Saturday Disaster
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
The first time I saw Bethany Lowe was through glass.
Sometime late in my last semester of college, I had this creative writing class. She had the same class, same TA. But she was in a different section. Tuesdays, I think. My group met Wednesdays.
Anyway.
What I remember was it was right before our final revision of our final piece that we had been working on for most of the semester and I was going to visit Bob, the TA. I wound my way through the long halls leading from building to building on campus and eventually arrived at Bob's office. Not his specifically, rather a collective office for all the TA's. Alongside the door ran a tall and thin pane of glass with that chicken-wire stuff running through it. Through the glass and chicken-wire I saw Bethany straightening her shirt and smoothing her hair in some mirror I could not see.
Suddenly, she turned as if she had been called out to. I saw her mouth "what" and then whiz around to look out the chicken-wire by the door. We made that awkward momentary eye contact thing and, to break it, I reached for the door handle. Before I could open it, Bethany was slinking out of the office.
"Hey," she said so casually.
"Umm...hi. I'm just here to..."
"Meet with Bob? Yeah. He's cancelled his office hours for the afternoon."
"Really? But I..."
"Yes, I was just here to meet with him as well. Working on your final?"
"Yeah...," trails off from my mouth as I notice Bob darting past the glass, wiping something from the crotch of his pants. Bethany notices me noticing him and casually slides in front of the chicken-wire glass.
"Well, I'd love to look at it. Wanna get out of here?" Standing there in her too-short hipster pants, her wide bright eyes peered out at me from behind sharp black bangs.
"Umm...sure. Where do..."
"My place?" She shifted her books from front to side, revealing the sliver of skin between the bottom of her torn tank-top and the waistline of her pants.
"Ok."
And we left. ¶ 11:16 AM 0 comments
Sometime late in my last semester of college, I had this creative writing class. She had the same class, same TA. But she was in a different section. Tuesdays, I think. My group met Wednesdays.
Anyway.
What I remember was it was right before our final revision of our final piece that we had been working on for most of the semester and I was going to visit Bob, the TA. I wound my way through the long halls leading from building to building on campus and eventually arrived at Bob's office. Not his specifically, rather a collective office for all the TA's. Alongside the door ran a tall and thin pane of glass with that chicken-wire stuff running through it. Through the glass and chicken-wire I saw Bethany straightening her shirt and smoothing her hair in some mirror I could not see.
Suddenly, she turned as if she had been called out to. I saw her mouth "what" and then whiz around to look out the chicken-wire by the door. We made that awkward momentary eye contact thing and, to break it, I reached for the door handle. Before I could open it, Bethany was slinking out of the office.
"Hey," she said so casually.
"Umm...hi. I'm just here to..."
"Meet with Bob? Yeah. He's cancelled his office hours for the afternoon."
"Really? But I..."
"Yes, I was just here to meet with him as well. Working on your final?"
"Yeah...," trails off from my mouth as I notice Bob darting past the glass, wiping something from the crotch of his pants. Bethany notices me noticing him and casually slides in front of the chicken-wire glass.
"Well, I'd love to look at it. Wanna get out of here?" Standing there in her too-short hipster pants, her wide bright eyes peered out at me from behind sharp black bangs.
"Umm...sure. Where do..."
"My place?" She shifted her books from front to side, revealing the sliver of skin between the bottom of her torn tank-top and the waistline of her pants.
"Ok."
And we left. ¶ 11:16 AM 0 comments
Monday, January 09, 2006
"She laughs. She laughs when I cum," I tell Tom.
"What?"
"Sometimes she holds it back, but you can always tell she's holding back a laugh. At the very least she snickers. Every time. Every damn time."
"That's weird."
"Yeah."
I take another swig and we round another block. We're about half a mile from Tom's place now and I can't feel my face. Tom is wearing one of those black stalker hats with just the three round holes for the eyes and mouth. This way he can still see and drink. His cell phone rings and he takes the call.
"He-y-man, ye-ah, whaddyaneed?" The words are so very slurred. We are also pretty drunk at this point.
I decide to check my voicemail. I spend a minute entering passcodes and listening to pre-recorded voices. Giving information, getting information. 5437 gets me a voice informing me of my one unheard message. Then I get the message and it's so fucking like her.
"...I have a plan."
And now I'm half annoyed. And half mad. Her and her half-baked schemes. Above her head floats a lightbulb that's always flicking on and off. So fast it gives you seizures like those harcore Japanese video games give you seizures. Idea, idea, idea. But I'm still mad because I still want to know more. I know I'll probably never know more. I'll know enough to keep me strung along, but she won't ever tell me everything she's up to. Never.
