The pilgarlic

In 1998, I had a word-a-day calendar in my cubicle at Lehman Brothers in San Francisco. I don't remember a single word from that calendar except for the word "pilgarlic." Pilgarlic! Who has ever used that word in conversation? Apparently, it means a "bald man," and also a "sneaking fellow." How my friend Hilary, who worked at the next cubicle over, and I would laugh about that word!

I certainly wasn't laughing three years later, when I met a real-life pilgarlic. I met him somewhere on the LES - I forget where. He mentioned that he couldn't get home that night, and, because he seemed like a really nice person, I offered to let him crash at my place. How crazy of me! We spent the night talking, lying in my bed, and he told me several times how he "got" me. He suggested that the world was insane, not me. (I already knew that). By the morning we were making plans with each other in them. He went to buy some pot, or somesuch. Then, I got a call from my bank. He was attempting to make a cash withdrawal across the street! Of course, this can't happen - he didn't know my PIN, although he apparently had made several inaccurate guesses. What were his guesses? "Guitar?" "Vodka?"

Over the course of the day, my pilgarlic made a few purchases with a couple of credit cards he had also taken. A coat at the Burlington Coat Factory. A Metrocard. I canceled the cards, and the charges were reversed, but he did get to keep the merchandise. I got to keep this pair of his socks, which he carelessly left behind and which I've clung to all these years, wanting to at least get something out of that night. He got so much - I got his socks. I went to the local police precinct and filled out a police report, thinking that that was the end of the story.

A few months later, I was boozing it up at the Boiler Room when I saw him again. I ran into the street to call the police. He ran after me, followed by Xavier, my favorite bartender. The pilgarlic shouted at Xavier: "This man (me) is an alchoholic!" Xavier and I both burst into laughter, and I said, "Oh, we all are!" How silly of him - he was at the Boiler Room, after all, not Le Cirque.

Anyway, he jumped into a cab and sped off. I grabbed the door handle of the cab, but it kept driving, dragging me down the street. I let go and tumbled, it seemed, back into the Boiler Room. Xavier wanted to buy me a drink. I wasn't so sure that was the right idea, but it was nice to be led somewhere, so I let myself be led. The manager of the Boiler Room, whom I hated, approached me and demanded to know what had happened. I declined to tell him. He insisted, saying that he could "86" me. I told him to go ahead, and flicked my lit cigarette at him, catching his shirt on fire for just a second. It suddenly got very serious in the Boiler Room, of course, and EVERY bartender in the joint told me to get out. I was, apparently, banned for life. I calmly told the manager I would gladly get out, but that first I was finishing my drink, which I did. Then I walked out, highly amused and ashamed, both - a simultaneous duo of emotions that even today I seek out. I STILL don't go back to the Boiler Room, which speaks both to the power of the "86" and the sneaking power of the pilgarlic.

I have clung to the pilgarlic's socks for years now, but by now, in the year 2010, they are full of holes. I threw them away this morning. Come, quietly, to your own conclusions.