Another Update
Still writing that strange story. Thanks to beyondthememory for editing.
Part Five
Part Six
4:27 A.M.
Every morning at 4:27 A.M., the birds start squawking like a troupe of banshees in labor who are trapped between a giant chainsaw and Bill O’Reilly. Every morning at 4:27, my eyelids struggle to flutter open. Every morning at 4:27, I roll over, slam my right hand down on my alarm clock, and curse like a madman because I somehow always forget that José replaced my modern alarm clock with an extremely pointy, extremely sharp, and extremely antique cuckoo clock. Every morning at 4:27, I groan in agony and attempt to create a refuge underneath my Batman bed sheets, but fail miserably. Right when I’m about to drift back into a slumber, José extravagantly bursts into my room with moisturizer smeared across his face and tells me to “rise and shine with a bowl of Cap’n Crunch!”
I tell him to go fuck Cap’n Crunch.
He tells me he’s always loved seamen.
This happens every day.
José has strange taste in cereal. I am a huge aficionado of toast, but I like to think that I know my cereals as well. Cap’n Crunch tastes like something clumsy Aunt Betsy burns every Thanksgiving, but of course as polite little darlings, we all have to consume it whilst trying not to contort our faces into expressions of intense pain. Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats, alternatively, are an explosion of joy in every bite. My favorite used to be the Maple and Brown Sugar Mini-Wheats, which tasted just like Canada. Now, however, I am astounded by the Mini-Wheats Big Bites. Each piece is a massive, frosted rectangle with nothing miniature about it.
Therefore, I have concluded that I enjoy starting my day with a paradox.
José, however, insists that I should have a massive breakfast each morning. He’s always in the kitchen, concocting something that involves an assortment of fruits. I always eat whatever delicious, exotic fruits he places in front of me, but that’s just because if I do, José won’t complain about the music I play in the car. He prefers Blindside, whilst I love the sweet melodies of Beyonce.
Lately, Phil’s been prancing about the office like Prince Charles on ecstasy. This is because he has a girlfriend. We know this because he reminds us of this fact every day.
“Hey, guess what my girlfriend said to me last night!” Phil grinned wildly.
“‘Is it in yet?’” I offered.
“‘Awww, it’s fun-sized,’” José added.
“‘Because of you, I’m a lesbian,’” Christopher smirked.
“No,” Phil spat viciously, but his demeanor quickly changed. “She said she wanted to move in with me!”
Amir clapped Phil on the back. “Congrats, man. Now someone can help you get dressed in the morning.”
He had a point. Today Phil was wearing a chartreuse shirt and olive trousers. This would have been all right, had he not been wearing a tangerine belt. By this, I mean he was wearing a belt that had tangerines on it. It was a disgusting fashion disaster.
Phil made a face at Amir and then turned back to the rest of us. “I don’t see any of you in loving relationships,” he pointed out.
“Au contraire,” I started with a false French accent. “Amir’s right 'and gives 'eem all zee lovin’ 'ee desires.”
Amir threatened to smack me upside the head, but I told him I didn’t want that hand anywhere near me, and dashed into my office. Christopher, seconds later, opened my office door and stepped into the room. Christopher and I, much to everyone’s dismay, still continued to get along like Iran and Britain, and I cannot possibly ascertain the reasons as to why. Yesterday he and I were horsing around, as two young lads normally might, and I covered his car in purple post-it notes. He didn’t appreciate the absolute brilliance of my mind. Later, when we went out for “coffee,” I played a miniscule joke on him, and all it involved was replacing his beloved C12H22O11 with NaCl.
“Would you like anything mass-reproduced today?” Christopher interrupted my thoughts, which made me realize that yesterday I had also forced him to make six copies of all of my history notes from the eleventh grade.
“How about your mother,” I winked.
“I’d report you for sexual harassment if your witticisms were any good.”
With that said, he turned on his heel and slammed the door shut, leaving me all alone in my room, just like how my parents would before they went on holiday to Milan because I was such a nuisance. Seeking comfort like a newborn babe, I headed outside.
“Wanna know why you’re such a bitch?” Amir boldly asked me.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m assuming there are a multitude of reasons. Perhaps you can be like Martin Luther and nail them to my door.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “Some painter from Peru.”
“Anyway, it’s because you’re single,” Phil declared triumphantly.
I blinked in disbelief. Had we not just been through all of this? My previous relationships had never worked out, and that was probably for the best. All evidence proved that the gods disagreed with all of my slightly romantic relationships. I informed my friends of this divine plan, and how my fate had been secured, but Phil told me that I had been looking in all the wrong places.
“You’ve been looking in all the wrong places,” Phil said.
Truth is that I was never looking; rather, I had just encountered these ladies by chance. Or perhaps we were destined to meet so I could become disillusioned and forever attached to my flourishing career. Besides, where else would I look?
“Besides,” I started, “where else would I look? Narnia?”
Amir grinned. “Online.”
Same thing.
“What the hell?” Phil blurted out incredulously. “No one really uses the Internet for that type of stuff!”
“It worked for my cousin!”
“But you come from a family that needs floaties to get across the gene pool,” I stated, still not believing that I was agreeing with Phil on something.
“You’re really not funny at all,” Christopher managed to utter as he zoomed past me with some important documents in his hands.
“Look, we’ll just set up an account for you, and see what results from that,” Amir said.
“And what if it results in me being violated and spewing blood as my leg lies in a dumpster, far away from the rest of my body, which might be scattered along the east coast and forgotten until 2032?”
“That’d be a good look for you,” José responded cheekily. “Tell you what-- we’ll be around to make sure the person isn’t actually some guy named Bubba from Alabama.”
Coincidentally, when I was in Amsterdam, I had met a man named Bubba, and he was from Alabama!
I sighed and conceded. “Fine. Sign me up for whatever that site is, but remember that I’m Internet impaired.”
Amir beamed and a few minutes later I found myself shouting, “A thread? The hell is that?”
“It’s a discussion,” Phil answered.
“On the Internet? Looks more like an argument.”
“Well, yeah, that’s basically what they turn into.”
Amir used his foot to kick Phil and his swivel chair away from me, and that caused Phil to go flying into some office supplies. I had never seen such atrocities committed against such fine furniture. Also, I hoped that Phil was all right.
I pressed my delicate nose against the monitor. “So that avatar is a picture of her?”
“Yes.”
“So she’s a Cyclops?”
“What?”
“It’s only a photo of one of her eyes! How do I know she has two?! What if she’s just a giant eye or something?! What if she’s watching me right now, wanting my ring?”
Amir hit his forehead in disbelief. “You’re gonna need professional help.”
