Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Flirtatious Guy: “Where Are You From?”
Me: “Boston.” Flirtatious Guy: “I love Canadians.” Me: “We’re not in Canada.” Flirtatious Guy: “No. We’re in…” Me: “Boston.”
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For years I have confused the words “pilates” and “kegels”. This is why I looked at you funny when you suggested we run a pilates workshop at our national convention.
July 2006: He crashes a car again and again into a van. Low speeds. No injuries. Slight damage. He has no insurance. Back at the house, a kiss, an argument, his body, a slammed door.
August 2006: A vacation. A lie about his father's health. January 2007: He picks up the belongings he left behind. A kiss on the forehead. Never coming back. April 2007: An apology. His body. A war with a horrid roommate. His body, loud. October 2008: Sora calls with the same as usual story. His father and he blah blah blah fight and out of the house and what to do. I offer him a chance to stay with me, no strings, no implied relationship. He does not take it. After a couple of months of me offering over and over a place, he comes up to visit. I ask my roommates if they mind if Sora stays with us. As long as he helps pay some bills, they don't mind. Just before he moves up, I offer to do deliveries for the company I work for while the usual driver was on vacation. The usual driver never comes back from that vacation. And so, for the winter of 2009, I spend a few days a week driving a giant maroon van with a cartoon on the side. I drive blocks out of my way to avoid playgrounds and schools. I am working while he moves up. He calls to let me know there is a party going on across the street, and that I should come. "A party?" Manny says. "So there." So Manny and Jim hop in the back of my cartoony van, and we drive to the party across the street from my house. We are barely parked when someone is bouncing drunkily toward the van, befreckled of smile and hugs. And it is not Sora. "Hi!" The Slut Across The Street swoons. "Who is Sora?" Here's how it ends: Over a table mugged up for beer pong, The Slut Across The Street asks me if Sora and I are dating. We aren't. We are most specifically not dating to the point where I even said that just because he needed to live with me, didn't mean he was beholden to a relationship with me. But we are sleeping together. And he does kiss me before I leave for work. And while it wouldn't kill me if he dated someone else, it would deeply wound me if he chose this drunk, worthless slut over me. So I lie. "Yes. He's my boyfriend. Don't." Here's how it ends: Sora and I head back home together and make out. But he has left his iPod in his car, and goes out to get it. The Slut Across The Street intercepts him with his face. His fucken tongue. His bloodshot eyes. Here's how it ends: For once, Sora is honest. He tells me about the kiss, prepared for my anger. Is surprised when I say "Look, the guy's a total slutbag. You're hot. He kissed you. Are you going to start dating him?" "No. I don't even really like him." "Then we're fine." Right? Here's how it ends: I still love him. I know he spends time with The Slut Across The Street when I'm at work. I know something is happening. I don't like it, but it's not how we are supposed to end. So I try and pretend everything is fine. And it would be except there's another party across the street and no one invites me. I call Sora, and when he does not pick up, I call one of my roommates. And there is planned karaoking, but Sora doesn't want to go and The Slut Across The Street doesn't want to go, so they come to the house, and everyone else leaves. We play Mario Kart, and The Slut keeps looking at me with more desire than guilt. I am not drinking. His face is a plaster bust of plaster. Sora is prickly at both of us. It is the next day when my roommate tells me that eveyone went to karaoke because The Slut Across The Street told everyone that me, him, and Sora were going to have a threesome. Here's how it ends: An ultimatum. "Sora. Please. You don't owe me anything" but money "but not him. It's making things....difficult." My roommate is friends with The Slut Across The Street, but he doesn't like his ethics. Doesn't like the potential drama always brewing in his always beered up brain. "It needs to stop." Here's how it ends: My roommate gets him a job so he can contribute to bills. He spends his money on I