..:S...P...I...D...E...R...B...I...T...E...S:..

Thursday, October 25, 2007

“I got a card in my spokes.
I’m practicing my joke.
I’m learning...”
- The Pixies - “Tony's Theme”


FICTION:



spiderbites...a 79% true story



chapter VII: loch ness monster





Once I saw a man so angry he ate his fucking phone, light flickering behind his teeth like he was chewing a firefly sandwich. I could hear a screeching voice drowning in the tiny speaker on his tongue, and I watched the orange glow fill his mouth with the same excitement I used to get lighting the first candle in a freshly carved pumpkin. I imagined what that sounded like on the other end of the line. You think it’s loud when someone calls you up then proceeds to eat an apple in your ear? How about eating the goddamn phone instead? I’m glad I didn’t call him.

He was standing on a street corner, suit and tie, casually watching traffic while his jaw muscles bulged, as if he was doing nothing stranger that working an old piece of gum to prepare it for a bubble off his tongue. One minute he was standing there talking into a small glowing cell phone out in front of his face. The next minute he’s arguing with it. Next minute...crunch. First he bit the top off of it, which didn’t seem to kill it ‘cause the screen was still flashing. Then some teeth must have pierced whatever powered it because the lightning behind his incisors started to fade. His mouth was bleeding down his chin by the time he worked his way to the keypad and the numbers on the bottom.

You know, I’ve been angry while talking to a girlfriend before, but I’ve
never been that angry. In fact, I’ll never think I’m angry again after seeing that shit. I was standing outside of glass when it happened. Whoa, I meant to say “class.” This narrator doesn’t get unreliable until later. So, yeah, outside of class. I was standing on the library steps next to this girl, both of us flipping through our summer semester catalogs, and she was babbling so much about some teacher’s cock (or was it clit?) she wanted to suck that she didn’t even see this amazing thing occur. I tapped her on the head.

-Hey, is that man eating his phone? Holy balls.

-What?

-I said, is that man eating his phone? Because if he is, I want to take his class!

-What are you talking about?

-I’m asking you, is there a class where they show you how to eat fucking phones?!

She wandered off, never noticing the blood running down the man’s chin, so I decided to follow him awhile He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his suit jacket and headed into the basement of a maintenance building on campus. He came out wearing a gray jumpsuit and carrying a stack of red construction cones. Even though it turned out he was a janitor and I’ve never been able to convince anyone I actually saw him eat the thing, I still wanted to take his class.

When I got home that night, I gently put my phone on a pillow, plugged it into its charger and watched the red light pulse on it like life support. I whispered to the phone that I’d never eat it...if it never gave me a busy signal again. And to make matters worse, I was so distracted that day going through the class catalog that I ended up sulking in the corner of a writing workshop all summer with some teacher forever rambling on about a fucking iceberg. Iceberg? Yes, iceberg. Something about too many stories being the part of the iceberg that’s below the surface of the water, then some other crap about the tip of the iceberg having all the information that we need. After ten weeks, I only raised my hand once. I told the teacher that I had a better analogy for her. I said that you really didn’t want anything above the water because, as anyone who’s made the mistake of looking in the toilet before they flush it knows, whatever breaks the surface makes that shit stink. I sat back smug, arms crossed, waiting for the debate to begin.

Crickets.

Instead, someone started talking about how the iceberg metaphor itself was an iceberg. I just looked around for a phone to eat, but the girls were all hiding them between their knees and furiously sending messages. I never took another writing class again because, luckily, my life story appears here magically as someone else’s fiction.

One time, my mom was talking on the phone for five hours, and to try to get some attention, I walked up to her waving with rubber bands tight around my fingers making nine bulging little purple sausages. I got the shit slapped out of me for that. She was even angrier than that kindergarten teacher I showed the same trick to. After the spanking, she ran my hands under the faucet, turned them over and over under stove light, rubbed them to get the circulation going again. I was fine. I wasn’t a sickly child, but I was a child born with scars, wounds, and something missing. I was created without the layer of protection that most babies get. I was exposed to the elements way before anyone else. Her body did these things to me. People think they’re illnesses, but they’re injuries. I’m not angry. I’m stronger because of it. That’s another story though. Long time ago. Ice cubes melting in the toilet.

Oh yeah, back to those people who don’t answer their phones. Here's an open letter to people that don't answer their phones:

Answer your fucking phone.

