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night with the Brazilian girls
Thursday, January 21 1999
I had Al pick me up and drive me to work this morning since that was where I'd left my bicycle, my only reliable transportation. Al was rather slow in coming, but it was okay. I enjoyed sitting out on the street in the morning sun watching the jumbo jets gain altitude and veer off to their various international destinations.
As you know, there was a Monday deadline to launch a bunch a new things on the company website. Well, when all was said and done, only a few things actually were launched on that day: a new log-out screen, a new failed log-in screen, a new main page, and a sex-related content site. I was the principle author of all these things; with the exception of a few graphics, they involved only minimal contributions from my colleagues. I derive considerable satisfaction from the fact that the sex content site, now showcased by the Web Development Coach as one of the principle fruits of our weeks of labour, was something I'd done on the sly, when I was supposed to have been working on the big projects that I didn't have the resources to adequately test.
I stayed late at work, cranking through my own projects. I wasn't doing this to simulate commitment to the company cause (as I suspect others do), rather, I had several hours to kill. You see, Kim and I were displaced by our landlord's urgent need to repair the broken water main beneath our apartment. Kim had arranged for us to stay with the three Brazilian girls in their apartment, but since they'd be off at English class until 9:20, I decided to stay at work and do stuff that I'd otherwise be doing on my home computer. Of course, a side benefit of my staying late was the appearance that I was extremely motivated, but I have to be very careful in that place not to get people used to seeing me staying late. I don't want them coming to expect this of me.
At around 9:00pm, I was on Newport Street in Ocean Beach, looking for some excitement, but fully aware that I only had about 20 minutes of precious free time. Other than a few teenage girls milling arounf in front of Java Joe's and the usual collection of downtrodden bums near the Bank of America, Newport was largely devoid of excitement. I went into Theo's, the Greek place, and had a Sam Adams and a flafal sandwich.
Kim, Sophie and all three Brazilian girls were hanging out down at the Brazil central. They were all dressed in their pajamas, smoking pot and being giggly, goofy girls. The Brazilians all had plans to go out tonight, and eventually they all dressed up and headed out. I realized tonight that Ludimilla looks exactly like Betty Boop: she's got the breasts, the ass, the cheeks, the tight red dress and the hairdo. Evidently this look is partly deliberate, since someone in that apartment definitely has a Betty Boop obsession. They have a Betty Boop statue in the kitchen and a Betty Boop action figure in the bathroom.
Hanging out with the three Brazilian girls in their austere one bedroom apartment (they all sleep together in that one bedroom) gave Kim a new appreciation for our benevolent if perhaps a little overly-involved landlord. On her way into the Brazilians' complex, Kim had encountered their landlord, a disagreeable man with a fetid hag of a wife (you know, the kind who always keeps her hair up in hair curlers, the kind who no one would ever voluntarily give oral sex). This wife felt the need to remind her husband to tell Kim about the "no dogs policy."
Kim vascillated between wanting to stay and wanting to go back home. We could have gone home, she said, but we wouldn't have any water until well into my workday tomorrow. And the Brazilians would have taken offence had we not stayed. As they say in their own unique form of broken English, "My house is you house."
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