don't know but not me or bills. "Adam, it needs to stop. You need to talk to him." Here's how it ends: We talk. Via Instant Messanger. I come up with an arrangement. A terrible terrible arrangement. Our relationship will be purely sexual. He can fall in love with whoever he wants, safely fuck whoever he wants, but as long as he lives with me.... "Your life." JBoB says, when I explain the arrangement to him, "is not real. Relationships like that don't happen. They don't work. They destroy everything." But it's so much worse than that. Here's how it ends: Sora comes home from work and says the arrangement is fine. But I couldn't really treat a stranger like this for sex. Certainly not him. Here's how it ends: A drifting. Sora passing out on the couch. One night he insists on playing a video game to the end. And when the credits roll he starts calling out for his mother and then blacks out. Here's how it ends: Slumped over my shoulder for the third night in a row. I carry him to a bed we share nonsexually. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this. "He can't keep doing this." My roommate says. "He just sits at home all day when he doesn't work, playing video games on my TV. He doesn't pay any bills. He just...It's not that I don't like him. He's a good kid." kid kid kid kid kid kid kid "I just don't know how much longer I can put up with him." Here's how it ends: My roommates throw a fake prom at a local bar. The Slut's favorite bar. And we all go. And we're all excruciatingly nice to each other. But it's actual niceness. We all appear to be okay. And there is dancing. And Sora is drunk, but not horribly so. And he says something funny, and I lean in and kiss him. And I say "I love you." And he says. "I know." Here's how it ends: In the living room. We are talking about whether or not we're in a relationship. I make some throwaway joke about how he moved out of our last apartment while I was in Texas to take care of his father. And he finally says it. "My father never had a heart attack." "I know. I've always known." "I just didn't love you. I don't love you." Here's how it ends. A fucken cliche. I am for the first time I can remember crying, actually crying. In the shower so no one will hear me. This is entirely my everything fault. I told him I wouldn't do this. I told him we'd be fine as just friends. Why do we keep lying to each other? Here's how it ends. A party at our house. Everyone from our house and the house across the street except the slut. A cook out. Beer pong. Promise of dinner and karaoke. When no one invites me, I invite myself. Sora follows me into the house when I go to get changed. "Adam, we shouldn't go." He says. "This is a bad idea. Let's just stay home. You and me." The Slut will be there. So my roommates don't want me there. They are afraid of drama. Which hightens the drama, because I no longer worry about Sora and The Slut, but I worry that The Slut and Sora's non-relationship is hurting my living situation, my friendship with all the people we mutually know. Here's how it ends: We go out to dinner. And when I announce I am going, several people decide not to go. It is me, Sora, one roommate, one of the guys who lives upstairs, and his girlfriend, who lives with The Slut. We are to meet The Slut for Mexican food, and then go to karaoke. The Slut is there before we are. He is smoking and not very much talking, so Sora goes gattling tongue. "Mexican food poop is the worst." kid kid kid kid kid kid kid "....poop....poop...." My roommate laughs uncomfortably. "You know, every time we end up going out you always end up talking shit. It's like you do actually know shit, but nothing else." Here's how it ends: I left my wallet in my other pants when I got changed, and I need to go back and get it. I tell everyone not to wait up. I'll be back. And I run full-intentioned back home to find my other roommate crying. "It's over." She says. "He doesn't love me." And we hug, and we talk, and we play Mario Kart, and I call Sora to tell him I won't be back. And she calls my roommate, to tell him we're not going to meet them there. And we laugh a lot. And things are okay. Here's how it ends: Things are not ok. The couple fights. Sora and The Slut flirt enough that my roommate decides the night is over, and everyone should go home. So they walk home. He arrives first. He sits down at the kitchen table and says "Everyone else is about five minutes behind