PAUL

I had only been working at Magnet for a couple weeks when I first spoke with Paul. I had answered the phone with our standard greeting - “Hello Magnet” (it wasn’t really a complete sentence, but it just rolled off the tongue – so much so that I still to this day find myself saying it – saying it when answering my cell phone, saying it when answering the phone at my new job, or saying it while greeting friends on the street.) 

To which Paul responded - “Well hello there. And who might you be?”

I was thrown by this less than standard response. I would have felt much more comfortable if had said something like “Get me Nicole, and don’t leave me on hold for 10 minutes this time!” But his interest in who I was was jarring. His voice was deep and sultry. He hadn’t introduced himself, but I could tell that he was someone who probably would be offended if I didn’t know who they were. Asking him to identify himself was out of the question, so I quickly figured out a way to force him to say his name.

“Hi, my name is Chris and this is my first…” I started to say, but he ruined my plan when he interrupted to say;

“Why haven’t you sent me pictures of yourself yet?”

I was stunned. Had I heard him right? I paused, and then sputtered out, “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

“Why haven’t you sent me pictures of yourself yet? I want to see pictures of what you look like.” He had the vocal presence of a phone sex operator, and every time he spoke, his voice got deeper and sultrier. And while it was somewhat flattering that some sexied-voice stranger was soliciting me for photos of myself, I was getting offended and annoyed at the phone game we were playing.

In a slightly sharper tone, I asked “Excuse me?”

Paul, I’m sure, could sense my frustration, and began to laugh. “Get me Nicole if you don’t mind.” He said. I put him at hold and looked up. Everyone in the office had heard me get flustered and was starring at me to see what was going on.

“Who is that?” my boss asked.

“I don’t know!” I shouted. “Some guy. I think he wants me to send him naked photos of myself.”

“That would be Paul,” Nicole said smiling as she picked up the phone. The other girl in the office put her hand over the side of her mouth and whispered “sounds like he likes you!”

Paul was one of the most talented and well established makeup artists on our roster. He lived in LA and worked with some of Hollywood’s biggest actresses - Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Garner, Lindsay Lohan, Salma Hayek – countless leading ladies had had his hands on their face. Being as he was mostly handled out of our LA office, it was unusual for us in New York to hear from him. I still to this day have no idea what he called about, but for whatever reason, when he was done speaking with my boss he asked her to put me back on the line.

“He wants to talk to you again,” she laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s great.”

I tentatively picked up the phone and stuttered “Hello…?”

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” Paul said gently, “I thought you were someone else.” Being the only boy to have worked in the office for over two years, I couldn’t imagine who he was mistaking me for, but his voice was so soft and genuine it was hard to imagine him being a creep. “But…” he continued, “if you still want to send me pictures, I wouldn’t complain.”

After that conversation, Paul began calling more frequently. I always assumed he was just a chatty guy who would talk to anyone who answered the phone, but it became clear when he started asking to be transferred to my line that he was calling specifically to talk to me. It seemed a little weird at first, considering that I was just a lowly administrative assistant with little-to-no clout at the company. But I enjoyed the attention, as few others in the company could even remember my name.

The two of us quickly developed a rapport with one another. Paul would ask me how big my penis was, and I would tell him he was a pervert. He would laugh and then ask again, but add ‘but seriously” at the end. It was a thing we had. But Paul was interested in more than just my penis size. He asked me about my family and about where I grew up. We talked about where I went to school and who I was dating. After a few conversations, he knew more about me than most of my friends. It was easy to talk to Paul, and when he wasn’t verbally molesting me, he was very engaging.

After the twentieth time I refused to send him pictures of myself, we compromised by agreeing to be friends on myspace. Paul had recently joined and was addicted, so much so that he decided that he needed two accounts (an official one and an unofficial one). He forced me to be friends with both of them. When he noticed that I hadn’t put either the official or the unofficial Paul in my top friends list, he called me and demanded that he instantly be upgraded. A few months later, when I swapped him out for an old college roommate, he called me within the hour, angry and wondering what he had done to deserve such shabby treatment. When I pointed out that he had never put me in his top ten, he responded “well, I don’t see how that has to do with anything.”

When my birthday came around, I decided not to tell any of my coworkers. I figured it would have only ended in one of two ways – either they would have made a huge fuss, or they wouldn’t have done anything. I couldn’t decide which would be embarrassing, so I tried to avoid the whole situation by keeping it to myself. But, much to my surprise, when I arrived to work, I was greeted by a huge bouquet of flowers and a giant birthday cake. Paul had gotten my birthday from my myspace page, and a few days before had informed everyone in the company so that they could adequately prepare. I had a flood of emails that day, many from people I had never even met, all saying the same thing - “Paul told me that it was your birthday and that I should say hi.”

After a year of conversing on the phone, Paul and I finally got to meet face to face. He was in town working with Mariah Carey, and he insisted that Nicole and I meet him for lunch. It’s always weird meeting someone that you’ve talked to forever but never met in person. I sat quietly during lunch as Nicole and he spoke very professionally about his career, but as soon as Nicole excused herself to go to the bathroom; he leaned in and whispered “Are you wearing any underwear?”

