Don't you know I'm looocoooooo?
[This started as a little story about the college years. Then it got away from me. Then it got further away from me. Now it is insanely long. I think it makes me look bad, but I am too tired to go back and find out for sure. I also refuse to proof it. You’ve been warned.]
Last night I heard THAT Cypress Hill song and it reminded me of road trip in college. We went to visit our buddy that was going to a school a couple of hours away from ours. It was a fun weekend. And in the middle of one of the nights, we put that Cypress Hill song on repeat and let it play until his roomie threatened bodily harm.
But, that is not the story that I am going to tell you today.
Though this one involves the same friend, same school and staying in the same house.
Let’s call this friend “Jimmy.”
Any road trip, party, bar outing, or church social involving Jimmy had the potential to land everyone in jail and/or end in complete hilarity.
One night, while my friends and I were “studying” in our university apartment, the phone rang. I answered.
“Do you accept a collect call from “JIMMY!!!!! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!?”
Jimmy immediately launched into a story that involved some guys jumping out of a car and throwing him into a snowbank, where he proceeded to make snow angels and laugh until they left.
Then the story backtracked to the point where he had drank two bottles (boxes?) of wine and walked down the street kicking the taillights out of every car that he saw.
Eventually he got to his point.
“You boys should come down this weekend!!!”
Apparently, it was one of the thirty-two big party weekends at his school that year.
We agreed to go visit.
And THAT is the story I am going to tell today.
It was a warm summers evening, on a train bound for nowhere. I met up with the ga–
Wait. That’s not right.
It was a nut-shrinkingly cold winters evening.
We dropped our belongings at Jimmy’s house and hit the campus pub.
It was a fairly standard night out.
At some point during the evening, a girl I went to high school with asked me to walk her back to her dorm. She was pretty much soused. I was fairly bored, and she was in no shape to go anywhere alone, so I agreed.
She went to tell her friend, and the friend looked horrified. It didn’t take a Doctor of Nightlifeology to know that the friend was the homely cranky sober friend of the group. (And oddly enough, Cranky was also kind of a trollop too. That rarely happens.)
So, Cranky-Trampy gave me a snotty look. To which I replied with a “Dude, if I wanted Tipsy I would have had her years ago” half-smirk.
She relented, mostly because she was a dirty hooker and had work to do.
So, I walked drunky home to her dorm. It only took a couple of minutes. She was telling me about her cheating boyfriend. I was replying with such useful gems as “Yeah, love is a kick in the nuts.” I left her in the care of the chick working the front desk and I bailed.
When I returned to the pub, the friend gave me the stink eye. I gave her the “Fuck you, Slutty McWhoreburger” glare and went to find my buddies.
But, they were not there.
None of ’em.
This wasn’t like war, where you never leave a man behind. It wasn’t a big deal.
I actually met up with another friend from high school and some dude that he knew. I asked what they were up to. The Dude said that he was “Just feeling girls up.” I was confused by this reply. I looked at my friend, and he sheepishly nodded. Then the dude demonstrated by pretending to stumble and then using my chest to help regain his balance.
I said, “That made me uncomfortable” and bid them adieu.
I ended up talking to some chick that was convinced she knew me from somewhere. I had never seen her in my life. When she asked if I had ever been on TV, I replied, “Yes.” Mostly because I thought that it would amuse me.
It totally did.
A little while later, my friend and “David Cop a Feel,” found me and told me that they were leaving. They offered to drive me out to Jimmy’s place. I gladly accepted.
We got to Casa de Jimmy, which was lit-up. I assumed everyone was there and thanked the dudes for the drive and hopped out. When I got to the door, it was locked. I knocked on the door, but there wasn’t a sound from inside.
I turned to wave the guys down, but they were already peeling out of the driveway. Squealing tires on the half-icy street masked my yelling.
So, I flipped up my collar and started walking.
Can I just say how friggin’ how cold it was?
I had only been walking for a few minutes — yet was already frozen — when a car came tearing out of a side street and slammed on it’s breaks. A guy rolled down his window and offered me a drive. The whole thing had an aura of sketchy about it, so I said, “No thanks, man.”
But, he climbed almost completely out of the window and said, “Anywhere you want to go!”
I said, “I am just walking to the pay phone at the store up the street. I’m good.”
