Pain Relief

I needed some acetaminophen, and Z.M. had a surplus. She offered me a part of her supply. I was hurting, so I asked if I could drop by her place to pick it up that night. She said that was fine, and I could also meet her friend, P.P.O. This intrigued me. Up until that point, in my head, P.P.O. was just a stripper mannequin dressed in a police officer's uniform, and deathly afraid of fire.

Perhaps an explanation is in order. And if not, you're going to get it.

Z.M. had first described P.P.O. rather generously as "Hot Cop." For those of you that have watched "Arrested Development," hopefully you'll recall G.O.B.'s stripper group, dubbed the "Hot Cops." Thus, I had no choice but to picture the man as Will Arnett, clad in a too-tight police uniform top, booty shorts, and the hat. Needless to say, I died a little inside. When Z.M. moved on to dubbing him P.P.O., I lost the connection. Thus, the default; whenever confronted with an enigma masquerading as a person, I have no choice but to imagine them as a faceless mannequin in my mind. Any additional details are gravy. As a side effect, since mannequins are wooden, everyone that is unknown to me fears firelight, in my mind. (It's a good policy really, reminds me not to start fires around strangers.)

That was pretty much all I had to work with. In contrast, P.P.O. had accessed my blog, and had seen the quirks that power K.T. Not that I fear exposing my foibles to strangers; I'd almost rather they know it up front so they know what to expect. Still, never before had I felt quite so disadvantaged when meeting a stranger, as he'd had a leg up.

Still, the call of acetaminophen cries true to my soul. So it was that I found my way to Z.M.'s apartment, and resisted the urge to poke her newly-crafted retinas (retinae?). We talked for a bit, then P.P.O. called to announce his arrival. Talked a little more, and in the back of my head, I was starting to feel that nervous twinge. What if he doesn't like me? (Again, these failings fuel me.)

Knocking at the door, deep and sustained, like repeated mortar firings. Z.M. opened the door, and P.P.O. walked in. Finally, a real person to put to the name. Fairly tall (unfairly to me, since I'm short), P.P.O . had on a Frank Castle/Punisher skull baseball cap, well curved brim, a tight black t-shirt, and khaki shorts. I cannot hate anyone that appreciates the Punisher. I shook his hand and mentioned he seemed much less wooden than I'd imagined. He cocked his head, and I explained the story. I of course did not explain the stripper part, because if I have learned anything, it is to not compare someone to a stripper on first meeting. Unless, of course, they are a stripper and have stuck your glasses between their gluteal muscles (and that is a story for another day). Oh, he nearly crushed my hand, not to be an ass like some people, but just because that was his default strength.

What got me was when P.P.O. said he'd expected someone bigger, like Hemingway or Frost. I'd been wondering, if you took my blog, could you reconstruct me? What would you create, and would it bear any resemblance to me? We have our first preliminary answer: no. Not that I mind people thinking me a more imposing person based on my writing; hell, I would invite the comparison in and give it a beer if comparisons were anthropomorphic and I had beers. Just seemed a little crazy is all.

We sat down, and there were about three seconds of awkwardness before Z.M. asked me about where to find parking in Baltimore to get to the National Aquarium. Yes, a reason to close my eyes and/or stare at my hands. (One of my main defense mechanisms when meeting new people is to constantly look away and flail my hands about like I just don't care, when in reality, I do care a lot.) I started drawing out invisible maps on her coffee table and cursing the UMD L-school building, as it is within walking distance of the harbor. Also tried to give suggestions for how to amuse a fourteen-month old, but I am not the best person to ask. I was the kid ripping tissues out of the box for hours on end.

From there, P.P.O. starts discussing his job and the associated accoutrements. That's right, guns. Aw, yeah. P.P.O. is fluent in the language of projectile weaponry, trading models and upkeep as I might trade bad jokes and stutters. I also find out that P.P.O. was a marine (of the Corps, not the Mammalia family). At this point, it's just like "Damn, you've done more in your past ten years than I will do period." Then, he hands me his (unclipped) sidearm. I'm surprised at the heft, even more so when he places the clip back in (and I do my damnedest to avoid the trigger, even though the safety is active). Then, perhaps the most impressive feat of legerdemain, P.P.O. breaks down the weapon in 4.2 seconds, faster than most NFL wideouts run the 40-yard dash. He places the pieces before me on the table, as if to ask if I have been deceived. And really, the only question is why the recoil spring resembles half the screws that now sustain my Ikea furniture.

Of course, no person-to-person interaction with me is complete without at least one embarrassing moment. For whatever reason, I'd showed my keyring and mentioned despite the wealth of metals, I'd consolidated the keys I'd carried with me on a regular basis. For example, didn't carry the handcuff key anymore. Z.M. and P.P.O. both perk up at this; four eyebrows rising in unison. I have to explain that it's not a fetish thing. P.P.O. just smiles and nods his head. "Riiiight." No, really, it's not. Not that I'm knocking fetishes, we all have our own. (And the problem is not that I am dirty. We all are. It is that I keep talking far longer than I should.)

P.P.O. remains unconvinced. He tells me I do not need to lie about my perverse pleasures. I reply that I have many fetishes, but not handcuffs. Such as cherry pie, for example. Then, I turn my head to the side and whisper "And handcuffs." At this point, Z.M. and P.P.O. are just sort of amused, sort of horrified. I have to qualify that when you're handcuffed, you get tired, and if a cherry pie is right next to your head, it keeps you satiated. Unless, of course, it's near your feet, because that causes a whole new set of problems in trying to flip the pie up to your mouth, and then sucking on your own toes, yet another fetish I do not want to get into. I even casually mention the scars I bear from the last time this happened. P.P.O. recoils and states he does not want to see them. Nor do I wish to volunteer to show them.

Sadly, by this point, it's 45 minutes past my normal bedtime. I take my leave of their company (unwillingly, L.M. continues to burden my life). Shake P.P.O.'s hand again, and it's like sticking my hand into a vice grip. Good lord, man, eat some more Fritos, watch some more TV.

Final first impression? Likes the Punisher, hearty laugh, didn't attempt to punt me through the nearest window. Fast shipping, A+++++, would meet again.