When I got my promotion, Paul was the very first to call to congratulate me. “Well well well,” he said. “I heard someone is a big agent now. You know, I’m the one who told everyone that you needed to be promoted. I told them that you were going to be the best thing that ever happened to this company.”

“That’s so sweat Paul…” I began to say, genuinely touched. He quickly interrupted though.

“So you better start getting me work out there in New York. You owe me big!”

After working at my job for over two years, I decided it was time for a change. When I quit, it all happened so fast that I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anyone. Just a couple weeks ago I thought about Paul though. I saw his myspace page, and I thought to myself “I should drop him a line and say hi.” I didn’t though. I thought it might be weird after I quit. I was afraid he might be angry with me and give me shit, so I just let it go and went about my day.

Just this week, one of my old coworkers called me to tell me that Paul had past away. No one really knows exactly how it happened – just like how no one really knew how old he was. He definitely was well beyond the 39 years he claimed to have been, but he was still a relatively young guy. Too young to have just gone like that. I was crushed. I sat their at my desk at my new job, fighting back tears while surrounded by people who would read about his death the next morning in the paper, but who would never understand what an awesome guy he was. I wish I had had a chance to say goodbye, tell him how much our friendship meant to me, how much I appreciated all the things he did for me, and finally tell him how big my cock is.

I love you Paul. I’m really going to miss you.

I LOVE THE HOMELESS

I, like most New Yorkers, do my very best to avoid the homeless like the plague (that they must undoubtedly have).  So while walking down Greenpoint Avenue the other day, I saw a hobo walking towards me - much to my surprise. Anywhere else in New York and I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but this was Queens and we don’t see much of their kind in these parts. It’s simply not prime hobo real-estate – largely due to the fact that most of us are just one high electric bill away from living on the streets ourselves. 

We were only a matter of seconds away from crossing each other’s paths, and I knew that he was going to bother me. If I had a sixth sense, it would be sensing when hobos were about to annoy me. It’s almost as if I can smell it coming - which is to say; i can smell it coming.  I had just had a horrible day at work, and believe-you-me, I was in no mood. I started strategizing my escape route.  Putting my ipod on is my usual go-to, but much to my chagrin, I had left my iPod at work.

I thought about pulling out my cell phone and pretending like someone had just called me, but it was in my gym bag and I doubted I could fish it out in time. I contemplated crossing the street, but the hobo was rapidly approaching, and this would require me to dart into on coming traffics.  It was a toss up, but I reluctantly decided that my best approach would just be to ignore him.  I know it’s horrible to treat another human in need as if they were invisible, but I had really had the worst day. To start things off, I had spilled my vegetable shake on my new shirt, and as if that wasn’t enough, the flatbread piada I ordered for lunch had come without the extra Tuscan sauce I had requested.

As the homeless man approached, he (as I had predicted) approached me.

“Hey…” he said.

I kept my head down, avoiding making eye contact, and picked up my pace.

“Hey…” He said again, getting progressively louder.

“Hey!” He shouted. Now we were side by side. I walked faster, relieved that it would soon be over. I quickly passed him and was well on my way down the block. In the corner of my eye I could see that he had stopped and was looking back at me.

“Hey.” He said. “I like your haircut.”

KEYWORD ACTIVITY

I recently started using a program that keeps track of the search engines people use to find my blog, and the key words they type in to find it. Here is the list of the most popular key words people have used within the last 30 days. I think it's pretty telling.

Number - Search Term
5 - judith elissaint
2 - jt fetter
2 - cjmiles naked
1 - oh my, my white blood cells are low!!! what's wrong with me?
1 - cjmiles thumb
1 - at&t relay jobs
1 - sexy jocelny elders
1 - cjmiles photo gallery
1 - miss cjmiles photo

KARAOKE

During college, my friend Eve and her roommate Kathy were two of my closest friends. After graduation, Kathy and I both moved to New York, while Eve moved to Northern Virginia to pursue a career in counseling. Eve and I don’t get to see each other very often, so when Kathy informed me that Eve was going to be visiting for a few days, I was excited that we were going to have a chance to catch up. Eve arrived on a Friday night, and the three of us met at a sushi restaurant, along with Kathy’s husband John for dinner. It was just like old times, and after one too many beers I started doing what I usually do – talking endlessly about myself, pausing only for air and more beer. A few hours later, we were all back at Kathy and John’s apartment and in the middle of one of my long winded rants, Kathy interrupted. “Just stop!” she said, “you’re so full of shit. There’s no way that’s true.”

I don’t remember what I was talking about, but I do remember being taken aback. I looked over at Eve for some support, but I was looking in wrong place though. “Yeah,” Eve said without mercy, “you do exaggerate a lot.”

I guess Kathy, seeing my reaction to their comments, tried to comfort me by adding “I’m not saying you’re a liar. I’m just saying you tend to embellish…embellish your stories with statements that are untrue. ‘Lies’ if you will.”

