From: Streibel, Timothy [SMTP:tstreibel@fuck.the.customer.blockbusters.com]
Sent: Wednesday, March 25, 1998 3:53 PM
To: Mitchell, Craig
Subject: Do NOT acknowledge this message verbally
We’re going to Happy Hour. Period. I don’t want to hear any whining. In 30 seconds I’m going to make an excuse that I have to go to my car and then do my usual 4:00 PM disappearing act.
Since you’re too much of a pussy to pull disappearing acts like me, I’m going to page you in 15 minutes, you’re going to look at your beeper, make some excuse that it’s your Mom and she needs a ride home from work, and you’re gonna leave early today.
Meet me at Winnie’s at 4:15. It’s not April Fools’ Day yet, this is NOT a joke. The first round of Guinness is on me.
Got it?
Tim
I look over at Tim but he’s already locking his computer and grabbing his jacket and keys. He leaves his briefcase on his desk and heads for the parking lot.
I glance around the office but no one seems to notice him go. Russell’s punching away at some stupid waste of time marketing campaign for Fox’s budget videos. Sarah runs through the room on her way to the photocopier and the boss is nowhere to be seen. Fuck it. I’m going to disappear too. It’s not like I don’t put in enough overtime as it is.
I grab my keys but leave my jacket and briefcase. Yeah, I’m coming back, just running out to my car really quick – or at least that’s what everyone’s supposed to think. Tim gets away with this. Why can’t I?
“Hey! Wait up!” I yell at him as he’s getting into his car.
“Man, brave little Indian here disappeared from work an hour early. Good for you. It’s about time you got some balls,” he says as I climb in.
“It’s not a lack of balls.” I say. “I’m just too responsible.”
“Is there any difference?”
He starts his Acura Integra and throws it into reverse. The stereo catches up with us a few seconds later and scares the shit out of both of us with a sudden blast of Van Halen. He scrambles to turn it down. “Jesus man! That scared the shit out of me!” I say. “Is that how you started the day today? Van Halen’s first album cranked as far as your equalizer will handle?”
He nods, lighting a cigarette.
“Man, open the window. I don’t want to smell like an ashtray.”
“What difference does it make Craig? We’re going to a bar. You’re gonna smell like a cigarette one way or another.”
I roll down a window. Van Halen blares out into the open air and the open air breezes in as we fly through the business park where we work. It’s Spring and the temperature today feels like a perfect 65 degrees. Fahrenheit. It just wouldn’t feel this good in Celsius. No way.
“I thought you quit.”
“Nope.”
He flips his car around a corner and out onto the parkway. The wind blasting in through the open window causes his nappy long hair to fly all over the inside of the car. A few locks are long enough to whip me in the face.
“Dammit, get your hair under control. It’s beating the shit out of me!”
Tim grabs a rubber band from the front pocket of his denim shirt. I grab the wheel to keep us on the road. “I tried to quit. Those patches didn’t work for me that well,” he says, tying his hair back. “It just wasn’t the same.”
“Wait, you mean having a patch strapped to your arm that carefully leaks small timed quantities of nicotine into your bloodstream through your skin just wasn’t satisfying? I can’t imagine why,” I say.
“You make it sound like such a drug, like it’s some sort of fix.”
“It IS a fix, Tim. Haven’t you noticed?”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is. It’s like, we’re heading to Happy Hour at Winnie’s right? It’s gonna be fun because we don’t do Happy Hour that often, maybe once a week or so,” I say. I put on my sunglasses.
“But what if you had to go to Happy Hour every night, or worse yet, every hour. Or every five minutes. Because you needed to go to Happy Hour, not just because it was fun. What if you started wearing patches on your arm that would slowly bleed Guinness draft into your bloodstream so you could finally quit all those Happy…”
“Alright, enough. Stop your preachy preaching,” he says.
I laugh.
