Number One

The count.

You listen to music while you write, right? Who? At this point, I usually only can do music without lyrics, which means jazz, because I know so little about ambient and even less about classical. If I make the mistake of listening to music with lyrics and vocals, it gets into my head and then all is lost. I mean, something is gained but it’s something very specific, which is that I start to imitate the rhythms of the songs. The other day I was listening to Squeeze. They have a new album that’s lyrics they wrote when they were young, so I heard some of that, but then went back to Argybargy and Cool for Cats and East Side Story. The thing I was writing, which was a fairly dark short story, went away, and this appeared. I blame them—and thank them.

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NUMBER ONE

Off she went at nine o’clock to the microfinance startup party. She was meeting her friends there, Michael and Francine and Marty. She was running late, had received a pair of calls—an adamant insurance agent, an angry ex from Twin Falls. She rummaged in the dresser for something she could wear, grabbed a black ribbed top and pants, put a chopstick in her hair. It was a winter Thursday night and she was hot to get it done. By Friday morning, hook or crook, she’d be somebody’s number one. The party was in Upper Simon’s Ridge, new warehouse conversions. She had lived there briefly in a throuple with two Persians. That was back in ’21 when everything was rubbled—in pandemic hysteria she made sure her love was doubled. She didn’t often find herself in Upper Simon’s Ridge these days. She had come in for a taqueria opening and seen some plays. Now she rode back into town, no horse, no hat, no holstered gun. By Friday morning, hook or crook, she’d be somebody’s number one. The first person she talked to was a tech bro with big forearms. “It must be hard,” he said, “for men to stand up to your charms.” “It will be hard,” she said, and winked, and both of them dissolved in laughter. She didn’t hate this kind of guy but they always left her hungry after. Michael in the corner was seducing a tall redhead. Fran and Marty at the bar were eating something breaded. She took a lap around the place to see who looked like fun. By Friday morning, hook or crook, she’d be somebody’s number one. But then the evening shimmered and her thoughts began to change. A guy gave her some mushrooms and the night got simple strange. One small block of time blew up and a big expanse thinned out. From her mind a small stalk of enlightenment began to sprout. She sat down on a leather couch and did a version of manspreading, and slowly from her core emerged a self-awareness she’d been dreading. The point was not to hook or crook one guy or anyone. The point was just to sit and be and let the river run. Ninety minutes later, she was still in the same place. A look of close attention was fixed upon her face. [©2026 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas]