On the subject of notes left in strange places for desirable women, twelve years ago I stood in a kitchen at a party in Chicago with my friend Mickle, who wanted desperately to leave a note for the host of the party, a woman he had known, barely, in college, and who may have, he had recently learned, admired him back then, and who now lived with a man who was possibly her boyfriend.
We were drunk and were being pressured to leave by whoever was giving us a ride.
Mickle’s note, which he had scribbled in great haste, invited the woman to attend a play he had written. Problem was, Mickle accidentally inverted the names so that the note appeared to have composed by the woman, who was inviting Mickle to see a play she had written. It was a regrettable mistake, but it was the least of Mickle’s problems. The real problem was where to leave the note so that it would be found by the woman rather than her possible boyfriend.
I was no help. Nor was Mickle, really, who in his drunken and agitated state believed this to be his one and only chance to act.
Finally, in desperation, he opened the refrigerator, surveyed its contents, and stuck the note in a tub of lowfat cream cheese. His logic: Possible boyfriends don’t eat lowfat cream cheese.
He was correct. The woman found the note, attended his play, got together with him, broke up with him (or he her; I forget), married another man, divorced him, got back together with Mickle, and now, twelve years after finding a note in her lowfat cream cheese (forgive me that I do not know how long it took her to find it, nor what she thought on finding it, nor anything, really), has agreed, at last, to marry him.