“That’s kind of redundant phrasing Mr. Wordsmith, don’t you think. You should use that kind of slogan in one of our campaigns. You know, ‘Rent our movies, they’re expensively expensive at three dollars for two nightly nights.”
He takes a drag of his cigarette and pulls to a stop at an intersection.
“Man, you got PMS or something? You’ve been a complete dick all day.”
“Am I in a bad mood? I didn’t notice,” I say.
“Karen asked you a simple question before lunch today, ‘Can I borrow your Zip drive?’ And you tell her, ‘No, not until you stop decorating your office with porcelain angel figurines and pictures of Sean-fucking-Connery and get a life.’”
“Did I say that?” I ask.
“Yeup, you sure did.”
We pull into the Winnie’s parking lot. It’s a small neighborhood bar. You can tell from the cars in the parking lot what the clientele is like. Tim parks next to a Lexus, but sitting next to this luxury car is a beat up old pickup truck with a broken windshield, Union stickers and an “Elect No One” bumper sticker. The place is fairly empty but that’s the whole point of getting there at 4:30. In an hour there won’t be a table to be found and you end up crammed in a corner dodging the elbows, stray darts and cue balls of the drunken after work crowd.
I grab a table near the bar, far away from the pool tables, pinball machines and dart boards while Tim grabs the beers. He comes back to the table with a couple pints of Guinness. What a beer… Play a word association game with a friend. Say the first word that comes to mind when I say…
Ireland. U2? Green. St. Patrick’s Day (that’s a phrase you idiot.) Castle. The Commitments (that’s a movie you idiot.) IRA or maybe Shamrock?
Play the game with me and I’ll say… Guinness. It’s the darkest, most beautiful milk shake of a beer I’ve ever tasted. And they make it in Ireland. Tim waits respectively until I take drink and then he downs a swig. I’m graceful in my beer drinking. But he has to wipe a big swath of beer foam from his lip.
“So why are you being such a complete dick? What happened to crash your world?” he asks.
“I had a bad date over the weekend and it’s been bugging me all week.”
“You had a date? I’d say that’s pretty positive Craig. Even if you fucked it up – which I’d bet you did. You haven’t had a date in months.”
“I didn’t fuck it up,” I insist.
“Yeah you did. Don’t give me that shit.”
“No really, I didn’t fuck it up. Everything was going great. She was really cool. We even started getting heavy in the green machine in a parking lot and then she tells me she’s celibate.”
“Celibate?!” he repeats loudly.
Some construction workers at a nearby table glance over to see who said the horrible word.
“Whoah, slow down there Tex. Give me the story of the whole trail ride including the bandits and the Indians,” he says.
A kid on rollerblades is at the jukebox. Wait a minute, he’s doesn’t even look close to twenty-one. He makes his selection with one hand, wiping his face with a towel at his waist and then skates into the backroom behind the bar. What the hell? Winnie’s has kids on rollerblades doing the dishes? I wonder how many of them they break.
Huey Lewis and the News, “Heart of Rock n’ Roll” comes on to the jukebox as the kid disappears.
“Christ.” I stand up from my stool. “Where is that little punk? I’m gonna report him to the kid hipness league. I might have expected Nine Inch Nails or Marylin Manson. But Huey Lewis?”
“Don’t change the subject, give me the story,” he says laughing.
“Well, she was really beautiful. Long straight brown hair. Beautiful eyes. Dressed to the nines. To be honest, better than the usual grade of woman I get to take out. And the best thing was that she was really cool. She was interesting. you know, she picked my favorite CD of the front seat of my car and asked me to play it.”
“And that’s important to you? That she picked your favorite CD?” he asks.
“Well to be honest, whether or not she likes sex is more important but we’ll get to that.” I’m toying with my drink napkin, ripping it into tiny shreds and putting the pieces into the ashtray.
“She was really cool Tim, I dunno how to describe it. It’s like she’d been a friend for years. The whole night I kept forgetting that we’d just met. But yeah, I take her to Va’San Culo and we have dinner, and then she hits me with she doesn’t drink.”
“Your kiddin’ me,” he says, seemingly downing half of his beer in one gulp.
“And she didn’t even try to hide the fact. She just flat out told me. So anyway, later we end up going for coffee. Where else am I gonna take her right? And the place is closed, so we’re sitting in the parking lot talking and we end up going at it.”
“Wait a minute,” he asks. “How’d you go from talking in the parking lot of the closed coffee shop to going at it?”
“I really don’t remember. I think I reached under her seat to grab a newspaper…”
“In the green machine? Man, that’s kind of far grab,” he points out.
“Yeah, but anyway, we were going at it and then she cries celibate.”
“Jesus man,” Tim says chuckling. “You make it sound like she cried ‘Red!’ or ‘Witch!’”
“Well celibate isn’t too much different than those two words if you think about it. Same stigma attached to the word for the young man on the prowl.”
“So what’d you do?” he asks.
“I said ‘Ok, whatever’ and I took her home. End of date.”
“You dumbshit.”
“What?? Why am I a dumbshit?! What else was I supposed to do?” I ask.
“She wasn’t celibate.”
“What in the hell makes you say that? You didn’t even meet her. I mean, I forgot to tell you – she said she had to get up the next morning to go to church. And she had a four year old daughter named Lindy.”
“That supports my theory right there. She has a daughter,” he says.
“Yeah, well maybe it was Immaculate Conception or something like that.”
“Was her name Mary?” he asks.
“No.”
“Did she live in or near a manger?”
I shake my head.
“Was she wearing a letterman’s jacket from Bethlehem East High School?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Well, I think it’s safe to rule out Immaculate Conception then. And I think you can rule out the celibacy thing too.”
“Tim, why in the hell would a girl tell you she’s celibate on the first date if she wasn’t? I mean, that would be like me telling her that I smell my own feet or that I fart sometimes.”
“Well you do.”
“I don’t smell my own feet. I was kidding,” I say.
“But you fart.”
“Yeah.” I look around to see if anyone is overhearing this. Wouldn’t want anyone to know that I fart. Not even a stranger… “But my whole point is, when you’re out with someone for the first time, when you first meet them. You’re going out of your way to make a good impression. You don’t tell them that you fart, or smell your own feet, or you’re celibate. Not unless you want to ditch them,” I say.
“So you think she was trying to ditch you?” he asks.
“Man, I don’t think so. I really didn’t get that impression,” I say.
“Well let me explain something to you…”
Here comes a Tim lecture. The idiot has always fancied himself wiser than me. And from time to time he is. But I’ve learned over the years that where women are concerned, he’s in the same damn boat. He’s had more problems with his girlfriend of four years than I could ever imagine dealing with.
“No one these days is celibate,” he says. “And she has a kid so she’s not a former nun, and we can rule out that she was trying to ditch you. When you’re making out with a girl and she says something like that. Do a little math in your head. Put two and two together,” he says holding two fingers in the air. “Don’t get discouraged, look at it as a challenge. If she’s worth it that is.”
“I disagree man. When a girl tells you she’s celibate on the first date, or that she farts or smells her feet or did jail time. Whatever the case may be, then just drop her off and call it a loss. I think I understand women enough to figure that out and to avoid the psychos,” I say.
“You don’t know shit about women.”
“Yeah? Well neither do you,” I reply.
The waitress comes by brings two more pints. We have Winnie’s down to a routine. The waitresses here all seem to know: keep bringing the pints until we make you stop.
“So where’d you meet Ms. Chastity?” he asks.
Quick decision here. Tell him the truth? Nope, he’d never let me live it down.
“Umm, she showed up at one of my Volleyball games.”
“On the company league?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Who’d she know?”
“I think she works out at the sports complex or something,” I say.
“Works out huh? So did she have a tight little body?” he asks.
“No, actually she didn’t. She was kind of full-figured.”
“She was fat?”