Based on that comment, I had no idea why the hell he had me see a psychic. I entered this small, overly-decorated house which reeked of jasmine incense. The curtains were dark and wispy and jingled as the wind blew. The yellow glow of the lamp annoyed me and made it seem like midnight, even though it was evening. There was a long, antique mirror in one of the hallways. It was almost impossible to turn without colliding into something beaded or multicolored.
“Welcome to my home,” said an old woman with a raspy voice and silver hair.
“You actually live here?” I mumbled under my breath.
I went to sit down, but a rather vociferous “MEOW!” made me jump out of my trousers. A fat, orange Persian cat hissed at me and trotted away. I was surprised it could move, since it was so overweight. The psychic had me sit down at a circular table and she placed a giant vanilla candle in the centre of it. Then she started to place some cards on the table, and I prayed to the heavens that we weren’t going to play strip poker. She told me to pick a card, but I told her I wasn’t falling for any of her voodoo black magic tricks. As I told her this, I also made ridiculous hand gestures. She sighed out of exasperation.
“Just pick a card!”
I picked up many cards and adopted an accent that many gangsters had in the 1930’s. “You got any fives?”
She slapped the cards right out of my hands and said, “Let me read your palm.”
She pronounced the ‘l’ in “palm.”
I made a face and begrudgingly let her clammy, wrinkled fingers touch my smooth, moisturized hand. She examined the lines on my palm intently through her ridiculously large glasses. The fat orange cat appeared again and tried to sit on my head. I complained loudly and she told me that Mr. Chuckles wouldn’t harm anyone. I told her that I frowned upon receiving nicknames before sex, and she informed me that Mr. Chuckles was her cat. Then another cat, a Burmese named Mr. Toodles, slithered over and settled himself on my lap. Bastard was getting his grey fur all over my black trousers! I stuck my tongue out at him, but he just gave me a lazy and bored look.
“How very curious,” the psychic finally mused.
“What, that you’re able to breathe in this room without an oxygen tank?”
Her magnified hazel eyes glared at me, and I could’ve sworn that all of her wrinkles frowned in distaste.
“Your palm says you should’ve died three years ago.”
“Perhaps I’m already dead.”
Her eyes got wide. “Don’t be preposterous!”
“You’re the one telling me I should’ve died three years ago! What if this is all just a dream? What is death, really? Maybe it is just a new beginning. After all, we are constantly throwing out old ideas and accepting new beliefs. Is it merely a cleansing of the soul?” I was about to go on one of my long tirades about philosophy, but she stopped me with an abrupt “hush!”
“What?” I said, expecting her to tell me something important.
“Oh, nothing, I just hate the sound of your voice.”
I snarled, got up dramatically, and went to strut out the door, but unfortunately my foot got tangled in either a stray shawl or a cat and my exit was more comedic than theatric.
Some time afterward, I found myself being interviewed for this new, live television show known as “The Chatherinette.”
“What qualities do you possess that would make you a great catch for women?”
“Nothing. I’m an absolutely horrible catch for women. Some women would rather catch the Plague.”
“Interesting,” mused the woman behind the desk, who had her auburn hair twisted in an intricate braid. She proceeded to ask me some more questions, and I answered as adversely as I could. By the end of the interview, I’m quite certain that I came across as a gay misogynist.
I was overcome with an immense amount of surprise when the producers informed me that they wanted me on the show. Apparently, with the recent literature that had invaded bookshelves (much to the chagrin of proper authors,) coupled with all of the trashy television programs available for the common idiot’s viewing pleasure, statistics showed that young women in their twenties enjoyed men who were a challenge.
And by challenge, they meant a complete fuckwit.
Anyway, a few days later, I was flown out to some mansion in the middle of nowhere. I thought it quite resembled the Basilica of the Vierzehnheiligen. All of the other men in the mansion were intriguing in their diversity and annoying in the similarity. Avery, a large man from North Dakota, was rambling about how he hoped this woman could cook because his grandmother used to bake him cookies every afternoon after he came home from the fifth grade, which I supposed he had failed no less than three times. I decided that this was an appropriate time to psychoanalyze this handsome fellow.
“So you like women who remind you of your grandmother? If Freud were here-.”
“You and I aren’t going to get along in this house,” he interrupted me.
“Well, yes,” I agreed. “And we also wouldn’t get along in any other house. Nor on the streets. ... Nor on a gameshow. Nor if either of us were on acid-.”
The man interrupted me again with his drawl. “I don’t like you.”
I clutched my heart and whimpered. “You whaaaat? You don’t like me?! But my entire world solely revolves around your acceptance of my eccentricities!” I turned to another bachelor and fell to my knees. “Oh, Winston! Whatever shall I do?!”
Thankfully, the man who I had dubbed Winston found me amusing and spent fifteen minutes discussing linen suits with me. Winston, an only child, had been in the marines, despite the protests from his parents. He was now studying political science. While I was explaining to Winston that the socks should match the trousers, the host of the show strutted into the room and announced that some gorgeous lady would be arriving, but I didn’t care. Winston had just recently revealed to me the glory of keeping shirts unwrinkled!
The gorgeous woman had short, chemically straightened hair that flipped outwards. Her soft, dark chocolate skin had warm undertones, and her eyes twinkled with an innocent spark. She was wearing a fierce pair of heels. She came towards Winston and me with a beaming smile. Winston melted the instant she started conversing with him, but I, bored, left the area and went towards the massive water fountain.
Moments afterward, much to the disappointment of the other forty billion men in the house and myself, the gorgeous woman approached me and attempted to start a conversation. I found out that her name was Grace, and she had obtained her doctorate in something involving religious studies. How cliché. She asked me what I did for a living, and I told her that I had no idea, which intrigued her.
“Well, I’m the head of the creative department at an advertising agency, so I suppose most of my job consists of telling people to stop fucking up or to fuck off.”
She and the other eavesdropping men on the balcony seemed taken aback by my words, but for some reason she didn’t leave. I took out my new Victorinox Swiss Army pocket watch and wondered how long it’d be until I could go back home to José. She noticed my materialism and asked me if I was a religious man. I told her that I didn’t want to get into it because religion was more complicated than following a textbook written by man. Then I started rambling about how God couldn’t possibly be searching for violent sycophants who had the audacity to believe that their selfish prayers actually influenced this vast universe and the way nature worked intrinsically.
“Compared to the enormous amount of space in the Universe, Earth is next to nothing, and the empires that once rose and fell are even more miniscule, but humans have trouble fathoming the concept of not existing, which is probably why the afterlife was invented in the first place,” I blabbered stupidly.
She told me she understood, but before she could ask me another prying question, Avery swooped in like a bat and whisked Grace away from me.
Thank goodness.
I, along with my silver lace-ups, trotted back into the grand mansion and hoped to find some delectable food. Instead I found some men who were sniggering due to my atrocious behavior. I ignored them and went to go find the assorted cheeses, but was interrupted by the host, who told us all to go into the parlor. That man was always coming in at the wrong moments.
