In my bathroom sits a cast-iron cowboy. He stands about three inches tall, and plays guitar in a patch of cast-iron grass. Back when I had fantasies about Steve Martin (read: yesterday) I imagined that I would have to ditch personal items such as the cast-iron cowboy if I was put in a situation of actually living with Steve Martin. Keep in mind, strange as it seems, all my fantasies included Evan living down the street. I hadn't quite worked out all the details, but my fantasies have a way of being interrupted by an annoying reality before I have a chance to get to the details. With reality and fantasy, it's hard to tell which is the foreground and which is the background. My cast-iron cowboy has had many existences.
Last night I took him for a walk and took pictures of him outside the house. I took one of him inside the mail box—it looked like a very cold concert hall. I took pictures of him in the grass, on the brick patio, on the doormat. I would have taken more, but he complained that it was cold outside and I had to agree with him. Here he was wearing cast-iron jeans and a bandana, complaining of the cold, while I was clad in nothing but flannel pajamas. I can't imagine what someone driving by must have thought. Keep in mind this all took place at one in the morning. With all the flashing lights, and me talking to the cowboy, the neighbors must have thought the spaceships had finally come to pick me up.
One of my therapists keeps pointing out how my Steve Martin fantasy is "highly unlikely." I always resent her for saying that, but deep down I know it's probably true. Note the way I use the word "probably." I took my cast-iron cowboy on a little trip around the yard and felt like a nice tour director in doing so. It was probably (there's that word again) just another fantasy of mine. No harm done. Nothing but a few photos will come of it. I had a good time, he had a good time. You should have heard him raving about the backyard to the plastic Virgin of Guadalupe nightlight that shines across from him in the bathroom all night. If, in the end, all that comes from my Steve Martin fantasy is a good time dreaming about the future, then so be it. In my mind, I've already met the guy a thousand times. Hell, we're practically best friends. That's not so bad.
It's my fantasy. If you don't like it, get your own.