“No, not fat,” I say. “Just really curvy, some great hips. You know the sort of girl I find attractive. Kim O’Neil from Accounting would be a good example.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well take my advice and don’t call Kim full-figured. Full-figured is the new politically correct way to say ‘fat’ if you hadn’t noticed,” he says.
“How else would you describe that sort of figure?”
“She got da sistah booty,” Tim mocks. “They have them some hips on that bod.”
“That’s great Tim. Maybe I should elaborate with ‘Hey my homies, I’m the original Gangsta and I’m down with the sistah booty in da hood.’” We laugh. White guys trying to use Rap lingo is always amusing.
“So you gonna take her out again?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“So you’re not gonna take the challenge and try to change her mind about being celibate?” he asks.
“No way. It’s difficult enough to try to get to know someone, you know, maybe start a relationship or something without the extra baggage she admitted. Dating is challenge enough.”
“Man, there’s always gonna be baggage. That you can count on,” he says. “It’s all in figuring out whether being with her is worth dealing with all of it.”
A couple of guys in suits walk in. I pity these guys. Casual dress is a fairly new beast at Blockbuster. When I started there a few years back I had to go out and spend a couple grand or so on suits and ties, and all the trimmings of the business world.
I felt pretty neat walking around with my briefcase and business suit but after awhile I just got sick of it. I don’t need to wear a suit so that people think I’m a professional or so they know I’ve made it in life.
Ironically, about the time I started getting sick of wearing suits, the creative team started jumping ship to go to work for hipper advertising firms – the sort of places that let you dress casual, and play pool and pinball machines on your break. Good old Blockbuster had to do something to keep us around and casual dress was the first perk to get tossed in our direction.
“Hey, see that guy on the left in the gray suit and lame tie?” Tim asks.
“Yeah, isn’t that… Laura’s little brother.”
“Yeah. Christopher.”
“Where’s he working these days?” I ask.
“He graduated from Wash U a few years back. Now he’s an investment banker or something like that.” He exhales loudly in disgust. “He’s in his early twenties and he’s already learned how to be the complete business asshole.”
“You wanna talk about girlfriends and baggage,” he says lighting another cigarette. “The worst baggage is usually your girlfriend’s family. Think about it. Your own family is weird enough. Everyone’s family is, yours is and mine too but you’ve had your entire life to develop a tolerance for them. You don’t have the same advantage with hers.” Christopher spots us and gives us a salute-like suave wave from across the bar and Tim gives him a cool nod back.
“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. It’s like when I was going out with Beth. Her family was completely nuts,” I say. “They’d fight constantly. I think they enjoyed it in some sick sort of way. It was like a soap opera. You know, it was difficult to keep up with who hated who during any given week. With Beth is was always like, ‘Ok, we can’t go to Easter Sunday this year because Jim isn’t talking to Grandma Perkins, and Grandma isn’t talking to my Mom because she didn’t bring her a new book of crossword puzzles and forgot to remember her anniversary. Uncle Tommy called my brother a ‘lazy turd’ last year so he’s not coming. And little Taylor won’t be there because he got grounded for breaking every window in the house. ‘”
“Are you kidding or was it really that bad?” he asks.
“Yeah. That’s no exaggeration. They were a bunch of rich idiots with way too much time on their hands to fight amongst themselves. I remember one time sitting there on her uncle’s couch, listening to some huge argument erupt over a game of Monopoly. They were yelling at the top of their lungs about game rules and I remember thinking, you know, I wouldn’t even know these people if I hadn’t met Beth. I wouldn’t even give them a second glance if I heard them arguing at a grocery store, or a gas station. I’d just think ‘rich idiots’ and keep walking. But I’m sitting there, and I realize I know these rich idiots. They’re my family, or at least they are for as long as I continue to see Beth.” We pause to drink. It’s about time for the waitress to bring us another round.
“So what’s Laura’s family like?”
Tim thinks it over for a long while, taking drags of his cigarette and watching the smoke drift up to the ceiling. “They’re a bunch of fuckers,” he says finally.