me. Look. Adam. He's got to go. This was a nice drama free house before he got here and now....He's a nice" don't say it "guy" thank you "but I hate all of them right now, and I need a break. And I can't break from him if he's living in the same house with me." Which is reasonable. And he lived here first. He invited me into this apartment. "Okay." "It doesn't have to be now. Or tomorrow. Or in a week. Just...he needs to start working on a plan out of here." And my roommate takes out a knife and stabs back and forth between his splayed out fingers. "I'm sorry." "No." I say. "It's okay." "We'll all be single!" My just dumped roommate says. And we laugh. And we laugh our way through a full hour with no Sora and no couple and no Slut. After two hours, the others go to bed. After three, I am looking out the window, and watching The Slut's house. The guy upstairs and The Slut's roommate, walk across the street and upstairs to his apartment. "Was Sora with you?" I ask. "Ummmmm." Which is worse than a yes. Here's how it ends: Hour four I pack his belongings under the guise of cleaning the room. I am not kicking him out, I'm just....organizing. "Hi." says Sora. He is all smiles and drink. "You're cleaning your room!" There is no y in our. "That's...." and the smile fades."that's a box full of my stuff." Here's how it ends: He won't stay. Not another night. Not another minute. "It's embarrassing." He says. "But I get it. I definitely get it." And he starts carrying boxes out to his car. "Don't leave." please don't leave please don't leave "I am packing all our stuff while I clean." "You want me to go." No. "Eventually. But not tonight." "We didn't even do anything." "It's not...look. My roommate got you a job, hoping you'd contribute money to the house, and you haven't paid us a cent. You're always drunk." He laughs. "What's so funny?" I ask. Also laughing. Though I don't know why. "The last time we lived together it was all lies. I lied about my feelings, about my father, about everything. And this time...I like you. I don't love you, but I really like you, so I tried to be honest. But it's the same thing. We just don't...we just don't." Here's how it ends: We are standing apart on the porch. We are both smiling. "Promise me something." "Maybe." "When you write about this. Let it end with the word pathetic. Because that's what we are. That's what I am. Pathetic." "No. No you're not. And we're not. I'm sorry it's over." It's actually, I'm pretty sure over. "But it's not...I'm not sorry we met. I wouldn't give up knowing you. I l...I'm glad for the fun times." "Pathetic." He says. But I mean it. I would erase Ryan if I could. I never liked Elvis. David I could go either way with. I wouldn't rid my world of Ben, but I don't even understand how I used to be attracted to him. Everyone inbetween felt like filler. But Sora. I don't think I will ever be able to say I loved Sora. Because I don't think I will ever be out of love with him. I don't always like him very much. I kind of hate what the lies put us through, but you can't really have hate without love. An enormous weight of fucken love. Even if what we had wasn't noble, the fact that we kept trying was. I don't think that or him was a mistake. I will move on. I will find someone else. I will be happy. And I hope he will be too. And I think that's enough. I think we were worth it. Jim Silverman: “So, my roommate and I are going out for coffee to look at hipster chicks.”
Adam: “Where?” Jim: “Diesel Cafe.” Adam: “You know that’s a lesbian cafe, right?” Jim: “No, it isn’t.” Adam: “Yes, it is.” Jim: “No it isn’t. You’re fucking with me.” Me: “It’s called DIESEL cafe. Think about that. What words do you associate with Diesel?” Jim: “No it isn’t. It’s just a coffeehouse with a lot of really cute girls.” Me: “…who wear flannel, have short hair, and have cool framed glasses?” Jim: “No.” Me: “Type “Lesbian Coffee Boston” into your phone and tell me what the first ten results are.” Jim: “That makes so much sense. Oh, God, you’re going to tell everyone, aren’t you?” ”I’ve always had a thing for Thumbelina. You know what I’m talking about?”
NO. NO I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. When one of my ex-roommates was four years old, his parents held a party with all their friends from work. It was an Adult party (not to be confused with an ADULT party), and as such, it was no place for a four year old. And, besides, it was past his bedtime.