Inside the parlor we encountered Grace, and I now noticed she was wearing a stunning satin gown by Oscar de la Renta. The deep red brought out her complexion. As we all lined up, I saw that many of the other men looked nervous, and that none of the furniture here was from IKEA. Grace started handing out roses in such a way that made the tedious ceremony overdramatic. As I was contemplating throwing a hideous lamp at the wall, I heard Grace call my name.
“Nick, you are an interesting individual, and I’d like to get to know you more,” she said. “Will you accept this rose?”
I smiled. “Sorry. Allergic.” With that terrible joke uttered for all of America and their defrosted TV dinners to sneer at, I got up and headed outside, where I was suddenly assaulted by the producers and some cameraman.
“The fuck are you thinking, boy?!” shouted an angry producer with his wrinkled face inches away from my clear skin.
“Calm the fuck down, Pierre,” demanded a woman with a Scottish accent. “Don’t you realize this’ll make our ratings go up? We can get an interview with him about why he did it, and we’ll put the video up on the Internet and make millions from this moment alone!”
The other producer stroked his chin and eventually agreed with the Scottish woman, who led me into a violet room and began to interrogate me.
“Why didn’t you accept the rose?”
“Mother told me to never accept anything from strangers,” I responded cheekily. She looked like she wanted to choke me.
“What will you do if Avery marries Grace?”
“Wish him the best,” I said truthfully.
(Avery would later go on to marry Pierre, who was a native of Canada. Grace would get her own religious television program on the air for sixteen years and then convert to Buddhism.)
After the episode aired on television, I became an accidental celebrity, and curious women approached me looking for answers, whilst bicurious men approached me looking for telephone numbers. Talkshow hosts wanted me interrupting their hour-long monologues about nothing. CNN wanted me as well, but I told them to shut up and broadcast real news. Then I told them to send my love to Anderson Cooper, but I’m betting they didn’t. A few good circumstances did arise from this minimal amount of fame. Due to my being hounded by the media, I was able to convince other corporations to use our agency for their ads, and my connections expanded. Also, women flocked to me like Muslims flocking to Mecca, so Amir and Phil stopped bothering me about my lack of love life. I, however, hadn’t stopped pestering them.
“Why do you wear women’s shirts?” I asked Amir.
“It’s not a woman’s shirt; it’s just a smaller size so I can show off my biceps,” Amir explained.
“Looks more like you’re showing off how much of a cunt you are.”
I think that’s when Amir stopped talking to me. Lately, Phil and I hadn’t spoken for more than a minute either because he was always with his significant other. Christopher hated spending time with me, so I always made him run ludicrous errands. Today he had to watch a movie that wasn’t based on a book and shout “that wasn’t in the novel!” during the part where everyone bawls.
Therefore, José and I had been spending a lot of time together. Oddly enough, he’s the only other guy I know who loves watching hockey.
“It’s great how the entire team is stepping it up. Guys like Ovechkin are great offensively, but you have to have someone who is going to be there defending when he’s not scoring goals,” I commented without really knowing what I was talking about.
“You do realize we’re watching Project Runway, right?”
I raised my eyebrows and realized that there was an abnormal amount of lilac and velvet on the television screen. José reached for the remote to change the channel, but I hastily stopped him because I wanted to continue watching the show. He merely rolled his eyes and whipped out some sort of sports magazine from beneath the mess on the coffee table.
I frowned. “When’re you going to clean up this mess?”
José raised a dark eyebrow. “Me? What about your style magazines that’re all over the place?!”
“They’re all over the place because you won’t let me purchase that new bookshelf from IKEA!”
“It’d look atrocious in the library and ruin the whole antique feel it has!”
“I’m pretty sure your trite romance novels purchased solely for airplane rides already ruined the antique feel of my library!”
“Why don’t you just purchase a proper bookshelf?!”
“Because my creative vision cannot be compromised!” I bellowed thunderously before declaring that I would be spending the night with my mother.
“Your mother’s on vacation.”
I glowered. “Then I’ll go somewhere else!”
“Where?” José demanded.
I looked at the clutter on the coffee table, and the fine, recycled pages of pure euphoria enticingly called my name. My savior was hidden underneath bright pink Victoria’s Secret catalogues, and vivid, emerald magazines about golf. The latest IKEA catalogue glowed mightily beneath all of that trash. I quickly picked up the catalogue and proclaimed that I would be spending my night at that furniture heaven.
“I will be spending my night at that furniture heaven!” I proclaimed.
“Where?”
“IKEA!”
“You have an unhealthy obsession.”
“That’s what a judge once told me,” I said before dramatically storming off into the twilight with my Hugo Boss suit jacket over my shoulder, just like how my former Physics professor used to.
When I got into IKEA, I immediately headed over to the children’s section and commandeered for myself a gorgeous camping tent. It was the color of the ocean after a tumultuous storm. I inhaled deeply and the scent of synthetic materials joyfully swirled around in my nasal passages. The double zipper had me tittering with glee. Aside from a few sobbing punk toddlers, no one knew of my presence in the store.
Until I attempted to start a camp fire.
An employee graciously escorted me outside into the cold, cruel world.
I walked a few blocks under the golden streetlights and managed to encounter a club known as Swizzle Styx. That’s when I realized that tonight an emotionally unstable woman would be my only hope for a warm bed, since I had accidentally abandoned my wallet at home.
But first I had to get past the bouncer.
“Yo dawg,” I articulated splendidly as I approached the grisly man with a swagger. “Lemme into dis ‘ere cluuuub, HAAAAAAAY.”
He stopped lighting his cigarette and slowly looked up at me. “I work in accounting.”
“I ain’t accountin’ on nuffin’ but gettin’ into dis cluuuub, hollaaaa.” I might’ve been overdoing it, but this what Amir’s douchebag cousins always sounded like.
The short, balding man stepped to the side and allowed me to enter. That was way too easy. I decided that I must be someone who naturally exudes a colossal amount of charm. This charm would sufficiently help me pick up women like how alpha particles pick up stray electrons!
“I say madam,” I drawled to the closest woman, who immediately made a face, “is that a cellular mobile in my pantaloons or am I just rather pleased to have you in my line of vision?”
She got up and left, so I had to find a new target. I located a vixen in a navy suit and shuffled over to her whilst doing my signature sexy dance-(that is the one where I look like I’ve ice cubes in my trousers.)
“My, my, my,” I started.
“Your what?” responded she, except she wasn’t a she and was actually my assistant, Christopher.
“What?! What’re you doing here?!” I demanded.
“What’re YOU doing here?” he retorted tartly.
I frowned. “José and I got into an altercation-.”
“About furniture?”
I wondered how he knew. “Yes. I left the house and figured I’d stay with a nice lady until tomorrow.”
