I do so grudgingly at times, because frankly, in my little town, the villagers already seem to regard me not only as some kind of unpaid courier who's there to ferry T-shirts and oddball tchotchkes between each other, but also as a maid who's expected to bring them fruit on demand, clean up the messes they leave in the middle of the town square (not that kind of mess . . . the animal villagers are house-trained, after all), and finance the rebuilding of the whole town out of what they apparently imagine is a bottomless bank account. Never MIND that I'm in illegal indentured servitude over my mortgage to real estate mogul and local representative of the one percent, Tom Nook.
Having to sit down at the end of the day and write these ingrates actual correspondence is sometimes a little beyond the pale.
But when Hippeux the Hippopotamus moved into town, I dutifully penned him a little note welcoming him and suggesting we get a beer and a burger sometime and check out the local babes. I should have suspected something was up when, a week later, he cornered me by the garden store, pulled out the letter from the breast pocket of his natty brown suit coat (the hamburger-print stationery was still pristine), and quietly asked if I remembered sending it.
He was going to cherish my first letter forever, he confided.
Uh-oh, I thought to myself. I gots me a stalker.
Then I sent Hippeux a piece of furniture in my mail. I don't even remember what. I think it was a candy jar. It had fallen out of some tree branches—you know, the way furniture does—and I wasn't going to use it. I like pawning off my trash on the other villagers to make them think I'm magnanimous. (Which, come to think, is probably why they're so willing to make me spend hundreds of thousands to finance a bridge infrastructure project on my very own.) I got this letter back from him.
Now, I've had villagers with—shall we say—sexualities outside the mainstream, before. Back in my original Animal Crossing village, Alfonso the Alligator would make a lot of shy requests for me to visit the local store and pick up a ream of stationery and a shovel and oh, if I happened to see a size twelve pink dress, maybe one of those, too. Let's just say I wasn't fooled. Alfonso would accept my smuggled gifts and we'd say no more about them until a couple of weeks later, when he'd cough and whisper that if I was at the store, he wouldn't "mind" if I bought him a pair of floral clam-diggers, or a Lily Pulitzer-styled muumuu, or a chic little black dress . . . for his "girlfriend," of course, who lived in "another village," probably in "Canada."
I never had any indication that Alfonso was into guys, and hey. What a single, tax-paying alligator wants to do behind closed doors is none of my business, right? But Hippeux's note was a different matter. I mean, talk about unsubtle. The floral stationery? I mean, that stuff was even perfume scented. To my beloved Manny? Seriously? I can't say I'd mind dot dot dot?
Sweet Jesus, hippo. Why not just ask me if I'd like to come watch your Will & Grace season four DVDs with you?
I wrote Hippeux back. I didn't save the letter because I thought I was being firm. Getting my point across, that is. I told him I was flattered and all that, but I was just getting out of a relationship, and had moved to the village to learn what it was like to be single again, and free to shake whatever trees struck my fancy.
I felt sure he'd understand.
This morning I fired up my game. My mailbox was blinking. I found this note inside.
For a minute, I was actually shocked and all, Damn, how'd he get a glimpse of my pane? I keep my blinds closed after dark! But then I re-read it, got what he meant, and was touched. I mean, gosh. How many guys get a local admirer—and Hippeux's not really bad-looking or anything . . . just a little more mature, shall we say, than a wisp of a lad like myself—who write letters of such lyricism and poetry? Our interactions had been few, but during those times our hands had briefly touched when I forked over the pop-eyed goldfish he'd requested . . . had he really seen into my soul? I had to know.
Maybe I overplayed my hand a little. I don't know. Our generation gap was extreme—would he even know who Lady Gaga was? Should I have gone with Barbra Streisand? Judy Garland? Lillie Langtree? But I steeled myself and left the mail with Pelly at the village center. Then I strolled into the clothing emporium and haberdashery of the Able Sisters, thinking that maybe I might find a change of underwear or something. I said hello to the ladies, and had scarcely been in the shop for ten seconds when I heard the bell tinkle over the door as someone strolled in.
Guess who it happened to be?
Coincidence? I think not. Awkwardness in the umbrella aisle!
Oh, Hippeux. I thought we were beyond feeling each other out with "code." Of course I'm "fashionable" and know all about the "latest looks." You might even say I'm "artistic." But we're not all "flamboyant," you know.
Um, no. Frankly, I thought Hippeux was audacious enough, without leopard print or gold lamé or a goddamned feather boa. We're not back in the days of Wayland Flowers and Madame, dude.
I made an embarrassed escape, but damn. Hippeux was determined to corner me. I was standing by the cliffs looking over the beach later in the day when I felt a hand on my upper arm. His touch was as gentle as his voice in my ear.
Readers, it is time for a confession. At his question, my pulse quickened. All I could do was look into those fierce green nostrils and feel the heat of his grass and water-plant-scented breath upon my neck. Had I secretly hoped for this moment? Had I donned my best Thurston Howell the Third drag hoping that he would find me? My poor girlish brain was too aflutter to plumb the depth of all the questions racing through it. "Why?" I heard myself asking aloud. "Why me?"
Oh. Of course. We were out in public. I might be a worldly fellow, but Hippeux obviously saved his passions for behind closed doors. "Decorating ideas." Wink wink. Nudge nudge.
Okay, I told him. Visit me at five. "Don't be late," I murmured, with a come-hither look in my eye, and the faintest trace of promise upon my quivering lips.
Five o'clock came. On the dot, I heard a knock at the door.
I cleared my throat, checked my reflection in the glossy ebony of my grand piano, and answered the door.
Crafting? What the heck was he going on about? Was it slang? For something dirty? Or wait—dude, I'm not really up on all that old-school lingo. He was going to be asking me about the hanky code next. I made my way over to the wall, pretending I wanted to show him my antique clock. But he cornered me and came right to the point.
I blushed like a schoolgirl. My face turned red. Yes, Hippeux. I knew who to call Just think how great that would be, dot dot dot.
To conceal my embarrassment, I walked over to the piano and played the first movement from Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, Opus 27, No. 2. Yes, the "Moonlight Sonata." I just happened to have the music sitting on the rack. At the conclusion, Hippeux applauded wildly.
"Oh, that old thing," I said modestly, cracking my knuckles. "'Twas nothing."
Hippeux moved in. For a moment, I thought he was going to reach for my long, sensitive pianist's hands.
Oh, Hippeux. I feel the same about you. Truly! If only I could express everything I felt at that moment! I blossomed with a sweet and tentative smile. Then he moved in for the kill.
DAMN, DUDE! WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT THE SEX DUNGEON?
Um, that is—goodness gracious, Hippeux, whatever in the world could you possibly be implying?! Did the carpenters say something? God damn it. I paid them extra to keep their mouths shut. There are all kinds of reasons a single gentleman living alone might want sturdy hooks installed in his ceiling! Maybe I cure my own meats!
His eyes bore into mine with meaning. I couldn't lie to him any longer. He would keep my passions confidential. I could tell he was discreet. Slowly I led him upstairs, to the room that no one among my villagers had seen.
My heart leapt. But please. Don't toy with me, Hippeux. Not in front of the anatomical model.
He seemed to understand my embarrassment. Maybe he sensed he had moved too swiftly, too soon. He led me back downstairs again and stood in front of the door, obviously intending to take his leave. He took a step forward, and said, in words that reeked of intimacy and longing:
I think I may have met the sweetest guy in the entire Animal Crossing kingdom.
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