I laugh. “You had to think about that one and you finally come to the conclusion they’re just ‘fuckers,’” I say, quoting with my fingers.
“Well they are.”
“You wanna elaborate?” I ask.
“I don’t think I could. I don’t want to sound all high and mighty… I guess they remind me of that line from that movie Ferris Buellers’ Day Off where Ferris is trying to talk Cameron into stealing his Dad’s Ferrari for the day. ‘People with priorities so far out of whack…’” he says.
“Yeah I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Maybe they’re related in some gnarled twist of the family tree.”
“Well either way I don’t have to deal with it anymore,” I say.
“Yeah, not at the moment so enjoy the vacation, pal. Won’t be too much longer and you’ll be right back in the thick of it again. New girlfriend, different fucked-up family.”
“Not to change the subject Tim, but do you think you’re bound for a girlfriend change soon or is Laura a keeper?”
“I don’t want to marry her,” he says without giving it much thought.
“What! Why not?” This actually shocks me. They’ve always been pretty serious. I guess I just thought they’d be getting married any day now.
“We’ve been living together for a year now. And living with someone is really eye opening. I dunno. She just isn’t someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. She doesn’t have the same ambition or passion for life that I do.”
“So what are you still doing with her?” I ask.
“Well, I guess it’s better than being alone.”
“Tim, how many beers have you had? Maybe you should be drinking Jolt instead, it might put some smarts into you. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You know, here you are giving me advice about women and you’re living with one you’ve spent four years of your life with and you don’t want to marry her?
And you stay with her because ‘it’s better than being alone’??” I ask incredulously . “C’mon man, don’t you think you’re wasting her time and yours by keeping it going?”
“I dunno,” he says.
“Everyday you spend with Ms. Wrong, is one less day you have to meet Ms. Right – or even Ms. Sort-of-Right.” I have Girlfriend-Express on the brain. I’m beginning to sound like Randall.
“Yeah, I know, Craig,” New beers arrive. I hold the pint up to the light and watch the dark brown beer foam bubble through the glass, heading upwards. “Shit man, we should stop talking about women,” Tim says. “I know it’s Spring and all, and mating is on everyone’s mind. But…”
“Then here comes the perfect distraction,” I say. “Sarah.”
“HeyyyYY!!!!!” she screams, running across the bar. “How did you guys beat me here?!” she squeaks.
“We ‘disappeared’ early today,” Tim says.
“So did I but I had to go home and change. This weather is just tooo cool!!” she says. And she has changed. She’s wearing a low cut silky blouse. One word: cleavage. Tim is openly staring at her chest. I’m trying to be a little more subtle about it. But regardless, I’m the first person to get caught…
“Hey!” Sarah says smiling at me. She folds her blouse closed a little. “Quit staring at my breasts!”
“Sorry,” I laugh. “It’s Spring you know. Instinct and thousands of years of male genetic heritage got the best of me.”
“YOU’RE BLUSHING!” she shrieks, pointing at my face.
Shit.
The waitress brings Sarah her usual starter Margarita, with extra salt. “So what’ve you been up to Sarah?” Tim asks.
“Oh, not a lot. Just working,” she says, brushing her long sandy hair away from her eyes. “Trying to get a tan before Summer starts.”
“I couldn’t help but noticing, Sarah. But the tops of your breasts are still pretty white,” I point out.
She opens her blouse even wider than before and examines them. She’s wearing a small white bra but it’s barely there. Given it’s proportions to her chest, my guess would be that she’s had it since Junior high, you know, her favorite bra or something.
Tim and I gawk openly. She looks them both over.
“That’s weird,” she says, grinning at me. “So what are you guys up to?”
“Just tossing down a few Guinness,” Tim says. “And talking about women.”
“Oh yeah, how’s Laura?” she asks.
“Pretty good.”
“Did she find the bra I hid under your mattress the other night?” she asks.