Christopher blinked as if he couldn’t decide what snarky comment to use to insult me because he had so many formulated in his head.
“Anyway, what’re you doing here, surrounded by women? I thought you were some broad on her night out.”
“The ladies just seem to congregate towards me,” he smiled. “It must be the accent.”
“You have an accent?” I inquired genuinely.
Christopher’s jaw fell to the floor in pure disbelief. “I’m English.”
“Well, yeah, I speak English too,” I said.
After a pause, my assistant went to order himself another drink, but a gorgeous girl did it for him.
“Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!” I whined whilst batting my eyelashes and pushing a girl out of the way so I could rest my chin on his shoulder. “Take me hoooooome with you!”
“No,” he said flatly.
I pouted, pleaded some more, and told him he smelled like a meadow, but all of this was to no avail.
“But I like your tie!” I said as I grabbed the yellow cloth and used it as a false mustache. “Mmm, it’s so silky like your porcelain skin!”
By now a lot of the other people around the bar were giving Christopher weird looks. He looked very uncomfortable, which was exactly what I wanted.
“If you promise to never ever EVER do this to me again, I’ll take you home,” he said.
“And what if I don’t make that promise?”
He pointed across the room. “Then I’ll ask Bubba over there to chop off your legs and toss you into a dumpster.”
“Bubba! The last time I saw you was in Amsterdam!” I squealed excitedly.
Christopher hit his head against the bar as I caught up with Bubba. He and his wife were in town visiting her parents. Over the years, Bubba had gotten a pet ferret and fathered a baby girl. Bubba and his wife had to catch a plane back to Alabama, though, so I bid them a good night and they went off.
I turned back to Christopher, but he wasn’t there! I, like a three year old who had been separated from his mother in a department store, frantically looked around the pub (and not club) for my beautiful assistant. Alas, I spotted him right as he was traipsing out the door with another friend, who was helping him stand upright. That other friend looked suspiciously like the unfunny cashier I exchanged words with.
“Whatever shall I do now?” I asked no one in particular, like a character from a Disney movie.
“How about you go crawl into a hole and die?” suggested a very familiar voice.
I turned around and exclaimed, “Nancy!”
She grimaced and took a sip of her drink at the same time, which made her look like a pug.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked her from across the bar because I honestly thought she’d whack me with her purse if I got any closer.
“Mother brought home yet another guy, so I thought I’d just spend my night here.”
“It’s not even late yet,” I pointed out.
“Your perception of time is off,” she practically slurred. “And also! Your timing is off. You know, if only you had revealed my father’s homosexual ways after I had moved out of the house!”
I frowned. “Maybe you should get home.”
“I think you should come home with me,” the alcohol in her system blurted out.
“Sure!” the natural lack of judgment in my brain agreed (although one might argue how a lack of something can agree to or with anything.)
Nancy, with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, shuffled over towards me and then somehow under the guidance of the mischievous streetlights, she led me to her white Porsche Cayman. I took the keys from her hand but momentarily stared at the pig keychain she had. Perhaps it was there to remind her of her mother. Then I escorted Nancy into the backseat of her car like a true gentleman, and told her not to vomit or I’d toss her out, even though it was her own car. It was unnerving how I knew the way to her house, but I was a bit glad that I did.
“Do you have any real music?” I asked Nancy, who was staring out the window absent-mindedly. If she had stuck her head out the window, she would’ve resembled a pug again.
“All I have is classic rock.”
“And that is why you have no friends,” I said pompously while tuning to a radio station that played swing.
Of course the song was so long that we arrived in front of Nancy’s house before it finished. Nancy led me inside, but she told me to be quiet because her mother was probably sleeping. I honestly did not want to encounter the beast known as Elizabeth, so I tiptoed across the room like a cautious ballerina. Now that I think about it, Nancy and Elizabeth are a bit like Grendel and his mother. Nancy led me to her bedroom, which was great because I didn’t want to be caught on the couch if Nancy’s mother came downstairs for a glass of water.
“So are you going to sleep in the bathtub or what?” I asked Nancy.
She basically flung herself at me after that comment. Surprisingly, she wasn’t trying to choke me. I tried to scream, but Nancy threw a pillow at me. “Shh! Mom’ll ‘ear! Wait, janowhat? I wan’er tahear! I WANT HER TO KNOOOW.”
Oh great flying spaghetti monster.
She started singing a song by Phil Collins. “I WANNA KNOOOOOOW! CAN YOU SHOOOW ME?!” I felt her hands desperately grab my expensive belt.
“I think not, miss!” I spat, wishing I had a pair of white gloves and a top hat for this moment.
“But imagine the look on her face when she sees us!”
“I’d rather not imagine her face at all, to be frank.”
“Fraaaaaaank!” she whined. “Daddy! Why’d you leave us?!”
I blinked. “Have you seen your mother? I’m surprised he didn’t go gay earlier.”
“I love when you talk to me like that.” She attempted to-er, well, she was trying to do something, and to this day I’m still not exactly sure what it was, but all I know is that she invaded my personal space quite rudely.
Suddenly it all stopped. I was frozen to the floor in fear and Nancy, despite being inebriated, had somehow managed to swing her right leg around my hips. The two of us, with our hearts pounding, were staring at the silver doorknob, which turned ever so slowly...
“What’s all this noi-NICK?!” Elizabeth’s wide mouth screeched.
I winked. “How do you do?”
“Oh, you wait till I get my hands on you, you filthy raccoon!” She pounced at me with her arms outstretched, but I stepped to the left and she went crashing into a bunch of pillows.
“Why the hell do you have so many damn pillows on your bed?” I inappropriately asked Nancy, who merely shrugged and hollered something about loving me forever.
“Don’t you dare steal my daughter’s heart!” Elizabeth warned.
“She doesn’t have a heart to steal,” I snickered.
Elizabeth furiously grabbed the object closest to her, an unplugged curling iron, and headed towards me. I zoomed out of the room and stumbled down the stairs chaotically, determined to not get any metal lodged in me. She was right behind me with her poofy red hair flying about in every direction, forming a halo of hate around her face. I quickly opened the door and ran outside, over their rain-forgotten grass, not caring about its well-being. To my surprise, I spotted my Phantom outside, and my roommate was sitting in the driver’s seat, listening to a man on the radio talk about a lion that escaped from the circus. Upon seeing the crazy lady in the doorway José shouted, “JESUS CHRIST; IT’S A LION. GET IN THE CAR!”
I dove into the window headfirst, and my legs were still out of the vehicle as José sped off towards the city lights. I managed to straighten myself into an upright position when we approached a blinding red light, and José glanced at me and laughed.
“What would you do without me?” he grinned.
I shrugged and looked at my pocket watch, which now read 4:27 A.M. The birds, right on cue, started chirping and stirring in the treetops. José and I drove home and we had an eclectic but fruity breakfast.
