you're a suicide bomber--a woman, because who would suspect that?--strapped into a bomb vest meticulously connected to a freshly-purchased cell phone, the number of which is possessed only by the control who will dial same at the precise moment at which your murderous, suicidal ass is positioned for maximal damage in red square at midnight, thus blowing you and a few hundred of your nearest revelers to smithereens.
as you nervously await your cue at the safe house, you go over and over the plan in your head, looking for flaws, but there are none.
well, almost none.
if it's any consolation, know that even the forensic investigators later combing through the wreckage of your safe house and collecting what's left of your remains with a tweezer won't fault you for not anticipating that your service provider might want to cement its bond with you, their new customer, by sending you an early and unexpected "happy new year!" text message.
i tell ya, the only thing that could make this story more perfect is janet napolitano jumping in front of a camera and proclaiming, "see? the system worked!"
[i suppose this could be considered a sequel to this post]
i remember the first time i laid eyes on him, this slim, impossibly cute eurasian boy, as he pulled up to the curb in his shiny red jeep and jumped out to check out our "mike's moving out" yard sale.
i remember literally running over paul (who had already spotted him and was moving fast) and a dozen or so middle-aged russian-immigrant babushkas in order to get to him first.
i showed him everything we had to offer, but he saw nothing he wanted, except me.
the look paul gave me when i called out, "take whatever you can get for my shit" as vince and i piled into his jeep and peeled off into the sunset: priceless
i remember i shot three times that first night, and vince not once. i remember that never having happened before, but not caring, because i was smitten--that boy was something.
a senior at USC and a virtuoso trumpet player in its band, vince was possessed of that ineffable musician-cool that carried him through every situation seemingly untouched, and made me melt from day one.
my second-favorite vince memory: from his balcony overlooking a pool party below, he tosses a water balloon into the chattering midst of a speedo-ed gaggle of weho muscle marys, and, as they shriek and scatter in every direction, looks at me with a twisted grin and says, "not so hot now, are they?''
i remember the last time i laid eyes on him--about three weeks in and we're high and i slip a couple fingers into him as a preliminary to the fucking and he asks for a third and then begs for a fourth and before i know it i'm deep inside him in a way i've never been inside anyone before and everything i hadn't understood about vince--23 years old and already ruined--suddenly becomes clear.
i remember he looked up at me, eyes on fire for the first time, and said, "fuck me, mike", and i did, and he finally came.
* * * * *
my favorite vince memory: he and i on melrose in that open jeep on that first day with the sun on his face and the wind in his hair and all the boys looking at him and him rolling his eyes at me, saying, "i feel like i'm on a parade float when i drive this thing", and his song of the moment blaring outta the speakers
[to be truthful, this one wasn't exactly an "it came up on shuffle"--i heard it at the grocery store tonight for the first time in years and it brought it all back]
