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Excerpt from "REJECTED!" Chapter (Click Here for Printer Version) Boston is a great city, one of my favorites. I love everything about it, except for the prices and trying to find your way around. Everything is expensive and it is impossible to get directions to anywhere. No one knows how to get to a place; they just somehow magically arrive there, even to their jobs. A typical Boston street contains 472 curves, is a little over six feet wide, is one way during certain hours of the day, then the opposite way during the other hours. Drivers can make left turns onto some streets during certain hours but not during others. Every time I’m in Boston, I give up and just drive in the wrong direction, making illegal turns all over the maze of roads. The cops see my Illinois plates and just wave; they know it’s impossible to drive in their city. Supposedly, the reason the streets in Boston are so crazy is because many of them were built over the old, windy canals the city formerly used for transportation. I impressed a Bostonian coed with this knowledge one night as I hung out in a bar after a show at Nick’s Comedy Stop. We got to talking, she didn’t have class the next day, we started to kiss, and we decided to head back to my hotel. We sat in my room and talked for a few minutes before I excused myself to use the bathroom. When I came out, she was nowhere to be found. I checked the hallway and walked around, calling her name. No luck. I returned to my room, where I sat down on my bed and decided to wait for her to return. She probably just went to get ice, I told myself. Why didn’t I see her by the ice machine, then? My floor was probably out of ice and she had to go to another floor to get it. I sat on the bed for nearly an hour, making up other stupid rationalizations. Finally, I decided to call it a night. I put on my zit cream and went to bed. (I never put zit cream on until I was sure I was going to be alone for the night. I didn’t want to be caught with that stuff on my face—a definite mood killer—and I didn’t want to waste it by having to wipe it off before it did its work, should someone suddenly show up at my door.) The coed really threw me a curve ball. There is an immense satisfaction for a guy when a woman comes back to his place. He’s done his best to prove himself worthy of her and she’s chosen him. Often times it is success at last for the guy after numerous failures. This coed killed that feeling of satisfaction for me not only that night, but for the next few nights I was fortunate enough to have a woman come home with me. I kept being afraid to leave them alone for fear they might book, too. I understood that she possibly realized what was about to happen and decided she couldn’t go through with it. I’d had that happen before; but, it was the fact that she didn’t say goodbye that hurt me. I was completely blindsided and left feeling very insignificant. My ego rebounded quickly, though; the next night I met the Monkees in Syracuse and was the lone guest at a lingerie show. *(The Monkees story is in the book.)
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Copyright by Ian Coburn 07 Available wherever books are sold
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