Not one to be denied a party, the sage four year old sat down on his bed, and tried to think of a way to go to downstairs and mingle, without being caught, and sent back to bed. He could tie a red blanket around his neck, and wear his Superman pajamas and go downstairs, but Superman was a do-gooder boy scout, who, when asked to go upstairs and go to bed, would be forced to comply. He had once gone downstairs naked, imagining himself invisible, and that had made his parents very cross. What, then? He dug through his closet, and there he found The Answer To His Problems. A Darth Vader mask. Who would dare send Darth Vader off to bed at nine PM? Maybe Emperor Palpatine, but that's about it (these being the days before anyone knew of whiny emo Anakin). This is how there came to be The Greatest Party Ever, in which a bunch of suited up water cooler types, sat around the couches, and leaned in doorways, listening to a tiny Lord Vader regale them with stories about dinosaurs, and computer games, and other things that strikes Tiny Vader's fancy. Tiny Vader is, at no point, sent upstairs by the little boy's parents, but eventually falls asleep on the chair, and wakes up the next morning clutching the Vader mask like a teddy bear. This has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you, except that when Jim said, "So I've been telling a story about you recently that involves Darth Vader, and I thought you should know." This was the only story I could think of. "Vader?" I asked him. "Yea. And, the thing is, I've told a lot of people. And, I figure the story is probably going to get back to you soon. And, so I should probably tell you." Three sentences in a row that star with And usually spells doom. Particularly when there are three syllables between the a and the n. Doom. "Remember last week, when I was over your house?" I did. "And, you know how I had you watching videos on Youtube for a while?" I did. "And, remember how I got up and had to go to the bathroom?" Well, this I didn't remember, as I don't make it a habit to record my house guests' potty habits. "Do you know why?" I did not. "Well, you have all these cool comic book stuf in your house. The trades, the Munnys, and everything. And, so I was looking around, and I saw your Darth Vader action figure." I do not have a Darth Vader action figure. "And, I thought, that looks cool. And so I went to pick it up, and it was not a Darth Vader action figure." My mind races. What on Earth do I have in my house that looks like, but is not, a Darth Vader action figure? "It was a dildo." It was not. "I don't have a dildo in my house. Darth Vader-like, or otherwise." "You don't? It was by your bed, in one of the cubby holes. And it was covered in...something gross." Something...? "Oh! It's a bottle of lube." "Ew." "What do you mean, ew?" "I mean, I touched something that you stick in a guy's ass." What? "No you didn't. You don't stick a bottle of lube in a guy's ass. though, I suppose you could. You flip the top, dispense the lube on your fingers, and then stick your fingers in the guy's ass. The bottle never gets any play." "Oh. Well, that's not how I've been telling the story." Which is why, at two in the morning, at IHoP, I tell an assortment of friends, including Ben, that Jim has still not touched anything I've ever inserted into a man's ass, except my hand, which I wave in his face. But I'd washed it plenty of times between those two events. Wednesdays are the busiest days of the week for me. Thursdays through Tuesdays, I tend to work alone in the various comic book stores throughout Boston & the suburbs. I sell comics, recommend titles, check my e-mail, and obsessively clean and rearrange the stores. But Wednesdays are New Release days, as well as being the night I wait tables at the poetry venue in town. So I get up three hours earlier than usual, arrive at the stores around nineish, schlepp comics until around 7, hop on a bus, and then wait tables from 7:30 until midnight.
Most of these Wednesdays are busy, but not especially noteworthy. Last Wednesday was different. Let's forget, for the moment, that there were policemen dressed in riot gear, brandishing semi-automatic weapons across the street from our store (the Israeli Foreign Minister, Tzipi Livni, was speaking at Harvard). We won't dwell on the two hour line to get free burritos at the new burrito place that opened up down the street. We will neglect to even let the corner of our eyes rest on the image of semi-automatic armed guards cutting their way through the free burrito line to get their eat on. I ignored all of this. I was hungry. And I don't like burritos. So, during one of the few calm moments in the store, I ran out the front door, skipped down the concrete steps (not even catching the attention of the policemen or the burritoers), and entered the nearby Dunkin Donuts. On Wednesday, their flatbread sandwiches are ninety-nine cents. They're filling and taste as delicious as something that costs less than a buck usually tastes. I gave the lady behind the counter my change, and walked over to the pickup line. Behind me, another type of pickup was taking place. A not very attractive thirty something year old guy, the kind you see and immediately think he was a quiet sort of guy...none of his neighbors suspected he had that many bodies hidden in the basement, was leaning forward and making googley eyes at a field-hockey-attractive girl in her early to mid-twenties. They were clearly on a first date. In Dunkin Donuts. "How liberal are you?" was the first thing I heard him ask. I have no idea what led up to this tantalizing question. "I'm, uh, pretty open minded I guess. Why?" She did not sound very open minded. "I have guns." Silence. "Lots of guns." More silence. "And the things is, ok, so, a few months ago, one of my guns went missing. And I got a call last week that it turned up in San Francisco. Someone used it to kill a cop." Somewhere a cricket whistled at a tumbleweed that floated out of a doppler