But I'm totally in love with her. So yeah. Whatever. ¶ 9:33 AM 0 comments
"What?"
"Sometimes she holds it back, but you can always tell she's holding back a laugh. At the very least she snickers. Every time. Every damn time."
"That's weird."
"Yeah."
I take another swig and we round another block. We're about half a mile from Tom's place now and I can't feel my face. Tom is wearing one of those black stalker hats with just the three round holes for the eyes and mouth. This way he can still see and drink. His cell phone rings and he takes the call.
"He-y-man, ye-ah, whaddyaneed?" The words are so very slurred. We are also pretty drunk at this point.
I decide to check my voicemail. I spend a minute entering passcodes and listening to pre-recorded voices. Giving information, getting information. 5437 gets me a voice informing me of my one unheard message. Then I get the message and it's so fucking like her.
"...I have a plan."
And now I'm half annoyed. And half mad. Her and her half-baked schemes. Above her head floats a lightbulb that's always flicking on and off. So fast it gives you seizures like those harcore Japanese video games give you seizures. Idea, idea, idea. But I'm still mad because I still want to know more. I know I'll probably never know more. I'll know enough to keep me strung along, but she won't ever tell me everything she's up to. Never.
But I'm totally in love with her. So yeah. Whatever. ¶ 9:33 AM 0 comments
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Knock, knock.
My breath--wet and cold--trails away from my face. My bare left hand is about damn frozen holding my brown bag of bourbon. The second liquor store didn't have any of my shitty brands, so I'm stuck with some new shitty booze.
Knock, knock, knock.
I pound harder this time and then try the doorbell, even though I know it is broken. The sun hangs low behind me in a half-drunk, late afternoon haze. I turn to look at it and twist off bottle's top. One long swig later, the door opens behind me.
"What the fuck, Tom," I say.
"I couldn't find my warm socks, man."
Tom stands about one whole head taller than me. His cheekbones--two red ridges in the January air--are almost as sunken as his eyes. His body's scrawny framework drowns underneath three layers of shirts and an oversize parka.
"What's it this time?" Tom grabs the bottle from my hand, pulling back the back slowly. "What the hell? I've never even heard of this..." He tilts his head back for a swig.
"Yeah, its shitty."
Tom grits and shakes his head. "Gross, dude."
And we start off on our walk. Tom and I do this about once a week. Buy a bottle, go for a walk, freeze our asses off. Why? I'm still not sure.
Somewhere after a bunch of steps and a few swigs, my cell buzzes in my pocket.
It's her. Not the ex-girl but the girl with the answering machine now the girl with herpes. I roll the phone around in my hand deciding whether or not to answer. After a moment, I press down a side button to ignore the call and tuck the phone back into my pocket.
"Who was that?"
"Oh, some number I don't know."
The phone buzzes one short buzz in my pocket.
I have a voicemail. ¶ 12:05 PM 0 comments
My breath--wet and cold--trails away from my face. My bare left hand is about damn frozen holding my brown bag of bourbon. The second liquor store didn't have any of my shitty brands, so I'm stuck with some new shitty booze.
Knock, knock, knock.
I pound harder this time and then try the doorbell, even though I know it is broken. The sun hangs low behind me in a half-drunk, late afternoon haze. I turn to look at it and twist off bottle's top. One long swig later, the door opens behind me.
"What the fuck, Tom," I say.
"I couldn't find my warm socks, man."
Tom stands about one whole head taller than me. His cheekbones--two red ridges in the January air--are almost as sunken as his eyes. His body's scrawny framework drowns underneath three layers of shirts and an oversize parka.
"What's it this time?" Tom grabs the bottle from my hand, pulling back the back slowly. "What the hell? I've never even heard of this..." He tilts his head back for a swig.
"Yeah, its shitty."
Tom grits and shakes his head. "Gross, dude."
And we start off on our walk. Tom and I do this about once a week. Buy a bottle, go for a walk, freeze our asses off. Why? I'm still not sure.
Somewhere after a bunch of steps and a few swigs, my cell buzzes in my pocket.
It's her. Not the ex-girl but the girl with the answering machine now the girl with herpes. I roll the phone around in my hand deciding whether or not to answer. After a moment, I press down a side button to ignore the call and tuck the phone back into my pocket.
"Who was that?"
"Oh, some number I don't know."
The phone buzzes one short buzz in my pocket.
I have a voicemail. ¶ 12:05 PM 0 comments
