pinball

T::h::e F::o::r::e::v::e::r S::u::r::v::e::y requires a jingle. And I have a guitar. It will be something simple. A couple of chordless strums and me singing over the top of them. Something about how they should

take it
take it
take the survey

just take it
take it
take the survey

I can’t play guitar and I can’t really sing. But I’ve never let details like that bog me down. After all, the survey requires a jingle and I have a guitar. I was going to record it two weekends ago with GarageBand and my bathroom’s acoustics. I figured: how hard can it be?

It can be so hard.

Many things have gone wrong.

Number one: I’ve dated a disproportionate number of boys who do, in fact, know how to play guitar. One could argue that this is the number one problem in many areas of my life but for my purposes today, I’ll confine its impact to how it thwarted my attempts at a jingle. It thwarted my attempts at a jingle because Bob left the pick stuck in the strings. I didn’t realize it, accidentally untuned it, realized it, tried to tune it but instead untuned it more and then gave up. I don’t usually give up, but I know when I’m beat. And in this instance, out of tune won.

Not wanting to have an out of tune jingle, I Goggled guitar teachers in Queen Anne. I found this ad:

TRADE: Guitar lessons for Philosophy tutoring.
posted 07/27/2007
I want to trade Guitar Lessons (for you or your kid(s))for Philosophy tutoring. I'm the guitarist you're the philosopher.
Steve@...

No shit.

Did I mention that I was a philosophy major in college? I was a philosophy major in college. It took me no time at all to pen a response and by Wednesday we had a tutoring coffee date set up and I had 60 pages of Kant’s moral theory to read. Oh, that. Right there. The 60 pages of moral theory. That’s Number Two.

Flash forward! It’s Saturday. I’m going to meet Steve to go over the 30 pages of moral theory that I read and have a latte and a muffin.

Meow.

So, I’m walking to the coffee shop.

Meow.

And I get followed by a cat.

No shit.

Number Three: Getting followed by a cat.

Simba. Orange. Friendly. On my heels. I check the collar. Call the number. Leave a message.

“Oh, um, hi. I have your cat. Well I don’t actually have your cat, but it’s following me. It’s been about 4 blocks now and I don’t know if she’s lost but if she is, we’re on 1st and Roy and, well, here’s my cell number so you can call me if she’s lost and I’ll try to find her again... ah... hmm... I’m not sure what to do.”

Meow.

I keep walking. I have 30 pages to read in 15 minutes (Exactly like college! EXACTLY LIKE COLLEGE!) and as we cross the street Simba trots in front of me and into the arms of a dum-dum sucking hipster. “I got your cat!” he says.

“She’s not my cat. She’s following me.” He looks at her collar. I say "I’ve already left a message." I start to over explain about why I can’t take her home. See. I have a cat. And. Um. I have 30 pages of moral theory to read. And my guitar is out of tune. Did I mentioned I called the number on her collar already? Number Four: I think at this point, I start sweating. “I can take her for a while.” he interrupts.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a cat.”

Letting the caller ID find the pens and paper for us, we trade cell phone numbers by dialing each other's.

“What’s your name?”

“Heather. What’s yours?”

“Hunter.”

We both laugh. I briefly picture us on TLC's A Baby Story talking about how we met. “And then she said her name was Heather, and mine is Hunter and I just knew. I just knew.”

I watch him for a second with Simba draped over his left shoulder walking up the hill.

30 pages to read. Now 5 minutes to do it. I call Simba’s house and leave another well worded message. Hunter. Cat. Call. Me.

I get there. It’s hot. Number Five: still sweating. I get an iced coffee and a blueberry muffin and find a seat in the back for what will turn into an hour of moral theory (I wing it) topped off with an hour of Russell's problem of proper names and descriptions (I wing that, too.)

“What do you want out of this?” I say at the end. Trying to be a good tutor. Vowing to do the reading.

“I want to believe in an afterlife.”

“With or without god?”