effected truck. "So, I've got to go San Francisco to pick up my gun." Silence. "I'm not a suspect or anything." "Oh." She said. "Well, that's good." "I mean, I only got into guns because of my ex-girlfriend, which reminds me, do you do anal?" I lost it. Surely this was some sort of Improv scene for my benefit. No one else seemed to appreciate the pure hilarity taking place in the home of the Coolatta. I was laughing so hard, I didn't hear her reply. When I stopped convulsing, they were both quiet. But not as uncomfortably quiet as they had been. They seemed to just be enjoying their coffee and munchkins. She looked out the window, probably imagining running screaming through the glass to somewhere, anywhere more sane and comfortable. While he stared off into space, imagining tossing the glazed munchkins into the air, and shooting them with the same gun he used to kill that cop in San Francisco. All while doing this girl in the ass. I like to think one of the officers in line for coffee overheard their conversation, placed his quarters on the counter and asked to see Mr. Cop Killer's ID, all the while clutching his semi-automatic burrito in his hands, dreaming of his impending promotion. I went to the grocery store this afternoon to fill up my refrigerator with delicious goodness. The grocery store was chock full of annoying people. At one point, two early twenty-something Chinese women (I'm still being haunted by The Chinese...not Chinese Americans...Chinese) boxed me into an aisle with their carts, and then went into another aisle. When I moved one of their carriages to get by, the woman came back and yelled at me. What she yelled at me, I'm unsure, as I still don't speak Mandarin or Cantonese or Wu or anything that resembles any of these languages.
All the checkout lanes had lines of two or three people, and none of them looked ghastly, but one of them just had one besweatpantsed old lady whose groceries were just about done being scanned. Perfect. And the cashier and bagboy were reasonably attractive, and old enough to shave, drink, and probably rent a car. Perfecter. The cashier announced the lady's total $125.48. "Ok, then." The lady said, and opened her purse. In the movie version of my life, this is when you hear the sound of wind blowing; Not hurricane force, just the steady sound of troublesome air. A deep bell tolls in the distance. Maybe the upper and lower octaves on an organ start to play discordantly. The woman pulled out $150 in five dollar gift certificates. That's right, thirty gift certificates, each worth five dollars. Each one needing to have their number typed in to the computer, individually, and then needing to go through the printer, (and, of course, they are too thin to go through the printer smoothly) individually, to be voided. After the second GC went through, the woman apologized, and then went outside for ten minutes. FOR TEN MINUTES. I'd be more outraged had the poor cashier been able to finish during those ten minutes, but he wasn't, as it takes roughly a thirty seconds to get each GC inputted and voided. And there were thirty of them. About three minutes after the lady disappeared, the two Chinese women slammed their cart into mine. "It's going to be a long time." I said. "The woman in front of me paid with gift certificates." They eyed me warily. "Take check?" I replied, "Hippo." while nodding. They nodded back. I suspected they might. "I'm so sorry." The cashier said. "No one has ever done this to me before." "It's my fault. I have terrible luck, and it follows me around and infects other people's lives." He Spock-eyed me. "If it follows you around, how come she's in line in front of you?" "Touche," I looked for his nametag, "Duke." And then I snorted. Beneath his nametag was a button, which read I'm the slayer, ask me how. "Buffy fan, I take it?" He smiled awesomely. That's when one of the bitches behind me smacked my cart with her purse a few times. "Take check? Take check?" Duke and I looked at her dubiously. "Apparently that's the only phrase she knows." I said. "It certainly says all you need to know about her." Then I turned to her and said "Hippo, rutabaga, stop smacking my cart." And Duke scanned, and the bagboy bagged, and the old besweatpantsed woman did whatever it was she was doing out of our sight (probably laughing maniacally), and the bitch behind me went from smacking the carriage with her purse to opening and closing the top portion of my cart in a way that expressed her outrage. "You don't happen to know the Cantonese phrase for The next time you touch my cart, I'm going to smack you in the face with this box of frozen pirogies, do you?" He smiled. "No, I don't even know how to say impatient cunt." And then his face turned adorably red. "I'm sorry. That was...incredibly uncalled for." "Are you kidding? I'm tempted to give you my phone number now." Duke turned redder. "Take check!" Impatient Cunt yelled, slammed the side of my cart, and started taking her things off the conveyor belt. "Yea, yea, yea. You take a check." Of course, as soon as they left for another lane, Duke got done scanning the gift certificates. The old lady apologized (snickering under her breath, I'm sure), and took her receipt and change. And Duke scanned, and the bagboy bagged, and I thought to myself I could never fuck someone who's got the same name as my next-door-neighbors' dog. But I could grab pizza with him or something. A pesto pizza and a glass of rootbeer. I must be hungry. Good thing I'm buying groceries. Right, groceries. I'm in a grocery store. I smiled at Duke, who told me how much I owed him. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I have to pay you in nickels." His eyes narrowed, menacingly. I smiled, smartassedly, as I pulled the bills out of my wallet. "So." He said. "About that phone number." I don't know how my phone got lost under my suitcase. It's as though I was being called away. This is why I didn't get your message. That, and you didn't leave me a message.
