TIM LJUNGGREN is the publisher and editor of insolent rudder. His mind wanders frequently, and he has a hard time finding it when it does.

                                                     pre-game oblivion


Dylan was a high society girl who possessed limpid blue eyes and a taste for Desoxyn mixed with liberal amounts of DNA Alcoholic Spring Water. The night she met Francis, she was pretty much shit-faced.

Francis was immediately attracted to her. For whatever reason, he saw in her the possibilities of carelessness and whimsy, mixed with a keen sense of irony. Just his kind of girl.

They had just talked that night. Nothing more. He called her his “flimsy night coat” and she laughed at him, not at all sure of his cunning or his power. They talked about mundane things: the on-going war against terrorism, the escalating tensions in the Middle East, the latest Gaspar Noe film. Safe topics. They sparred and shadow danced with each other, just like two street fighters sizing each other up before brutalizing each other. She left the party at 1:33 a.m., and left her phone number with Francis.

He called her that morning. Not one for social conventions, their first telephone conversation took place at 5:06 a.m. It lasted for 28 seconds because she couldn’t remember who he was, and had no inclination to find out at that particular time. He called her back an hour later, and this time the conversation nearly doubled in length. She remembered who he was, but couldn’t talk to him because she had a guest over and they were right in the middle of something. Could he call her back later that afternoon?

He could and he did. They arranged to meet that evening.

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Copyright © 2003 Tim Ljunggren