For the first time since my 6^th beer, I was speechless. My entire life, my family and I had accused my father of the same thing. Through the years, he would tell his favorite stories over and over again, and each time the facts became more and more outlandish. His friend Donny began the “truth or lie” game. After one of my father’s tales, we would collectively decide what in that story (if anything) was true and what was one of my father’s famous embellishments. In the end, we would reconstruct what we believed to be the most likely events behind my father’s story. When he told us about the time when, as a teenager, he scaled the side of the house and threw firecrackers down the chimney while his sister and her friends watched horror movies in the living room – we reduced it to him yelling “boo” from behind the couch. We decided that his “potato rocket” was more likely made of a cafeteria straw and a couple pieces of wadded up paper than a giant piece of PVC pipe and flaming tennis balls. It horrified me to believe that I had become my father, and I told my two friends as much, to which they responded “you’re probably exaggerating about that too. There’s no way your dad claimed to have shot at his RA with flaming tennis balls.” (He did.)

Eve agreed. “That story you told us about crashing your family’s only car during Christmas…Kathy and I both assumed your family was poor as shit and that you lived in some shanty village. Then I show up to your house and you had like six cars lined up in your driveway.”

I tried to explain how my other family members’ cars were all struck down by separate freak mechanical accidents, but the two of them were on a roll. Plus by this point, the alcohol had rendered me incapable of defending myself.

“And that story you told us about when you took your twin to karaoke, there’s no way that was true.” Kathy added. “You said that woman was 80 years old, but why would an 80 year old be hanging out at a bar late on a Friday night. There’s just no way.”

I was flabbergasted that I was being called to defend every story I had ever told, but at the same time I was flattered that they had actually been listening. I had evidence to support my karaoke story – photos that one of my friends had taken that documented every moment. I thought of showing them to the girls, but decided that they would only accuse me of doctoring the evidence. Instead, I decided to call someone that could collaborate my story, so I called my brother.

As the phone rang, I prayed Matt would answer. He was my only hope for defending my name - my only hope on proving that I hadn’t yet turned into my father. The phone rang what seemed like 100 times (an exaggeration), but just as I was about to hang up, he picked up the phone.

“Matt. Talk to me.” He answered.

“Matt!” I screamed as I turned on the speaker phone so Kathy and Eve could both hear. “Tell the story about the time we did karaoke at my place.”

My brother told the following story:

My girlfriend Jodi and I decided to visit Chris over St. Patrick’s Day weekend. We got up on a Friday night, and Chris informed us that we were going to go to dinner and then we were going to meet up with some of his friends to do karaoke at a bar down the street from his apartment.

We get there, we’re drinking, we’re singing and having a good time. Then Chris and I decide that we’re going to sing one of our classic duets – Don’t Stop Believing. I know…Journey is overdone, but it’s always a good way to get the crowd going. So the two of us are up there and just as we’re really start to rock out, this tiny old woman appears in between us, as if from no where. She was easily 80 if she was a day, tiny and prune like, wearing this big crazy wig.

At first I thought she was just trying to sneak on by, but I could tell by the devilish grin on her face that she was there for a little something more. Chris did what he always does when confronted by a woman…acts really awkward and sneaks away (not an exaggeration). But I thought “why not give this old thing a little big of love,” so I put my arm around her frail little body and started to sing with her. She and I are rocking back and forth, and she’s loving the ride, singing away. And then she gets up on her tippy toes and moves her face towards mine. I assume she wants to get closer to the microphone, so I put it to her mouth…just as she goes to whisper in my ear “Don’t be so obvious!” It’s broadcast over the entire bar, and she ducks her head in embarrassment. At this point, everyone in the bar is watching me cuddled up with this old woman, and my girlfriend is taking pictures so she can show everyone. It was awesome.

The next thing I know, I feel her tiny boney hands slip into my jacket pocket. Why she stuck her hand in my pocket is beyond me, my guess at the time was that she was trying to feel me up. Regardless, while her hand is in my pocket, I feel something cold and damp slip off into my pocket. I was repulsed. I assumed a Band-Aid had fallen off her hand. She then snuck off and went back to her table, where she high-fived another woman sitting with her who was probably just as old as she was.

When the song was over, Chris and I went back to the bar. Everyone was dying to know what she had slipped into my pocket. I reached in and pulled out a small piece of paper. She had scribbled her number down on one of the karaoke song request slips.

About an hour later I was telling the story to a girl outside. She grabbed the paper from me and called the old woman’s number. The woman had long since left and was back at home and probably in bed.

The girl screamed “Why are you hitting on my man?” when the old woman picked up.

“Who the fuck is this,” the old woman yelled back. “You’re a fucking pervert!” And then she hung up the phone. We were all shocked. She was such a nice and frail looking old woman, but man she sure had a mouth on her.

And that was that. I still have the number in my wallet. I’m thinking about having it framed.

And with that, I thanked my brother and wished him a good night. When I hung up the phone, I noticed that both Eve and Kathy were standing there with their mouths wide open. “Shit!” Kathy said. “It was just like you said!”

“See!” I shouted in desperation. “I told you I wasn’t a liar.”

Kathy and Eve looked at each other. “Nope,” Kathy told me. “You’re definitely still a liar.”

“Oh no doubt about it.” Eve added.