We met at Front Porch at two. Piggy was waiting for me at an outdoor heated table under an umbrella, already working on her first beer. ‘Under an umbrella’ was a Pink Piggy’s favorite place to park themselves. They could sit for hours, usually with other Pink Piggers, human-watching, searching for a man. You can sometimes hear the snorting when a cute guy walks by, but, usually, it’s just them commenting on another woman. They use their time penned under an umbrella to check out other Pink Piggies. Pink Piggies are always comparing themselves to other women. Sometimes, they are so engrossed in the hunt for similarly dressed piggies that they actually eat something. The fare of choice is usually some kind of pub food, like nachos. These are the “rule breaker” piggies. They know they shouldn’t be eating until their yogurt dinner, but they can’t hold out. They scarf it down in record time to avoid any pink-piggy, friend backlash that may occur if they are spotted by another from the drift of swine.
After I examined the situation, and determined that this blond-haired Piggy in her snazzy, pink, velour jumpsuit was a non-hostile piggy, I strolled over and introduced myself.
“Piggy?” I asked, dressed in my finest ratty t-shirt and jeans.
Piggy looked at me, confused. “David?” She said, “Nice to meet you.” She got up and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I sat down, and we exchanged some general information. Then the date took a turn for the worse when we started playing ‘Jewish Geography.’ For all of those not familiar with the game let me fill you in. The rules are simple. You randomly call out the names of high school friends, college roommates, fellow summer campers, folks who grew up in your hometown or state, who might know the other person.
“You said you went to CAT U, right?” See how she was teeing that ball right up.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Oh, do you know Jon Carrol? He was in Alpha Sigma Zed.”
When it came to names at my college there was almost certainly a fraternity or sorority attached to the end of it.
“Was he my year?” This is where it all goes downhill.
“Well, let me see. Either he is your year, or two or three years older than you,” she said.
Sixteen thousand people went to CAT U. Unfolding before your eyes, is the stupidity of this game.
The sun was shining in my eyes, so I was forced to squint. Fuck, I didn’t need a headache today. I turned my head a bit to avoid the sun.
“Yeah, I probably don’t know him,” I said, quickly losing patience.
“You have to. He was really cute. ASZ, all the girls loved him.”
“It’s not ringing any bells.” Please just stop.
“He was so cute. I fooled around with him once when I visited Catskill my freshman year. He was hot.”
I don’t care. Why would she tell me that? What she really wanted to say was, “Hey faggot, I like to hump real men, guys that were in fraternities, not guys who live at their sister’s apartment on air mattresses.”
I had to get off this subject. Usual custom provides for the person to volley back with a possible common link for the other person to ponder. I couldn’t handle it, plus the sun was really in my eyes.
“Do you mind if I move my chair?”
“Sure,” Piggy said.
It was a sunny day and unseasonably warm. I was actually getting a little hot under the heat lamp. I shifted my seat a little more and was now staring out at the avenue. I saw a tall girl walking down the avenue in a cool jacket and knit dress that stopped at the top of her knees (you could see a bit of the dress peeking out from under her coat) with thigh-high boots on and a gigantic bag that looked like it probably cost $6,000. Jesus, she was hot. Showing a little skin in the middle of winter. Bold! Then I looked at Piggy, the sun no longer an issue. She was cute, too. She wasn’t quite the model that I just saw, but, hey, I am sitting here with a Piggy. One in the hand is worth . . . well, you know.
“So, you work with people learning to speak again?”
“I work with people who need help learning how to speak again because they were in an accident, or had a stroke, or have some serious medical condition,” she said.
“That’s funny. I had a teacher once, Mr. Comstock, who had Bells Palsy. He would always get water on his shirt when he tried to get the water from the water fountain in that unfrozen hole left in his mouth. Do you help people like that?”
“Was that supposed to be a joke? That’s not very funny. But yes, I would help people like that.”
“He was a dick, though,” I added.
The waitress stopped by and asked if we needed any more drinks. We both passed.
“What is wrong with you?” Piggy said in an uppity, piggy pitch. The voice goes up at the tail end of each word. This is the first sign that a piggy is about to turn violent. I had to soothe the piggy.
“I’m just kidding. Well, sort of. I mean I think he is a prick, but I hope his palsy went away by now.” Dude, I was blowing it.
“Look, let’s just end this charade. I think you have a lot of problems and you are probably an idiot, but this is my day off and I don’t have that much time to date. I’m pretty sure you aren’t going to kill me, so if you want to come back to my apartment we can sleep together. I need to relieve some stress, anyway.”
Did I hear that right? We can go back to her apartment and have sex. This was like a dream come true. Score one for the piggy hunter.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go back to your apartment,” I was like a ten year old and the ice cream truck was heading down my street. Yeah, ice cream!