Part Five
Part Six
4:27 A.M.
Every morning at 4:27 A.M., the birds start squawking like a troupe of banshees in labor who are trapped between a giant chainsaw and Bill O’Reilly. Every morning at 4:27, my eyelids struggle to flutter open. Every morning at 4:27, I roll over, slam my right hand down on my alarm clock, and curse like a madman because I somehow always forget that José replaced my modern alarm clock with an extremely pointy, extremely sharp, and extremely antique cuckoo clock. Every morning at 4:27, I groan in agony and attempt to create a refuge underneath my Batman bed sheets, but fail miserably. Right when I’m about to drift back into a slumber, José extravagantly bursts into my room with moisturizer smeared across his face and tells me to “rise and shine with a bowl of Cap’n Crunch!”
I tell him to go fuck Cap’n Crunch.
He tells me he’s always loved seamen.
This happens every day.
José has strange taste in cereal. I am a huge aficionado of toast, but I like to think that I know my cereals as well. Cap’n Crunch tastes like something clumsy Aunt Betsy burns every Thanksgiving, but of course as polite little darlings, we all have to consume it whilst trying not to contort our faces into expressions of intense pain. Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats, alternatively, are an explosion of joy in every bite. My favorite used to be the Maple and Brown Sugar Mini-Wheats, which tasted just like Canada. Now, however, I am astounded by the Mini-Wheats Big Bites. Each piece is a massive, frosted rectangle with nothing miniature about it.
Therefore, I have concluded that I enjoy starting my day with a paradox.
José, however, insists that I should have a massive breakfast each morning. He’s always in the kitchen, concocting something that involves an assortment of fruits. I always eat whatever delicious, exotic fruits he places in front of me, but that’s just because if I do, José won’t complain about the music I play in the car. He prefers Blindside, whilst I love the sweet melodies of Beyonce.
Lately, Phil’s been prancing about the office like Prince Charles on ecstasy. This is because he has a girlfriend. We know this because he reminds us of this fact every day.
“Hey, guess what my girlfriend said to me last night!” Phil grinned wildly.
“‘Is it in yet?’” I offered.
“‘Awww, it’s fun-sized,’” José added.
“‘Because of you, I’m a lesbian,’” Christopher smirked.
“No,” Phil spat viciously, but his demeanor quickly changed. “She said she wanted to move in with me!”
Amir clapped Phil on the back. “Congrats, man. Now someone can help you get dressed in the morning.”
He had a point. Today Phil was wearing a chartreuse shirt and olive trousers. This would have been all right, had he not been wearing a tangerine belt. By this, I mean he was wearing a belt that had tangerines on it. It was a disgusting fashion disaster.
Phil made a face at Amir and then turned back to the rest of us. “I don’t see any of you in loving relationships,” he pointed out.
“Au contraire,” I started with a false French accent. “Amir’s right 'and gives 'eem all zee lovin’ 'ee desires.”
Amir threatened to smack me upside the head, but I told him I didn’t want that hand anywhere near me, and dashed into my office. Christopher, seconds later, opened my office door and stepped into the room. Christopher and I, much to everyone’s dismay, still continued to get along like Iran and Britain, and I cannot possibly ascertain the reasons as to why. Yesterday he and I were horsing around, as two young lads normally might, and I covered his car in purple post-it notes. He didn’t appreciate the absolute brilliance of my mind. Later, when we went out for “coffee,” I played a miniscule joke on him, and all it involved was replacing his beloved C12H22O11 with NaCl.
“Would you like anything mass-reproduced today?” Christopher interrupted my thoughts, which made me realize that yesterday I had also forced him to make six copies of all of my history notes from the eleventh grade.
“How about your mother,” I winked.
“I’d report you for sexual harassment if your witticisms were any good.”
With that said, he turned on his heel and slammed the door shut, leaving me all alone in my room, just like how my parents would before they went on holiday to Milan because I was such a nuisance. Seeking comfort like a newborn babe, I headed outside.
“Wanna know why you’re such a bitch?” Amir boldly asked me.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m assuming there are a multitude of reasons. Perhaps you can be like Martin Luther and nail them to my door.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “Some painter from Peru.”
“Anyway, it’s because you’re single,” Phil declared triumphantly.
I blinked in disbelief. Had we not just been through all of this? My previous relationships had never worked out, and that was probably for the best. All evidence proved that the gods disagreed with all of my slightly romantic relationships. I informed my friends of this divine plan, and how my fate had been secured, but Phil told me that I had been looking in all the wrong places.
“You’ve been looking in all the wrong places,” Phil said.
Truth is that I was never looking; rather, I had just encountered these ladies by chance. Or perhaps we were destined to meet so I could become disillusioned and forever attached to my flourishing career. Besides, where else would I look?
“Besides,” I started, “where else would I look? Narnia?”
Amir grinned. “Online.”
Same thing.
“What the hell?” Phil blurted out incredulously. “No one really uses the Internet for that type of stuff!”
“It worked for my cousin!”
“But you come from a family that needs floaties to get across the gene pool,” I stated, still not believing that I was agreeing with Phil on something.
“You’re really not funny at all,” Christopher managed to utter as he zoomed past me with some important documents in his hands.
“Look, we’ll just set up an account for you, and see what results from that,” Amir said.
“And what if it results in me being violated and spewing blood as my leg lies in a dumpster, far away from the rest of my body, which might be scattered along the east coast and forgotten until 2032?”
“That’d be a good look for you,” José responded cheekily. “Tell you what-- we’ll be around to make sure the person isn’t actually some guy named Bubba from Alabama.”
Coincidentally, when I was in Amsterdam, I had met a man named Bubba, and he was from Alabama!
I sighed and conceded. “Fine. Sign me up for whatever that site is, but remember that I’m Internet impaired.”
Amir beamed and a few minutes later I found myself shouting, “A thread? The hell is that?”
“It’s a discussion,” Phil answered.
“On the Internet? Looks more like an argument.”
“Well, yeah, that’s basically what they turn into.”
Amir used his foot to kick Phil and his swivel chair away from me, and that caused Phil to go flying into some office supplies. I had never seen such atrocities committed against such fine furniture. Also, I hoped that Phil was all right.
I pressed my delicate nose against the monitor. “So that avatar is a picture of her?”
“Yes.”
“So she’s a Cyclops?”
“What?”
“It’s only a photo of one of her eyes! How do I know she has two?! What if she’s just a giant eye or something?! What if she’s watching me right now, wanting my ring?”
Amir hit his forehead in disbelief. “You’re gonna need professional help.”
Based on that comment, I had no idea why the hell he had me see a psychic. I entered this small, overly-decorated house which reeked of jasmine incense. The curtains were dark and wispy and jingled as the wind blew. The yellow glow of the lamp annoyed me and made it seem like midnight, even though it was evening. There was a long, antique mirror in one of the hallways. It was almost impossible to turn without colliding into something beaded or multicolored.