THEN he put the car in park, hopped out and ran towards me, his eyes were jumping out of his head, saying, “Come on buddy, let me give you a drive.”
I turned and growled, “Will you FUCK OFF!?!”
He stopped and quickly retreated to his car.
[It is so much easier to be macho when you are a good foot taller than a dude.]
He left and I walked the rest of the way to the store. It was closed. The pay phone was working, so I called a cab. I asked the person on the phone how long it would be. There was a good ten seconds of silence. Followed by an “Uhm… soon.”
This didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.
So, I started walking back in towards town. I’m not sure exactly how long I walked before the cab arrived. But, if I had to ballpark it, I’d say…. FOREVER!!!!!
I was so relieved to finally get in the cab. My chat with cabbie went a little something like this.
Frozen Peter: Sir, is there any chance that you can crank the heat?
Frozen Peter: Fair enough.
Cabbie: Where to?
Frozen Peter: Can we just drive for a bit?
Frozen Peter: I am probably not going to give you a big tip.
Cabbie took a long drag on his cigarette.
Frozen Peter: Fine, take me to [let’s call it “Giggles.”]
[Why am I changing the name of a bar??]
I arrived at Giggles and quickly ran into the place to try to warm up.
I made my way towards the dance floor, hoping to find my friends. Which, admittedly, seemed likely since there were two bars in the town.
But, there was no sign of any of them.
So, I just stood there. Enjoying heat like I have never done before.
Then a girl walks up to me. She smiles and says, “Would you like to dance?”
Now, I’m not sure if I said or just thought, “Hey, you’re little and cute.”
Since the night was winding down, the DJ was playing a slow song. The idea of body heat sounded delightful, so I said, “Sure.”
We danced a song or two. I don’t remember saying a word. I was just trying to suck every bit of heat out of her that I could.
The lights came on and everyo
ne started leaving.
She looked at me and asked, “Do you want to get out of here?”
My first thought was, “I’m not looking forward to going out in the cold again–” But, then I realized that she meant with her. Did I mention that I was battling hypothermia?
I said, “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
SUCH a smooth talker.
She went to talk to her friend. They were giggling about something. That’s when I noticed Jimmy over by the bar. I walked over to him.
Jimmy: Pete! Whoooooooooooooooo!
Peter: Where are the boys?
Jimmy: Fuck knows.
Peter: So, I’m going to be getting out of here. (I nodded over my shoulder at the chick.) Do you have… anything on you?
Jimmy: What? Like protection?
Peter: Just like that.
Jimmy looked over my shoulder and smiled.
Jimmy: I know that girl. She’s in my [something or other] class. She’s cute!
Peter: That’s great. So, do you have anything?
Jimmy: Oh, don’t worry about. I know her. She’s a nice girl.
Peter: What was that?
Jimmy: She’s a nice girl. You’re good.
Now, since Jimmy was studying science, and I was only studying business, I had no idea that nice girls couldn’t get pregnant.
I realized that Jimmy wasn’t going to be much good to me. I told him I’d see him later. He Whoooooo!’d.
I guess it’s time that I come clean about another part of the story. I was holding off as long as I could. But, at this point I realized that I couldn’t remember her name. Which is strange for me, since I have a freakish memory. I still remember the phone numbers of girls I dated in high school. She told me her name when we were dancing, but it left my mind quickly.
I am reasonably sure that it was either Juanita or Yolanda.
Either way, Yonita said that we should grab a cab. I agreed.
[Holy crap. I should have made this a two-parter.]
As we were getting into the cab, a group of complete outlaws were climbing in the door on the other side. Now, being from Cape Breton, I can spot me an outlaw. So, I said, “We’ll get the next one.”
The outlaws would hear no such thing and demanded that we all share it. I figured that if the universe was conspiring to get me beaten and my wallet stolen this night, who was I to fight it. I climbed in and Juanlonda jumped on my lap.
It’s funny how a warm cab and a cute girl on your lap makes the very real threat of getting mugged fade away. And the outlaws took a liking to me. The one female outlaw said, “You’re a funny fucker.” And the guy outlaw closest to me had his arm around me for most of the trip. I don’t think that outlaw #3 spoke.