“I’m going to assume that’s a joke but you know I’ll check when I get home.”
She laughs and pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “How ’bout you, Cutey? How’s your love life?”
“I don’t have one,” I say.
“Oh c’mon, who’re you seeing?”
“No one really.”
“Damn, if I’d known that I would have forced you to take me out by now,” she says.
“You trying to make me blush again?”
“No, I’m serious,” she says.
I laugh nervously, consciously trying to make eye contact without my eyes automatically wandering to her open blouse. “Well I might have to take you up on that date sometime Sarah…” I make sure to leave a nice long pause. “But only if you wear that outfit.”
She smirks.
Sarah’s been a friend of ours for years. We went to college together. But strangely our friendship never quite reached that calm, platonic state that seems to occur over a few years in male/female friendships. There’s still plenty of sexual tension and whenever possible, Sarah does her best to stir it up. I’ve never dated her or ended up drunk and in bed with her or anything weird like that. And to the best of my knowledge, neither has Tim.
You know, if it weren’t for the kissing, it would be a totally normal friendship. Kissed her? Yes, that’s happened plenty of times–often in bars over some bet. That’s her favorite bet: if you lose, you have to French kiss me. And really, it’s pretty easy to accept a bet like that. Any idiot can figure that one out as a “win-win” situation.
“I might have taken you out a few years ago, but now that you have those wrinkles and crows feet…” I start to say. But I never get a chance to finish the sentence because Sarah senses the slam about her age almost before it leaves my mouth and is already lunging across the table to punch me or at the very least, cause me some sort of playful harm.
“You bastard!” she screams. I dodge a slap and then a punch a second later. When she can’t seem to grab me from across the table, she settles for blowing a stream of Margarita at me through her stir straw. I grab a napkin and dab up the Margarita running down my face.
“No really Sarah, you’re just as beautiful as you always have been. I think you’re going to be graced with a youthful face your whole life. I’m being honest – you’re aging beautifully.”
“Thanks, nice retraction,” she says. “Just don’t use the word ‘aging.’ Makes me feel like cheese instead of the absolute knockout that I am.” The place is really starting to get packed. The darts crowd is elbowing for position but the pool table crowd seems to be winning the game of grabbing up bar acreage. It’s amazing how much business this place does. It’s just a hole in the wall but everyone loves it. Dear old Winnie’s…
“I have to admit though, now that we’re older I can’t take my eyes off the kids,” I say.
“What? you gonna start trolling the elementary school playground down the street for dates?” Tim asks.
“No, I mean the twenty-one year olds. They’re amazing.”
“Hey!” Sarah says. “We’re only seven or eight years older. That’s not that big of a difference!”
“Yes it is. Look at that.” I point to a girl playing darts. She can’t be over twenty-one. In fact, she might not even be twenty-one. She’s drinking a glass of wine and she occasionally kisses a boyfriend who looks to be our age.
“Look at that body. Women look that way only once in life,” I lecture. “And it’s not just the body thing either. I don’t want to come off as too much of a pervert or sexist, or even an idealist but women that age just seem to have less hang-ups.”
“How do you know?” Tim asks. “You date a twenty-one year old recently?”
“No really, I remember dating women that age when I was younger and they were great! You went out, you had fun with them. You had sex. And there just weren’t any huge problems or hang-ups. Now there are divorces, and broken hearts that never mend, and abortions, and cheating, and career-move sex and children, and diseases, and relationship bitterness, and fear of strangers. It sucks. It totally fucking sucks.”
“I don’t know who you dated when you were twenty-one but I got news for you buddy…” Tim says.
I cut him off. “Ok, well to illustrate here. What were you like Sarah?”
“What do you mean?” She grins.
“When you were younger.”
“You mean when I was twenty-one?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Ummm,” she says. She looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, during which time both Tim and I take advantage of her averted gaze to take another gander at her neckline. Jesus we’re pathetic. I grin at Tim and he winks.