“Welcome to my home,” said an old woman with a raspy voice and silver hair.
“You actually live here?” I mumbled under my breath.
I went to sit down, but a rather vociferous “MEOW!” made me jump out of my trousers. A fat, orange Persian cat hissed at me and trotted away. I was surprised it could move, since it was so overweight. The psychic had me sit down at a circular table and she placed a giant vanilla candle in the centre of it. Then she started to place some cards on the table, and I prayed to the heavens that we weren’t going to play strip poker. She told me to pick a card, but I told her I wasn’t falling for any of her voodoo black magic tricks. As I told her this, I also made ridiculous hand gestures. She sighed out of exasperation.
“Just pick a card!”
I picked up many cards and adopted an accent that many gangsters had in the 1930’s. “You got any fives?”
She slapped the cards right out of my hands and said, “Let me read your palm.”
She pronounced the ‘l’ in “palm.”
I made a face and begrudgingly let her clammy, wrinkled fingers touch my smooth, moisturized hand. She examined the lines on my palm intently through her ridiculously large glasses. The fat orange cat appeared again and tried to sit on my head. I complained loudly and she told me that Mr. Chuckles wouldn’t harm anyone. I told her that I frowned upon receiving nicknames before sex, and she informed me that Mr. Chuckles was her cat. Then another cat, a Burmese named Mr. Toodles, slithered over and settled himself on my lap. Bastard was getting his grey fur all over my black trousers! I stuck my tongue out at him, but he just gave me a lazy and bored look.
“How very curious,” the psychic finally mused.
“What, that you’re able to breathe in this room without an oxygen tank?”
Her magnified hazel eyes glared at me, and I could’ve sworn that all of her wrinkles frowned in distaste.
“Your palm says you should’ve died three years ago.”
“Perhaps I’m already dead.”
Her eyes got wide. “Don’t be preposterous!”
“You’re the one telling me I should’ve died three years ago! What if this is all just a dream? What is death, really? Maybe it is just a new beginning. After all, we are constantly throwing out old ideas and accepting new beliefs. Is it merely a cleansing of the soul?” I was about to go on one of my long tirades about philosophy, but she stopped me with an abrupt “hush!”
“What?” I said, expecting her to tell me something important.
“Oh, nothing, I just hate the sound of your voice.”
I snarled, got up dramatically, and went to strut out the door, but unfortunately my foot got tangled in either a stray shawl or a cat and my exit was more comedic than theatric.
Some time afterward, I found myself being interviewed for this new, live television show known as “The Chatherinette.”
“What qualities do you possess that would make you a great catch for women?”
“Nothing. I’m an absolutely horrible catch for women. Some women would rather catch the Plague.”
“Interesting,” mused the woman behind the desk, who had her auburn hair twisted in an intricate braid. She proceeded to ask me some more questions, and I answered as adversely as I could. By the end of the interview, I’m quite certain that I came across as a gay misogynist.
I was overcome with an immense amount of surprise when the producers informed me that they wanted me on the show. Apparently, with the recent literature that had invaded bookshelves (much to the chagrin of proper authors,) coupled with all of the trashy television programs available for the common idiot’s viewing pleasure, statistics showed that young women in their twenties enjoyed men who were a challenge.
And by challenge, they meant a complete fuckwit.
Anyway, a few days later, I was flown out to some mansion in the middle of nowhere. I thought it quite resembled the Basilica of the Vierzehnheiligen. All of the other men in the mansion were intriguing in their diversity and annoying in the similarity. Avery, a large man from North Dakota, was rambling about how he hoped this woman could cook because his grandmother used to bake him cookies every afternoon after he came home from the fifth grade, which I supposed he had failed no less than three times. I decided that this was an appropriate time to psychoanalyze this handsome fellow.
“So you like women who remind you of your grandmother? If Freud were here-.”
“You and I aren’t going to get along in this house,” he interrupted me.
“Well, yes,” I agreed. “And we also wouldn’t get along in any other house. Nor on the streets. ... Nor on a gameshow. Nor if either of us were on acid-.”
The man interrupted me again with his drawl. “I don’t like you.”
I clutched my heart and whimpered. “You whaaaat? You don’t like me?! But my entire world solely revolves around your acceptance of my eccentricities!” I turned to another bachelor and fell to my knees. “Oh, Winston! Whatever shall I do?!”
Thankfully, the man who I had dubbed Winston found me amusing and spent fifteen minutes discussing linen suits with me. Winston, an only child, had been in the marines, despite the protests from his parents. He was now studying political science. While I was explaining to Winston that the socks should match the trousers, the host of the show strutted into the room and announced that some gorgeous lady would be arriving, but I didn’t care. Winston had just recently revealed to me the glory of keeping shirts unwrinkled!
The gorgeous woman had short, chemically straightened hair that flipped outwards. Her soft, dark chocolate skin had warm undertones, and her eyes twinkled with an innocent spark. She was wearing a fierce pair of heels. She came towards Winston and me with a beaming smile. Winston melted the instant she started conversing with him, but I, bored, left the area and went towards the massive water fountain.
Moments afterward, much to the disappointment of the other forty billion men in the house and myself, the gorgeous woman approached me and attempted to start a conversation. I found out that her name was Grace, and she had obtained her doctorate in something involving religious studies. How cliché. She asked me what I did for a living, and I told her that I had no idea, which intrigued her.
“Well, I’m the head of the creative department at an advertising agency, so I suppose most of my job consists of telling people to stop fucking up or to fuck off.”
She and the other eavesdropping men on the balcony seemed taken aback by my words, but for some reason she didn’t leave. I took out my new Victorinox Swiss Army pocket watch and wondered how long it’d be until I could go back home to José. She noticed my materialism and asked me if I was a religious man. I told her that I didn’t want to get into it because religion was more complicated than following a textbook written by man. Then I started rambling about how God couldn’t possibly be searching for violent sycophants who had the audacity to believe that their selfish prayers actually influenced this vast universe and the way nature worked intrinsically.
“Compared to the enormous amount of space in the Universe, Earth is next to nothing, and the empires that once rose and fell are even more miniscule, but humans have trouble fathoming the concept of not existing, which is probably why the afterlife was invented in the first place,” I blabbered stupidly.
She told me she understood, but before she could ask me another prying question, Avery swooped in like a bat and whisked Grace away from me.
Thank goodness.
I, along with my silver lace-ups, trotted back into the grand mansion and hoped to find some delectable food. Instead I found some men who were sniggering due to my atrocious behavior. I ignored them and went to go find the assorted cheeses, but was interrupted by the host, who told us all to go into the parlor. That man was always coming in at the wrong moments.
