Dear Goldie

Dear Goldie,

I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you, publicly, for your tireless commitment, your grace in navigating the beast that is L.A traffic and your stoic performance in the dodgiest of situations. My decision to partner with you was questioned by all – how truly reliable could you be given your age and frankly the wear and tear of your past experiences visible to everyone?

It wasn’t necessarily love at first site but there was an ease, a comfort, like we had travelled this road together before. Then of course there was your nickname, your moniker – the label that would stay with you always, “Goldie!”

Sometimes true love is taking secrets to the grave

You defied the odds, surprised everyone including me. You’ve remained strong, reliable and in my eyes glow more brightly now than ever before. The quality I admire in you the most, however, is your discretion.

Who could forget the night I popped in to 1642 to sit at the bar and enjoy a special select Microbrew. Remember the young man I described who wavered in the doorway, clearly remembering times past when the fanciest beer on tap was Bud Light?

He seemed wary of the ironic moustaches and bowls of fancy nuts. He took a few faltering steps, eyes darting rapidly over short woolen pants, leg warmers, skinny jeans and jaunty hats. “Budweiser” he muttered in a thick accent. I held my breath knowing the barkeep could land either side of dick-head but she kindly shook her head and answered “no Budweiser” and poured him a comparable pint.

He took a sip, grinned assent and sat precariously atop a stack of chairs. Odd choice to place oneself but he was grinning, so who fuck cares. I turned on my stool and smiled at him and then swiveled back, grinning my own self. This went on, grinning, swiveling, drinking until finally I got bored and left. On my way out I waved at him like an idiot (who waves?)

Some kind of signal that you’re selling your ass for cash?

Once on the street I scanned the shadows for you, Goldie, always waiting patiently no matter where I chose to roam. Out of the corner of my eye I see the young man exit the bar and lean up against a lamp post, watching me. I crossed the street and moments later he crossed the street.

I get in my car and am immediately transfixed by my phone, head down, eyes focused on that tiny glowing screen displaying some piece of gormless Facebook babble. And then there he is, the young man, opening my passenger side door, getting in and sitting down, facing forward. My mouth dropped open, incredulous and yet I say nothing. He turns only his head, his body still facing forward and says,

¡Hola!

“¡Hola!” I whisper back.

Then we both resume facing forward in silence. Like a complete ignoramus I string a few words together,

“¿Dónde está you before bar?”

“Trabajo.” (Work or job)

“¿Dónde.”

“Baño.”

I’m fairly certain I misinterpreted this last bit of information to mean he was working in the bathroom before his beer from the bar. Silence descends once again and we both stare forward. I get the giggles.

Even Danny Trejo thought this was a scary move

More silence and then we face each other and start making out. He found the seat lever with surprising agility and we were suddenly both lying in the passenger seat. He was very toothy in his kissing practice, biting my lip aggressively. Having no clue how to say “Dude, Please don’t bite me” in Spanish, I tapped on his front teeth and said NO!

Huskily he asked, “Tu Casa?”

“Nope,” I answered decisively.

“Ok,” he said and was gone.

Recounting the story to friends I have been met with mild amusement, one standing ovation but mostly abject horror at my stupidity. Needless to say I always lock my door when sitting in my car and have refrained from waving at random men perched atop precarious gatherings of furniture.

You, Goldie, witnessed the whole sordid thing and besides silencing your judgment, have never breathed a word to anyone.

I love you Goldie, my companion, my shiny steed, my golden chariot and partner in crime.

With all of my heart,

Furnie 

PS — All of Furni’s stories really happened and her letters are sincere.  

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