Stupid amorphous you. It's too morning for consciousness. And I am thirsty for something my house can't satiate, so I head down to the pharmacy. Five AM and there's a line full of driftwood. The Pakistani woman with the carriage filled with six packs of soda bottles, the dancing nic fixer who is obviously broken and handfilled with Pringles cans, the probably heroin addict with the two bottles of Cookies & Cream milkshakes. I don't know how these people are my brethren. I grab a bottle of juice from the cooler, and a prepaid phone card and get in line. There are three registers. One is working fine, a Pakistani cashier waits on the Pakistani customer who wants a million different coupons, a rain check, and more soda. The elderly woman working the next register is on the verge of tears because the receipt paper is jammed and she can't fix it and the broken nic fixer is chock full of nail biting and "Are you gonna fucken help me here or what?". And the third register is open. There's a third cashier who has spent at least three minutes trying to open a garbage bag. She is not helping anyone. And the phone is ringing. No one is answering the phone. "Seriously," ring "are you gonna fucken help me?" And the probably heroin addict is talking to himself. I hear only the words fucker, late, bitch, and shampoo. I just want to pay for my drink and card with a rain check. I'm tired and need a sleep fix, ring. But I'm not broken. See, things are okay. It's too morning, sure, but last night I met a probably boyfriend who makes my ears ring. "This is bullshit. Why won't anyone" ring "help me?" Because you're a bitch. It's late. You're a fucker. I don't know how shampoo fits into this, you'll have to ask the heroin addict. Ring. The Pakistani cashier rings up the Pakistani woman, then asks the elderly cashier to write out the customer's rain checks while she tries to "are you gonna fucken help me or" ring "what?" fix the receipt paper. The probably heroin addict leaves his milkshake on the floor and walks outside. "This is" ring "bullshit." The nic fixer has bitten all her nails off. A man walks in and asks her what's, ring, taking so long. She points at the cashiers. "No one will" ring "fucken help me." The third cashier is still trying to open the, ring, trash bag. "ENOUGH!" And nic fixer throws her Pringles can at the man who just walked in and leaves. This is, ring, naturally when the cashier fixes the receipt paper and smiles at me. "I believe you were next." And she's right. On my way home, I pass the probably heroin addict. I am wearing headphones, but not actually listening to any music, having already determined my house is three "Since You've Been Gone"s from the pharmacy. And I don't need music, I'm, ring, next. "Fuckers never answered the phone." The addict says, and I think he's probably, ring, right. "I know you can hear me. Think I don't know you're not listening to" ring "fucken music." I'm troubled by how well insane people and addicts know me. Like the guy in Harvard Square who stopped me on my way to being stood up by a date, who said "Don't cross Jennifer Love Hewitt, she's not worth it, and the bitch will fucken kill you." I have no, ring, plans to cross JLH, but I think he was just talking about Love, not Jennifer, not Hewitt. Don't cross love or that bitch will, ring, kill you. And he's, ring, right. And I'm back home and typing this, ring, entry. My head is still ringing from the first sex I've had in a while that didn't result in a bad_sex entry. I don't know how to answer it, and amorphous you refuse to leave a message. I'm troubled by my complete inability to type the word cashier properly on the first try. My sleep is broken. My dreams are driftwood. I am on the verge of ring. Call me. I promise I'll answer in the morning. I've been spending a great deal of time at my grandmother's house the last few weeks.As a result, I keep missing garbage day. There are about four full trash bags on my back porch. I made it a point to be home Thursday night, so I could put said trash bags out. I failed to remember. But I did wake up early Friday, to the sound of what, I assumed, was the garbage truck, so I hopped out of bed and on to the arm of the couch, in order to look out the window and see if I had time to get the garbage out. Before I got a clear look, my right leg slid down the arm of the couch, and inbetween the couch's frame and the arm. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
