"Hey, BP, can you come pick me up," says a tired and strained voice on the other line as the sun rises. Getting a mental grip on the nauseatingly early hour on the clock face, I grumble out, "Ugh... OK, sure, BigO, where are you at?"
"I'm at 19th Ave and Grant." Doing my best to bolt up, I quickly roll over and say, "What are you doing over there?! That's the ghetto warehouse district! I didn't leave you out that way last night, did I?"
"Um... yeah... you kind of did... but that's ok, I have a really funny story to tell you when you get here. How long do you think it'll take?" I focus on the clock again and stifle out, "Um... give me 3 minutes to throw on my clothes and then 18 to drive there." The brightening voice responds, "Ok, cool. I'm at the Circle K on the north-west corner."
Arriving at a rusty, dusty gas station, I pick up BigO from the curb. "Ok, so start telli- OH MY GOD! What happened to your face?!" Sparks of laughter erupt from my morning-breath mouth.
Big-O laughs as he pulls a dried tissue from his nostril. His spiky head and Ambercrombie clad torso turn toward me, "haha, I know, right? I'm so hungry, let's go get something to eat, and I'll tell you on the way, but it was a crazy night, BP." We head off toward Palatte, and he continues, "Ok, so last night, after you dropped me off at Flex, I wandered around inside for a little bit and then found this totally hot guy, and we go back to my room."
Flex is one of two resident "alternative gyms" here in Phoenix, the other being Chute. I don't think either would be described as athletic Olympic arenas, but rather... entertainingly lubed-up adult male jungle gyms. As they say, 'different folks, different strokes', right?
Big-O continues, "Yea, so we're there in my room, and the guy's on top of me, right? He leans back to take off his shirt and his head bumps a black fan, which starts a tragic series of events." Looking at his nose, I laugh and tell him I'm all ears. "So his head hits the fan, and this nut falls off, the screw pops out, the fan gets unhooked, and swings toward my alcohol-dazed face. All I could do was think to myself, 'oh, this is going to hurt.'"
In a scene somewhat reminiscent of the movie, Titanic, where the ice burg hits the nose of the ship, the black fan deftly approaches at BigO's nose and lands dead on. *POP* Blood starts gushing everywhere, and the mysterious hot man loses interest in the now circumvented sexual tryst. BigO's face lights up as he explains, "'Ummmm... I think I should go now', the hot guy said, and he struggled with his shirt and stumbled out the door. So I'm left there with blood gushing everywhere, still trying to dodge the Rocky Balboa fan, while looking for some Kleenex, and then my left eye contact pops out and races to the dirty floor."
"HAHAHA, oh my god! That's funny! The funniest stuff happens to your nose. Wasn't it broken before or something?"
"Yes, yes it was, when I was thrown out of a car by my sister when I was little. But anyway, I drop to my hands and knees and start looking for my lens..."
"Are you sure you wanted to find it?"
"You know, BP, that's EXACTLY what I thought, and figured it wouldn't be good to put it back in my eye... especially in a place like that. So I decided to use my shirt to stop the bleeding, and then I passed out and here I am now." Big-O starts laughing and his nose starts bleeding again. Laughing, I hand him a handkerchief and say, "Ok, Cyrano, calm down and get your appendages under control."
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Flight Path
I've only had to run to catch a plane twice in my life. The first time happened two years ago when I flew to San Francisco on a knee-jerk weekend caper with a moderately disturbed, slightly unshaven, bi-polar, bear of a real-estate agent, some dental floss, one torn contact lens, and a portable computer. The second time was in 2006, after I'd finished making a mad dash across the urbanized concrete schoolyards of Chicago's western suburbs in a black Buick Lucerne. Had I been in my tank of a car, TastyCakes, I would have gone though the school buildings themselves while sputtering Algebra equations at school children dodging my tires. Imagine Cruella de Vil, only eons younger, and aptly named Butterfingers Coupe De Ville.
But... I digress from the real story at hand. It's late Saturday night; there's a group of us sitting in one of four seance dinner rooms at the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix. Perusing the menu, I suggest M sprawl out and spin atop the Lazy Suzanne to be fed stir fry tidbits by our dinner companions via chopstick insemination. To my demise, that doesn't occur, but we all laugh and order.
Sitting across the table is the aggravatingly punctual, undeniably flaky, yet smolderingly sexy, and bewitchingly gorgeous Y, with her lively fiancee, Mr G. "So, R-Baby, you're flying back to Montreal tonight? Is it a direct flight," Mr G asks S's husband, R-Baby. Responding in a very French-Canadian accent, R-baby says, "No, actually. I have a stop-over in Chicago, and then my flight to Montreal in the morning."