The cab dropped them off first. We were at some trailer park that I had no idea existed in this town. I insisted on paying for the cab. The outlaws loved that and it earned me some hugs. I don’t think that outlaw #3 hugged.
So, the cabbie asked Juanlonita where to take us. I didn’t pay attention to her reply — again, girl on my lap.
We didn’t drive very long before we pulled up in front of a motel. Without thinking, I said, “Yeah… I’m not paying for this.”
As soon as it came out, I wondered if she’d find it funny. She did.
I was as surprised as you.
She explained that she lived there. In the motel. I asked, “Like Dylan on Beverly Hills 90210?”
She stared at me blankly for a few seconds and then opened her door. I paid the cabbie and followed her.
Her room looked like… well, a motel room with college books spread around. I don’t know. This isn’t “Trading Spaces,” people.
So, we start doing whatever 19 year olds do.
Suddenly she said, “I never do this.”
I replied, “Oh yeah? How many friggin’ buttons does one shirt need?”
*kiss kiss fondle fondle whatever*
A few moments later, she said, “I’ve never picked a guy up in a bar and taken him home before.”
I said, “Yeah, me neither.”
*clothes flying a bit*
A little while later…
“I am not this kind of girl. I’m really not.” And she seemed geniunely upset.
At this point I look at her. I think for a moment.
I am not the smoothest guy in the world, but I am fairly confident that I could charm this train back onto the tracks.
But, then I decided that I just didn’t want to.
1) I’m poop tired.
B) She seemed to be going through some deep internal debate. Questioning her belief system and whatnot. I didn’t want to be the one to shake her to her very core, you know, especially since I couldn’t remember her name.
(I suspected that she had just came out of a long-term relationship and was trying to figure things out.)
So, I said, “You know what? It’s cool. But, you should skootch over a little. We are having a slumber party.”
She seemed confused, but moved over.
There was no way I was venturing back out into the cold.
I got under the covers.
“Would you mind if I shut off the lamp?” I asked.
“No… that would be fine.”
I shut off the lamp, got comfy and fell asleep. And it was the sleep of the year.
I figured that while she might be crazy, she wasn’t dangerously crazy. Besides, if I woke up tied to the bed and covered in sheep’s blood, it would probably feel like progress at that point.
So, the next morning I woke up — refreshed. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and ventured out into the morning sun.
I made my way to the front desk in the lobby and got dude to call a cab for me. He smiled as if recognizing a walk of shame. Except there was no shame. It was more of a strut of moderate indifference, I suppose.
Cab came and took me back to Jimmy’s.
I opened the door, walked in and came face to face with a stunning brunette.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.
I said, “I’m [let’s go with Peter, since it’s my name and shit.]”
She replied, “Oh… you’re the one that scooped the chick at the bar.”
“I guess so.”
“Nice work!” the delicate flower said as she punched me in the shoulder.
[I found out later that day that she was openly bisexual, which, to a group of college guys, did nothing to hurt her word-class hotness.]
I flopped on a couch next to where Jimmy was sitting on the floor — wrapped in a blanket and having already commenced drinking for the day at 9 am. In what could best be described as a stage whisper, he asked me to recap the night. I did. He laughed through his shakes right up until the end. Then he got mad.
“You NEVER turn down a lay.”
I asked what had happened that night with them. And, as luck would have it, they had a fun story as well.
Apparently some dude had ended up there with a chick that wasn’t his girlfriend. And the missing girlfriend was a good friend of the hot bisexual. So, she was going to put a beatin’ on dude. Though I’m not sure if this was before or after dude shit in a bed.
Yes, you read that right.
And I don’t mean that he shit his pants and it got on the bed.
He shit. Directly. On the bed.
Apparently it went down when he was in the bedroom with girl that wasn’t his girlfriend.
Now, I don’t know every type of foreplay, but if shitting on the bed is requested as part of it, I am thinking that girl just isn’t for me.
I’ve been looking for a way to wrap this thing up… for a thousand words or so. I think I’ll go with this lesson I learned that night:
Just because you were the only one of your group to leave the bar with an attractive woman, doesn’t mean that you had the best night. Sometimes that decision will mean that you’ll miss out on hanging with a violently hot bisexual chick and that you also won’t get to show up months later in a series of photos starring your friends in various poses around a pile of shit in a bed.
I hope you all learned a little something here.