tales of a girl in the city

mars 09, 2005

Lenny's Big Adventure

The man on the phone was very clear. "We'll send you a box," he said, "and you'll send us back your iPod--"

"You mean Lenny," I said.

"Whatever. Sure. Yeah. So, you'll send us back your iPod. And then we'll fix it and send it back to you. It'll take somewhere between two to three weeks. But if you're fine with that, then I think that'll be the best option."

"Well, I think I'm fine with that. As long as you think Lenny will be ok. I mean, he's a bit...well...Lenny is special. And I want to make sure you think he'll fit in with the other iPods while he's there visiting. I mean, God, I feel really guilty sending him away like this. Because, you know, he is useful. In a way. He tries to be helpful. He really knows his fruits.... Well, he really knows his one fruit. But he's got such a nice disposition. You know, he just sits there, around the house, cheerfully showing me his little apple picture. It's sweet, actually. I mean, I've kind of gotten used to it. I'm not sure what I'd do if he actually played music. Frankly, it might freak me out a little."


"And, of course, there's always the risk of fruit amnesia--"


"Oh...right. Yes?"

"I just need your address."


When the box came a day later, I should have been suspicious right away.

According to the mailing label, I was sending Lenny to Tennessee.


The highly-paid super genius computer guys who were going to fix my iPod live in Tennessee.

I thought they'd live in Sweden. Or Japan. Or at least in California. But they don't. They live in Tennessee.


BUT, I remembered the nice man's words, "We'll send you back your iPod." Your iPod. My iPod. Lenny. Fixed as good as new.

For those of you who think the parting process was easy for me, let me just tell you that if I'd had the sewing skills, I would've made Lenny some underwear with his name written on the tags. As it was, I had a fifteen minute battle with myself over whether or not to put a Capri Sun and a grilled cheese with the crusts cut off in the box with him. But, then I got nervous that the other iPods would steal it from him when he got there. So I settled for a few Raisinettes and a quarter for milk, in case he got hungry along the way. Fuck you if you think I'm kidding.

Well, off Lenny went, to the land of country music, demolition derbies, shotguns, women with big hair, and--apparently--the tech-savvy super geniuses who love them.

I am so naive.

NOT EVEN TWO DAYS LATER, George at the mailbox place calls and says, "Kathryn, you've got a package."

What? A package? How can I have a package? Lenny isn't going to be back for two to three weeks. He's probably winning hearts with his little apple pictures somewhere in Virginia right about now.

"I'm not expecting any packages, George. Where's it from?" I say.

"Looks like it's from Apple."


Oh my god.


There was no way they had fixed Lenny is such a short amount of time.

There was no way he had even gotten to Tennessee by now.

Unless...wait. Unless they had sent a team of mega-efficient crackpot ex-military guys in a Lynx 'copter to land here in Brooklyn and take Lenny back ASAP.

But I'm always on the lookout for that sort of stuff--men in black repelling down brownstone walls, super-fast helicopters landing on rooftops here in Park Slope--and definitely nothing like that has happened. Recently.

Though, I suppose, they could've come at night.

Although then George would have had to be in on it. Because I don't care what kind of military training you've had, nobody is getting into Mailboxes on Fifth without George's permission. He's got those two Chihuahuas.

"George," I ask him over the phone, "Were you in 'Nam?"

His silence is all the response I need.

I head down to his shop, amazed at my luck. The answer here is obvious. The Pentagon guys who read my blog have taken an interest in Lenny and me.

Clearly, they feel they owe me something in return for all the entries I've written about orgasms.

And they're right.

So, they did what any group of highly efficient military blog-readers would do for a girl whose iPod is in distress. They sent me a Lynx 'copter and the A Team. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is just as good as flowers.

Though both would've been nice, boys.

I'm just saying.

Anyway, sure enough, Lenny was waiting for me at George's store. George did his usual joke, "I get to rob you of a whole dollar." (I'm now pretty sure it's the passphrase that unlocks his psyche and puts him back in Sleeper mode.)

I thanked him, and, with a really cool, sly wink, told him to thank "The Crew."

Then, holding Lenny's box close to me, I edged carefully past the Chihuahuas.

Those little fuckers probably know fifty ways to kill a man.