My crazy Russian boyfriend was the real deal. Well, he wasn't exactly crazy but he was a bit of a loose cannon and had arrived in the States from Moscow a few years earlier. He had chosen Greg as his Western name and looked like a 30-something Liam Neeson. My head felt like I'd drunk a little too much vodka every time I looked at him.Greg was unfiltered. Whatever provocative, non-conformist, guaranteed-to-tick-off-as-many-people-as-possible, ultra-liberal thought entering the fruited plain of his mind would fly right back out of his mouth. He was opinionated, politically-charged and had a position on every issue.
And God help you if you didn't have a position, too. Your position didn't have to be the same as his, but if you didn't have one and he sniffed that out, you'd better make one up fast.
For some reason Greg called me Vegetable. The first time he did I reminded him that for every vegetable, there's a dip. I earned points from Greg for smacking him down but it never deterred him from calling me Vegetable.
Margaret lived across the street from me with her husband and two Springer spaniels. Because of a seizure disorder Margaret wasn't allowed to drive and her husband was at work all day. Her world was smallish as a result - or it seemed so to me.
Margaret often dropped by to chat. My problem was that I had a hard time coming up with anything to chat about because Margaret didn't seem to have many interests, nor for that matter, many opinions, nor for that matter, many original thoughts. She spoke of her dogs more than she did of her husband and of her church more than her dogs.
One day she dropped by unannounced and my heart groaned. I had nothing against Margaret other than my difficulty conversing with her and that she never seemed to know when to leave. Then I remembered that Greg was coming for dinner and my mood brightened. He'd arrive soon, there'd be a few minutes of friendly chat, Margaret would surely know to vamoose and all would be right with my world.
Margaret and I were in the living room drinking tea when Greg pounded on the door. When I opened it, there he stood, a freakishly long loaf of bread in the crook of his arm and a bottle of wine in the opposite hand.
"Vegetable, I am here!" he announced, arms spread, grinning and waiting for his kiss.
I took care of the preliminary business of hugging and kissing him. Then, knowing anything could come out of that mouth at any second and that Margaret was within earshot, I took him by the hand and redirected him as though he were a two-year-old: "Greg, come in and meet my neighbor!"
Greg never just worked the room, he possessed it. And physically he dwarfed Margaret and me. Intellectually he dwarfed Margaret. After three long strides he set down the bread and wine and came to a stop near my mystified neighbor. He extended his hand to Margaret who eyed it as though he'd just thrust a python in her face. Then he boomed, "Margaret! Wine?"
I knew Margaret didn't drink, probably due to her seizure medications, her religious convictions or both, so I jumped in quickly with, "Greg, Margaret doesn't drink."
Already there was the slightest whiff of intolerance in the air but who had issued it I couldn't tell.
Within less than a minute, Greg managed to bring up the subject of term limitations, a hot-button issue slated for the ballot that November. Greg could manipulate conversations in ways that allowed a sizing up of those he might want dirt on. He would do this in order to bury them in that dirt later.
"So, Margaret," he began, artfully prepping his prey, "what do you think of term limitations?"
Margaret practically vibrated off her chair in excitement. "Oh!" she sang out, grateful he'd lobbed her such an easy catch, "I don't really have an opinion on them yet but I'll ask my husband what he thinks and of course, I'll talk to my pastor."
I swore I heard the cocking of a pistol and pictured its muzzle pressed against Margaret's temple. Greg smiled at Margaret. Guileless as an otter, Margaret smiled right back.
"Well, Margaret," he said, towering over her because he was too antsy to sit down and speaking as though to a moron, "the problem with relying on others to vote our consciences on this issue is that we can end up reelecting the same . . . g@##%$n . . . f%&*@#g . . . a$$%@&#s year after f%&*@#g year."
Margaret was gone within seconds. I glared at Greg, disgusted in the same way baby Super Man's Earth mommy would have been disgusted if he'd smashed up the house with his rattle. Even then, when baby Super Man smashed up the house with his rattle, it was because he didn't know his own strength. Greg knew his own strength. He looked back at me and shrugged.
"What? What did I say?" he demanded.
These days I wish I had Greg around when some unwelcome visitor wants to change my religion.