Inside the parlor we encountered Grace, and I now noticed she was wearing a stunning satin gown by Oscar de la Renta. The deep red brought out her complexion. As we all lined up, I saw that many of the other men looked nervous, and that none of the furniture here was from IKEA. Grace started handing out roses in such a way that made the tedious ceremony overdramatic. As I was contemplating throwing a hideous lamp at the wall, I heard Grace call my name.
“Nick, you are an interesting individual, and I’d like to get to know you more,” she said. “Will you accept this rose?”
I smiled. “Sorry. Allergic.” With that terrible joke uttered for all of America and their defrosted TV dinners to sneer at, I got up and headed outside, where I was suddenly assaulted by the producers and some cameraman.
“The fuck are you thinking, boy?!” shouted an angry producer with his wrinkled face inches away from my clear skin.
“Calm the fuck down, Pierre,” demanded a woman with a Scottish accent. “Don’t you realize this’ll make our ratings go up? We can get an interview with him about why he did it, and we’ll put the video up on the Internet and make millions from this moment alone!”
The other producer stroked his chin and eventually agreed with the Scottish woman, who led me into a violet room and began to interrogate me.
“Why didn’t you accept the rose?”
“Mother told me to never accept anything from strangers,” I responded cheekily. She looked like she wanted to choke me.
“What will you do if Avery marries Grace?”
“Wish him the best,” I said truthfully.
(Avery would later go on to marry Pierre, who was a native of Canada. Grace would get her own religious television program on the air for sixteen years and then convert to Buddhism.)
After the episode aired on television, I became an accidental celebrity, and curious women approached me looking for answers, whilst bicurious men approached me looking for telephone numbers. Talkshow hosts wanted me interrupting their hour-long monologues about nothing. CNN wanted me as well, but I told them to shut up and broadcast real news. Then I told them to send my love to Anderson Cooper, but I’m betting they didn’t. A few good circumstances did arise from this minimal amount of fame. Due to my being hounded by the media, I was able to convince other corporations to use our agency for their ads, and my connections expanded. Also, women flocked to me like Muslims flocking to Mecca, so Amir and Phil stopped bothering me about my lack of love life. I, however, hadn’t stopped pestering them.
“Why do you wear women’s shirts?” I asked Amir.
“It’s not a woman’s shirt; it’s just a smaller size so I can show off my biceps,” Amir explained.
“Looks more like you’re showing off how much of a cunt you are.”
I think that’s when Amir stopped talking to me. Lately, Phil and I hadn’t spoken for more than a minute either because he was always with his significant other. Christopher hated spending time with me, so I always made him run ludicrous errands. Today he had to watch a movie that wasn’t based on a book and shout “that wasn’t in the novel!” during the part where everyone bawls.
Therefore, José and I had been spending a lot of time together. Oddly enough, he’s the only other guy I know who loves watching hockey.
“It’s great how the entire team is stepping it up. Guys like Ovechkin are great offensively, but you have to have someone who is going to be there defending when he’s not scoring goals,” I commented without really knowing what I was talking about.
“You do realize we’re watching Project Runway, right?”
I raised my eyebrows and realized that there was an abnormal amount of lilac and velvet on the television screen. José reached for the remote to change the channel, but I hastily stopped him because I wanted to continue watching the show. He merely rolled his eyes and whipped out some sort of sports magazine from beneath the mess on the coffee table.
I frowned. “When’re you going to clean up this mess?”
José raised a dark eyebrow. “Me? What about your style magazines that’re all over the place?!”
“They’re all over the place because you won’t let me purchase that new bookshelf from IKEA!”
“It’d look atrocious in the library and ruin the whole antique feel it has!”
“I’m pretty sure your trite romance novels purchased solely for airplane rides already ruined the antique feel of my library!”
“Why don’t you just purchase a proper bookshelf?!”
“Because my creative vision cannot be compromised!” I bellowed thunderously before declaring that I would be spending the night with my mother.
“Your mother’s on vacation.”
I glowered. “Then I’ll go somewhere else!”
“Where?” José demanded.
I looked at the clutter on the coffee table, and the fine, recycled pages of pure euphoria enticingly called my name. My savior was hidden underneath bright pink Victoria’s Secret catalogues, and vivid, emerald magazines about golf. The latest IKEA catalogue glowed mightily beneath all of that trash. I quickly picked up the catalogue and proclaimed that I would be spending my night at that furniture heaven.
“I will be spending my night at that furniture heaven!” I proclaimed.
“Where?”
“IKEA!”
“You have an unhealthy obsession.”
“That’s what a judge once told me,” I said before dramatically storming off into the twilight with my Hugo Boss suit jacket over my shoulder, just like how my former Physics professor used to.
When I got into IKEA, I immediately headed over to the children’s section and commandeered for myself a gorgeous camping tent. It was the color of the ocean after a tumultuous storm. I inhaled deeply and the scent of synthetic materials joyfully swirled around in my nasal passages. The double zipper had me tittering with glee. Aside from a few sobbing punk toddlers, no one knew of my presence in the store.
Until I attempted to start a camp fire.
An employee graciously escorted me outside into the cold, cruel world.
I walked a few blocks under the golden streetlights and managed to encounter a club known as Swizzle Styx. That’s when I realized that tonight an emotionally unstable woman would be my only hope for a warm bed, since I had accidentally abandoned my wallet at home.
But first I had to get past the bouncer.
“Yo dawg,” I articulated splendidly as I approached the grisly man with a swagger. “Lemme into dis ‘ere cluuuub, HAAAAAAAY.”
He stopped lighting his cigarette and slowly looked up at me. “I work in accounting.”
“I ain’t accountin’ on nuffin’ but gettin’ into dis cluuuub, hollaaaa.” I might’ve been overdoing it, but this what Amir’s douchebag cousins always sounded like.
The short, balding man stepped to the side and allowed me to enter. That was way too easy. I decided that I must be someone who naturally exudes a colossal amount of charm. This charm would sufficiently help me pick up women like how alpha particles pick up stray electrons!
“I say madam,” I drawled to the closest woman, who immediately made a face, “is that a cellular mobile in my pantaloons or am I just rather pleased to have you in my line of vision?”
She got up and left, so I had to find a new target. I located a vixen in a navy suit and shuffled over to her whilst doing my signature sexy dance-(that is the one where I look like I’ve ice cubes in my trousers.)
“My, my, my,” I started.
“Your what?” responded she, except she wasn’t a she and was actually my assistant, Christopher.
“What?! What’re you doing here?!” I demanded.
“What’re YOU doing here?” he retorted tartly.
I frowned. “José and I got into an altercation-.”
“About furniture?”
I wondered how he knew. “Yes. I left the house and figured I’d stay with a nice lady until tomorrow.”
Christopher blinked as if he couldn’t decide what snarky comment to use to insult me because he had so many formulated in his head.
