Craig Glazer. Flare of my life, intrigue of my loin. My vice, my doubt. Craig. He was Mr. Glazer on Hearne’s couch in the afternoon, donning black Oakleys indoors. He was a hard-ass in public and a gentleman post-rebuke. He was The King of Sting on the dotted line. But in my eyes, he was just Craig.
Did he have a precursor? Oh, he most certainly did. In fact, I would have seen a different Craig had there not been the footprint of his Lolita long ago. I would not have spent my Hallows’ Eve dismissing flattering advances, nor would I be furnished with the most notable evening of my adult life. And now upon sight of this comma, rid your filthy minds of prejudgement and hear my brief thoughts.
Ladies and gentleman of Kansas City, look at this tangle of thorns.
When we met, Craig wore black à la Johnny Cash. And contrary to his conclusion, I knew very little about him before meeting. I’ll admit that I was guilty of pre-Googling, though he should know it wasn’t exclusive to him. Besides, I never retain the info brought forth by the Google deluge, so it doesn’t even matter.
He was persistent from the start. His orotund voice danced in my ears, bearing honeyed words that confirmed his age and experience. Like clockwork, his hand grazed my arm when my attention digressed. He knew what he was doing. It was instinctual, primal, confident. Years of flirtation brought him to this point in time where we sat on the couch, whispering like school girls while Hearne addressed the class. It’s only natural to say that my interest was piqued, albeit mere interest.
Check the gutter for your minds, people.
Our dialogue progressed to an outing, the cigar bar to be exact. It was a double date of sorts, accompanied by Hearne and his white Korean concubine whom I adore. The novelty of this experience nullified my overwhelming fatigue as I sat beside Craig, singing Frank Sinatra tunes between sips of my drink. (Naturally it was Al Latta officiating the drunken choir, his toupee ablaze with sexual healing. I almost snatched it off on my way out, but didn’t have the heart to do so. Just for jabs, Hearne had my back.)
Craig was insatiable. Maybe it was the dim lighting or the long island iced teas. Whatever the culprit, my palm protested his rogue lips on more than one occasion. I don’t believe it was deviance that fueled his behavior, but rather the hard outer-shell of his façade. How do I know? Well, through the aggressive advances he knew when to pull back on his reins. He even bought me a rose from a passing vendor. How romantic, Craigsy-poo.
I still have it.
Craig is a complicated piece of work, dissembling some unreachable truth that accounts for his behavior. Despite his objections, I know he’s somewhere beneath his audacity. Maybe one day I’ll find it. Maybe I won’t. Until then, it’s smoke and mirrors.