“Well… when I was in college I guess I didn’t have too much to worry about except papers,” she says.
“Yeah, we were the same way. But what were you like to guys?” I ask. “What were you like to date? I knew you back then but we never dated.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t want a serious relationship with any of them because I didn’t have the time. I was majoring in Psychology and had some harsh professors who were slave drivers. And there were so many guys I wanted to date up at Mizzou. I guess I just went out a lot, and drank a ton and had a ton of casual sex.”
“I rest my case,” I say.
I finish the last of my beer and glance at the waitress from across the room. Time for some drink telepathy. I imagine another round of beers and suddenly the waitress glances over, apparently picking up on my silent drink order. ‘Beer acknowledged’, I receive over brain wavelengths. Another round of beers is on the way.
“Sarah you want another one?”
“Huh?…” She looks behind her for the absent waitress, I motion at the waitress across the room who’s meeting my gaze.
“Oh, yeah, but get me a fishbowl.”
I point at Sarah, make a round motion with my hands and the waitress across the room nods. She knows exactly what I’m talking about. This is why you should always tip waitresses well. Pretty soon they can read you mind. It’s really amazing.
“So you’re gonna go after a youngster?” Sarah asks.
“We’ll I’d like to.”
“Go after her,” Tim says, pointing to a beautiful redhead that just walked in.
“Wow,” I manage.
“You guys are a couple of corn dogs,” Sarah says. “I thought I was bad, watching every ass that passes me in the hall at work.”
“It’s the Spring thing,” Tim says.
“Spring thing? Did I miss something? Are they selling horny pills at the bar?” she asks.
“No, he means Spring, the season,” I clarify for him. Alcohol affects everyone differently. But you can always tell when it’s affecting Tim. He doesn’t slur his words or get messy drunk but he starts abbreviating his sentences to the point where no one really understands what the hell he’s talking about anymore. It just clouds his ability to verbalize or something. “Spring comes around and the weather gets all beautiful and sunny and all animals start fixating on sex including us human animals?”
“Oh, so that’s what it is,” she says. “I really never thought about it. But yeah, I’ve been masturbating more than usual lately.”
Tim and I simultaneously grin like little kids.
“I’m serious. The other day I was watching TV and I had to go in the other room it was so bad.”
We laugh. “I hope you weren’t watching Larry King or the A-Team or something,” I say.
“No, I was watching Jerry Springer,” she says.
“Jerry Springer!” I say disgustedly.
“Honesty,” Tim says. “Most honest girl I know.”
“Only when I drink,” Sarah says. Our next round of drinks shows up. The waitress puts the fishbowl sized Margarita down in front Sarah. At 5’4, the glass is nearly as big as her head.
“Yum,” she says.
This should be interesting.
We end up talking for hours, all the way to the end of that fishbowl, and you know, if someone were to overhear most of our conversations… They’d think the three of us where going right home and jump in bed together for a threesome because our conversation so frequently gravitates towards sex. We talk about ordinary things as well.
We talk about: David Lee Roth, Kickboxing, the movie ‘Say Anything,’ John Cusack, movies John Cusack has been in, what we want our first homes to be like, what it would be like to be rich, problems with Sarah’s car, the car Sarah wants next, what it was like being in kindergarten, our favorite playgrounds as kids — and just a ton of other stuff.
However, interspersed into this broad range of topics, we talk about what comprises a good blowjob, how one of Sarah’s breasts is slightly larger than the other (her topic), how long should foreplay be, and what our favorite sex act is. But contrary to what anyone who overheard might have presumed of activities later that night, we drank a few more beers, talked for a few more hours and called it a night around Eight when the place was starting to clear out.
Sarah drove home, although it was perhaps bad judgmnt to let her. Tim took a cab home and exercised good judgement. I ended up walking home, exercising neither good or bad judgment. Fuck it, I’m drunk, it’s a beautiful night, my car is parked back at work and I only live a few miles away.
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The Famous Boot