Looking up from his yellow curry beef tips swimming in broth, Mr G's cheeks queerly light up in a flash of memory. "Oh, I thought you had a direct flight. I remember one time I was on a flight back from Asia, that connected in LA." The table turns toward Mr G as he continues, "We got in a little bit late, so I was running and running and running as fast as I could." Interrupting his train of thought, M playfully says, "Could anyone catch you, Gingerbread man?" Y slyly looks over her wine glass toward M, who then curdles into her chair.
Not hearing her valid question, Mr G gleefully goes on, "Yes, so I arrive at the gate with messy hair, clothes hanging out of my bag, one shoe untied, and grasping for dear life to my ticket. I give it to the ticket lady and proceed into the gate. When I get inside the plane, the stewardess tells me there is a seat in the rear, and gives me a look like this..." Mr G proceeds to pucker his lips while exhaling in an exasperated manner. His brow furrows and lines form around the edges of his eyes as they squeeze together slightly, and his head slowly shakes from left to right. He looks kind of like he's experiencing both a mild bout of flatulence and an episode of empathy indicating "I'm sure glad I'm not you right now".
Zooming to the edge of his seat, S blurts out, "Oh, what happened?!"
"Well, I walk down the aisle, and notice people start snickering at me. Others give me the same look as the flight attendant. Some just grimace and shake their heads at me." Mr G takes a sip of wine, and clears his throat, bound in his retelling, "I approach the back of the airplane; the looks of desperation become more and more dreary. Then, I see it."
"What'd you see?" I say, absentmindedly burning myself on fragrant tea.
"At the back of the packed aircraft are two people but no available seats. I look at them and ask no one in particular where to sit. They look at each other in a meager frown. I realize then, the seat the stewardess was referring to is sandwiched from view between them. I mean, these people were so big, you couldn't fit a piece of paper between them, much less me."
"Oh my god! So what did you do, sit on top of their laps?"
"Actually, it was pretty cool. I got to sit in the jump seat the whole way, but man... to be launched into that other seat, I'd need Crisco and a wrecking ball!"
But... I digress from the real story at hand. It's late Saturday night; there's a group of us sitting in one of four seance dinner rooms at the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix. Perusing the menu, I suggest M sprawl out and spin atop the Lazy Suzanne to be fed stir fry tidbits by our dinner companions via chopstick insemination. To my demise, that doesn't occur, but we all laugh and order.
Sitting across the table is the aggravatingly punctual, undeniably flaky, yet smolderingly sexy, and bewitchingly gorgeous Y, with her lively fiancee, Mr G. "So, R-Baby, you're flying back to Montreal tonight? Is it a direct flight," Mr G asks S's husband, R-Baby. Responding in a very French-Canadian accent, R-baby says, "No, actually. I have a stop-over in Chicago, and then my flight to Montreal in the morning."
Looking up from his yellow curry beef tips swimming in broth, Mr G's cheeks queerly light up in a flash of memory. "Oh, I thought you had a direct flight. I remember one time I was on a flight back from Asia, that connected in LA." The table turns toward Mr G as he continues, "We got in a little bit late, so I was running and running and running as fast as I could." Interrupting his train of thought, M playfully says, "Could anyone catch you, Gingerbread man?" Y slyly looks over her wine glass toward M, who then curdles into her chair.
Not hearing her valid question, Mr G gleefully goes on, "Yes, so I arrive at the gate with messy hair, clothes hanging out of my bag, one shoe untied, and grasping for dear life to my ticket. I give it to the ticket lady and proceed into the gate. When I get inside the plane, the stewardess tells me there is a seat in the rear, and gives me a look like this..." Mr G proceeds to pucker his lips while exhaling in an exasperated manner. His brow furrows and lines form around the edges of his eyes as they squeeze together slightly, and his head slowly shakes from left to right. He looks kind of like he's experiencing both a mild bout of flatulence and an episode of empathy indicating "I'm sure glad I'm not you right now".
Zooming to the edge of his seat, S blurts out, "Oh, what happened?!"
"Well, I walk down the aisle, and notice people start snickering at me. Others give me the same look as the flight attendant. Some just grimace and shake their heads at me." Mr G takes a sip of wine, and clears his throat, bound in his retelling, "I approach the back of the airplane; the looks of desperation become more and more dreary. Then, I see it."
"What'd you see?" I say, absentmindedly burning myself on fragrant tea.
"At the back of the packed aircraft are two people but no available seats. I look at them and ask no one in particular where to sit. They look at each other in a meager frown. I realize then, the seat the stewardess was referring to is sandwiched from view between them. I mean, these people were so big, you couldn't fit a piece of paper between them, much less me."
"Oh my god! So what did you do, sit on top of their laps?"
"Actually, it was pretty cool. I got to sit in the jump seat the whole way, but man... to be launched into that other seat, I'd need Crisco and a wrecking ball!"
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