I tried to pull my leg out of the couch, but my ankle was slightly too large. Ow. Shit. Ow. I pulled and pulled and ow. I started seriously considering dialing 911. The problem being, my cell phone was on the other side of the room, and I was naked. Even if I dragged the couch behind me to the other side of the room, and reached my cell phone and my laundry, there was no way I could get any pants or shorts or boxers or anything around my right foot, what with it being inside the fucken ow couch. I reached into the dirty laundry pile, threw on a sweatshirt, and wrapped a blanket around my waist. Then, I called Divine's name until she woke up. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" She called. "I need a knife or something. I'm stuck in the couch." "What?" I explained myself. She brought a knife. I cut into the arm of the couch and removed all the cushions. My ankle was stuck between a wooden slat in the arm, and a very pokey metal frame. Whenever I tried to pull my leg up or down, the metal frame would dig into the right side of my ankle, and the wood would scrape against the left side. Ow. Fuck. Ow. "Should I call 911?" She asked. I had now been standing on one foot for about ten minutes, with a blanket wrapped around my waist, and a sweatshirt on. If the paramedics showed up, I would, clearly, die of shame. "Yes. I think you should call 911." "I'm going to use your phone." She said. "I don't want to waste my minutes." I. Hate. Her. Ten minutes later, the paramedics showed up. My leg was still in the couch. I said "Just wanted to make sure you had a story to tell when you got home tonight." "This is nothing." The taller woman said, "The last guy--" The other paramedic interrupted. "Don't tell him. Then he's going to think we're going to tell the next person about him." "You aren't?" I asked. After taking a look at my leg, the inside of the couch, and the rest of my room, the taller paramedic decided she'd use some of the scrap wood left over from my busted doorframe and wedge it between the arm and the frame to get my leg loose. Unfortunately, every time she pried the wood in, the frame dug further into my, ow, ankle. "I don't know what else we can try." She said. So they called the fire department. Fifteen minutes later, four firefighters enter my bedroom. My leg had been in the couch for about forty-five minutes. I was still just wearing the blanket, the sweatshirt, and the couch. And I was still standing on one foot. Three of the four firefighters were of normal to above average intelligence. One of them had the intellectual capacity of a cactus with blunt head trauma. He was the one in charge. Every time he wanted to look at the situation, he'd lean his full weight against the bottom of the couch, squeezing my, ow, ankle even tighter into the couch cunt. "Please." I said. "Please don't lean on the couch that way. Could you lean on the arm, maybe?" The paramedics move all the non-couch furniture, and my laundry, and my books to the other side of the room. The asshole firefighter, again, leaned on the, ow, couch. "The frame is metal." He said. Fucken genius. "If we tried to cut through it, it'd spark like shit." I grimace as he, ow, leaned down again. "Good thing the fire department is here, then, huh?" "I guess we could saw through the wooden beam in the arm, but it's probably going to destroy the couch." "I think the couch has it coming." I said. So a firefighter went out to the truck, which must have been parked in Saskatchewan, given how long it took him to retrieve the battery powered saw. The battery powered saw which hadn't been charged. I had been stuck in the couch for over an hour. The saw didn't work. Fucken Genius asked me "Do you have any electrical outlets?" "No." I said. "I'm Amish. The TV and the computer run on hand cranks." The taller paramedic and the other firefighters chuckled. Fucken Genius leaned on the, ow, couch. Asshole. So another firefighter retrieved an electric saw, plugged it in, and sawed a beam in the arm of the couch. My leg popped right out. No bruise. No swelling. "We're going to have to take you to the hospital to check it out." The not as tall paramedic said, as the firefighters departed. "No." I said. "I'm okay." And I hopped up and down on the leg that had been caught in the couch. I really was okay. So I signed a waiver explaining that I was stupid to not go to the hospital, but then again, I'd gotten my leg caught in a couch, so I was clearly not qualified for MENSA anyway. Also, I missed the garbage truck. |
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