thank you. But no, seriously, I don’t want to sleep with you. Thank you, no. Do you have any idea how long it’s been for me? Do you think I want my first romp out of the pen to be with a guy with all that anger and alcohol running through his system? I see your smile, yes. I see it. I’m saying “It’s not enough”. A guy can go to a strip club. He can have some temporary insanity around the size and scope of the mess he’s created in his own world. But your hand. It’s got all kinds of dairy products all over it. I just can’t.
So good luck. I heard you’re taking a train out of town. That’s good; I’m pretty sure there’s no way you can get the train stolen out from under you while you’re sleeping.
Sarah Elovich is a writer and performer based in Oakland, CA.