“Without.” he says.

“I think I can help you do that.”

“I owe you a guitar lesson.”

“I actually just need it tuned.”

We part. Shake hands. Lots of head nods. I call Hunter. He still has the cat. He left a message for the owners. They now have two messages from me and one from him.

I run errands. See friends.

“I’m having this weird day.” I tell everyone.

“Getting followed by a cat makes everything seem weird.” Everyone says back.

4pm. Coming back from Target. I bought a mop. It was awesome. Phone rings. It’s Hunter. He’s going out and wants to know if I can take the cat.

Number Six: I can’t take the cat.

“I don’t know if I can take the cat. I have a cat already and she’s kinda mean and weird. Hmm. Ah. Well! How about this. Do you have fifteen minutes? Can I come get you? We can drive up to Simba’s house and walk around to the back - if there is a cat door, we’re off the hook and we can just leave her in the yard. If not, I’ll figure something out.”

“OK.”

“Where do you live?”

“330 5th Avenue.”

‘Oh! Weird. I live at 316.”

No shit.

I get there and Hunter comes down the steps, Simba is draped over his right shoulder now. He gets in and I laugh. I blurt out how weird of a day this is.

Meow.

Number Seven: I talk when I’m nervous.

We drive up the hill to the address on Simba’s tag. A man is watering the front lawn. Hunter worried aloud that Simba’s owners might have moved and I chime in that it would be crazy if they had moved to South Dakota or something and Simba walked all the way back here.

“Is this your cat?” he calls out.

“Simba!” the man with the hose answers back. “You two are the third couple to bring her back this week!”

We stare blankly at each other.

“Just set her down wherever.”

Hunter plops her down on the sidewalk. Completely anti-climatic. I hadn’t realized I was hoping for a relieved puffy eyed 5 year old to grab Simba gleefully from our arms. But. I was.

We say our good byes to Simba. She follows us back to the car.

Meow.

We drive back down the hill. Lots of small talk. He works at Boeing. An engineer. “I sell ads.” that’s what I say when I don’t want to talk about it. I say I work at a newspaper when I do.

We say good bye, exchange "Weird days!" and he starts to get out of the car.

“Hey, do you play guitar by chance?”

Number Seven. “Nope.”

“Well, see ya around.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

A week goes by. A few e-mails from Steve. A few dozen from Matt, a couple phone calls, too. I thought I was going to marry Matt. Back when I was trying to read 30 pages of moral theory in 15 minutes for the first time. Now he’s a philosophy professor in California and I sent him an e-mail proclaiming that my getting a “job” as a tutor is one of the lesser known signs of the apocalypse. “It’s right after rivers running with blood and right before the locusts.”

“I still don’t recall it being mentioned. Do they refer to you by name?”

He graciously offers to run through Russell's problem with direct names and proper descriptions which isn’t so much a problem as it is a series of statements. “I don’t really buy it.” Number Eight: That sentence has been responsible for countless philosophical arguments between us, most of which I lose.

“You don’t buy the theory of universal grammar?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t say that too loud or you’ll have MIT field linguists parachuting in around your house. It’s like threatening to kill the president.”

Steve and I are supposed to meet on Friday. He e-mails and cancels. Some attorney meeting. Maybe a birthday party. My Saturday is full. He works on Sunday. Number Nine: “Next weekend?” “Next weekend.”

I want to end this with a link to an mp3 file. But. Number ten: I can’t. The guitar tuning slash universal-grammar-is-utter-crap-no-matter-what-MIT-says tutoring session is still days away. My guitar remains out of tune. My weekend is booked. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to squeeze in a recording session Sunday night. Sometime after America’s Funniest Home Videos but sometime before it’s too late to bust out a ridiculous jingle in my bathroom. Because T::h::e F::o::r::e::v::e::r S::u::r::v::e::y requires a jungle. And I have a guitar.

take it
take it
take the survey

just take it
take it
take the survey