“Anyway, what’re you doing here, surrounded by women? I thought you were some broad on her night out.”
“The ladies just seem to congregate towards me,” he smiled. “It must be the accent.”
“You have an accent?” I inquired genuinely.
Christopher’s jaw fell to the floor in pure disbelief. “I’m English.”
“Well, yeah, I speak English too,” I said.
After a pause, my assistant went to order himself another drink, but a gorgeous girl did it for him.
“Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!” I whined whilst batting my eyelashes and pushing a girl out of the way so I could rest my chin on his shoulder. “Take me hoooooome with you!”
“No,” he said flatly.
I pouted, pleaded some more, and told him he smelled like a meadow, but all of this was to no avail.
“But I like your tie!” I said as I grabbed the yellow cloth and used it as a false mustache. “Mmm, it’s so silky like your porcelain skin!”
By now a lot of the other people around the bar were giving Christopher weird looks. He looked very uncomfortable, which was exactly what I wanted.
“If you promise to never ever EVER do this to me again, I’ll take you home,” he said.
“And what if I don’t make that promise?”
He pointed across the room. “Then I’ll ask Bubba over there to chop off your legs and toss you into a dumpster.”
“Bubba! The last time I saw you was in Amsterdam!” I squealed excitedly.
Christopher hit his head against the bar as I caught up with Bubba. He and his wife were in town visiting her parents. Over the years, Bubba had gotten a pet ferret and fathered a baby girl. Bubba and his wife had to catch a plane back to Alabama, though, so I bid them a good night and they went off.
I turned back to Christopher, but he wasn’t there! I, like a three year old who had been separated from his mother in a department store, frantically looked around the pub (and not club) for my beautiful assistant. Alas, I spotted him right as he was traipsing out the door with another friend, who was helping him stand upright. That other friend looked suspiciously like the unfunny cashier I exchanged words with.
“Whatever shall I do now?” I asked no one in particular, like a character from a Disney movie.
“How about you go crawl into a hole and die?” suggested a very familiar voice.
I turned around and exclaimed, “Nancy!”
She grimaced and took a sip of her drink at the same time, which made her look like a pug.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked her from across the bar because I honestly thought she’d whack me with her purse if I got any closer.
“Mother brought home yet another guy, so I thought I’d just spend my night here.”
“It’s not even late yet,” I pointed out.
“Your perception of time is off,” she practically slurred. “And also! Your timing is off. You know, if only you had revealed my father’s homosexual ways after I had moved out of the house!”
I frowned. “Maybe you should get home.”
“I think you should come home with me,” the alcohol in her system blurted out.
“Sure!” the natural lack of judgment in my brain agreed (although one might argue how a lack of something can agree to or with anything.)
Nancy, with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, shuffled over towards me and then somehow under the guidance of the mischievous streetlights, she led me to her white Porsche Cayman. I took the keys from her hand but momentarily stared at the pig keychain she had. Perhaps it was there to remind her of her mother. Then I escorted Nancy into the backseat of her car like a true gentleman, and told her not to vomit or I’d toss her out, even though it was her own car. It was unnerving how I knew the way to her house, but I was a bit glad that I did.
“Do you have any real music?” I asked Nancy, who was staring out the window absent-mindedly. If she had stuck her head out the window, she would’ve resembled a pug again.
“All I have is classic rock.”
“And that is why you have no friends,” I said pompously while tuning to a radio station that played swing.
Of course the song was so long that we arrived in front of Nancy’s house before it finished. Nancy led me inside, but she told me to be quiet because her mother was probably sleeping. I honestly did not want to encounter the beast known as Elizabeth, so I tiptoed across the room like a cautious ballerina. Now that I think about it, Nancy and Elizabeth are a bit like Grendel and his mother. Nancy led me to her bedroom, which was great because I didn’t want to be caught on the couch if Nancy’s mother came downstairs for a glass of water.
“So are you going to sleep in the bathtub or what?” I asked Nancy.
She basically flung herself at me after that comment. Surprisingly, she wasn’t trying to choke me. I tried to scream, but Nancy threw a pillow at me. “Shh! Mom’ll ‘ear! Wait, janowhat? I wan’er tahear! I WANT HER TO KNOOOW.”
Oh great flying spaghetti monster.
She started singing a song by Phil Collins. “I WANNA KNOOOOOOW! CAN YOU SHOOOW ME?!” I felt her hands desperately grab my expensive belt.
“I think not, miss!” I spat, wishing I had a pair of white gloves and a top hat for this moment.
“But imagine the look on her face when she sees us!”
“I’d rather not imagine her face at all, to be frank.”
“Fraaaaaaank!” she whined. “Daddy! Why’d you leave us?!”
I blinked. “Have you seen your mother? I’m surprised he didn’t go gay earlier.”
“I love when you talk to me like that.” She attempted to-er, well, she was trying to do something, and to this day I’m still not exactly sure what it was, but all I know is that she invaded my personal space quite rudely.
Suddenly it all stopped. I was frozen to the floor in fear and Nancy, despite being inebriated, had somehow managed to swing her right leg around my hips. The two of us, with our hearts pounding, were staring at the silver doorknob, which turned ever so slowly...
“What’s all this noi-NICK?!” Elizabeth’s wide mouth screeched.
I winked. “How do you do?”
“Oh, you wait till I get my hands on you, you filthy raccoon!” She pounced at me with her arms outstretched, but I stepped to the left and she went crashing into a bunch of pillows.
“Why the hell do you have so many damn pillows on your bed?” I inappropriately asked Nancy, who merely shrugged and hollered something about loving me forever.
“Don’t you dare steal my daughter’s heart!” Elizabeth warned.
“She doesn’t have a heart to steal,” I snickered.
Elizabeth furiously grabbed the object closest to her, an unplugged curling iron, and headed towards me. I zoomed out of the room and stumbled down the stairs chaotically, determined to not get any metal lodged in me. She was right behind me with her poofy red hair flying about in every direction, forming a halo of hate around her face. I quickly opened the door and ran outside, over their rain-forgotten grass, not caring about its well-being. To my surprise, I spotted my Phantom outside, and my roommate was sitting in the driver’s seat, listening to a man on the radio talk about a lion that escaped from the circus. Upon seeing the crazy lady in the doorway José shouted, “JESUS CHRIST; IT’S A LION. GET IN THE CAR!”
I dove into the window headfirst, and my legs were still out of the vehicle as José sped off towards the city lights. I managed to straighten myself into an upright position when we approached a blinding red light, and José glanced at me and laughed.
“What would you do without me?” he grinned.
I shrugged and looked at my pocket watch, which now read 4:27 A.M. The birds, right on cue, started chirping and stirring in the treetops. José and I drove home and we had an eclectic but fruity breakfast.