The insoluble problem of Gold Lamé Pants
I thought I was a pretty good sudoku player, but I’ve been stuck on this one impossible puzzle forever. As I approached Yonge Station, I put down my puzzle book and headed for the door to exit the train and transfer to an eastbound train.
As I got there, a couple of women rose from their seats as well, one of them a short, squat, familiar-looking figure. I looked at her more closely. Wasn’t it …?
Yes. It was. It was Gold Lamé Pants, the horrible woman from Toula’s Christmas party.
At least, I thought it was. She was wearing an overcoat — not her gold lamé pants. I glanced away, not wanting to be caught looking closely. I listened instead, waiting to recognize her voice. However, she didn’t say anything, letting the other woman do all the talking. Well, that didn’t seem like Gold Lamé Pants.
The train stopped. The door opened. I ran for the stairs — partly out of habit, partly to escape Gold Lamé Pants, just in case it was her. I hurtled down the steps, leaned against a column, and waited. I pulled out my sudoku book and looked at the puzzle, with its many black eraser smudges. I flipped the page and started another, filling in boxes with amazing speed.
A small troll-like figure leaped in front of me. “I thought it was you!” exclaimed Gold Lamé Pants. “Toula’s housemate …” she snapped her fingers. “… Whatever!” she finished. “Houseboy!” she laughed. “I thought it was you! I was with my friend from work!”
I slowly closed my book, put it away, and said hello. as an eastbound train arrived. I got on. So did she. Just my luck. Now I had another insoluble problem.
She sat in an empty seat, while I remained standing a polite distance away. I was distant enough, in fact, that I could barely hear what she was saying as she prattled on, and I just gave a thin smile and nodded politely until I reached my station, at which point I bid her farewell and then almost bowled over some guy with a huge backpack in my rush to get off the train.
I didn’t hear much, except for two things: The first is that she discussed Mickey Rourke and how his work in The Wrestler ought to finally win the Oscar for which his work in Angel Heart and Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man was unjustly overlooked. From there, it went into a comparative analysis of Rourke’s oeuvre versus Patrick Swayze’s.
The second is that I’m invited to her birthday party.
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