Dept. of Improbable Phone Messages

When The Motorcycle Diaries hit theaters a few weeks ago, the hue and cry seemed inescapable. But Rodney Anonymous reminded me of a bizzarre little episode when the supposed idealism surrounding Che Guevara crashed headlong into my own psuedo-bourgeois reality.

Last summer my buddy ole pal Nick and I acquired a 26-foot sail boat for nothing, which was the perfect price. After a bit of shopping around we figured out that it was far cheaper to join a yacht club and rent a mooring there than to pay for a mooring at a public marina. So we put on our best blue blazers, thought of arguments to counter our friends' elitist aspersions and joined up.

One weekend, April and I went sailing. At the end, as I was putting the dinghy away, I found a t-shirt I recognized as Nick's. That evening I left him a message, "Nick, we were down at the boat today, the wind was nice but motor's running like crap, and by the way, you left your Che Guevara t-shirt at the yacht club."