I know at least five people like this. They sit there all twitchy, opening and checking their phone every three seconds, always shutting it off when it rings. See, I know what you're thinking. You’ve called, I didn’t answer, so I'm a hypocrite. But let me explain. Not only do I not answer my phone, I don't check it either. In fact, when it’s not on a pillow with a tiny scrap of toilet paper for a blanket and a thermometer (power cord) in its ass, it's almost always under the couch so I never have to hear it ring. Ask anyone who's been in my joint. But these people are so fascinated by them, you'd think they just invented phones yesterday. How many times can I say “phone?” Starts to sound weird, doesn’t it? Well, If you have a phone on you that you're stroking all day, just answer the fucking thing? Do you think I'm going to read you a book? Tell you knock-knock jokes? Trust me, I'm calling for a good reason. If I know you have a cell phone and you don't answer it, I'm instantly insulted. Oh, that's right, you’ll send me a text-message later instead. That’s what the kids are doing these days. Sorry, I forgot. Next time I'll try that 'cause I just love to drive off a fucking cliff at Mach 3 while I try to type in traffic one-and-a half-handed. Text-messaging, yikes. Another passive-aggressive invention I’d eat if I could.

Try doing it without a thumb.

* * *

I call Jay about going to this wedding fifty times before he finally calls me back. He’s one of those people who never answers, but always calls back, whether it’s ten hours or ten seconds later. The only thing more annoying would be if he did this in person. Imagine it. You ask him a question, he listens, blinks, walks around the block, then answers you. You see, that’s why phones don’t have sharp edges. It would be too tempting to kill someone with one.

Another wedding? He shouts in disgust before I even say hello. Afraid so, I tell him. Remember Gray? Yes, he does. And he agrees that Gray was a good guy, a “big, affable lug,” and should be lucky enough to have us at his wedding. Jay says he’ll go with me since he’s still got a smoky tuxedo he never returned from some relative’s nuptials last month. But he’ll do this only if I agree to go to the bar in our tuxedos beforehand. Yes, this turns out to be a mistake, but not the worst of the evening. Not even the top ten. He’s done this before. When we first turned 21, he tried to get me to wear a coat and tie to various Happy Hours to pick up secretaries. And all night, I harassed him for wanting to play dress-up like a little girl. All these years later, he’s still throwing out this dress-up idea like it just hit him. Again, he tries desperately to explain:

-Dude, trust me. There’s just something about nice clothes at the end of a day starting to pick up dirt and sweat that chicks cannot resist. Okay, it’s not quite as impressive as going to the bar with coal dust on your face and your flickering flashlight helmet still on, but it’s as close as we can get to that, you know?

No, I don’t know. But I go anyway. This ensures that we’re way too drunk for the wedding and will have to settle for the reception. I have to drag Jay out of the bar as he yells the punchline to the wrong joke over his shoulder.

-So your asshole don’t slam shut! Get it?! Get it?! Goodnight, Cleveland!

On the way there, I feel my brother’s robin-egg blue ‘88 Rancher struggling under the gas pedal, losing power on all the inclines. I was grateful to him for loaning it to me to take out of town until I figured out my own complicated car situation. Then I started driving it. When I give his truck more gas, it seems to hold its breath before accelerating, like a heart with a prolapsed valve skipping a beat before it pumps. When we come down a big hill, picking up speed, we drive past a sign warning of a “Rollover Spot.”

Jay catches me speeding up even more as I turn my head to stare at it, and he slaps me on the shoulder, laughing.

-You know you don’t have to roll over just because they tell you too, right?

At Gray’s reception, our alcohol saturation is on a downward swing, so we stay in control relatively well with the exception of Jay taking over for the DJ and managing to clear the dance floor with a failed attempt to spell out, “We. Love. Eat. Many. Ass. Tonight” with two turntables and piles of albums. He’s still tearing out the album sleeves and writing the lyrics on a tablecloth and insisting he’s “almost got it!” when the DJ finally shoves him aside. It’s outside in the parking lot with the wedding party where shit really starts to unravel. You ever see actual shit unravel? Or try to do it yourself? It ain’t pretty. It breaks.

I don’t know whose idea it was to try to get the picture of the bridesmaid’s fucked-up hand, but I’ll take full responsibility if I have to. But I know that it was Jay who started calling it The Loch Ness Monster. I was starting to think he called everything “The Loch Ness Monster.” The last thing to hold the title was a blurry picture he kept in his wallet of the longest shit ever dropped in a stall on this planet, almost crawling out of the bowl. His own, of course. I say “this planet” because we decided that gravity is the only thing that makes the swirl, and just like the spiders they took on the shuttle, space is where a predictable spiral isn’t allowed.

Remember when I said Jay’s disruption of that movie was his Greatest Hit?
Well, if that’s true, this would be one of the B-sides. Or even just a song. Doesn’t matter. Aren’t you tired of people trying to say something was the best or worst thing in their lives as an excuse to tell you a story? They’ll forget how you started the story once you get going, if you don’t interrupt it too much, especially if it’s something as nasty as this.

I think it was during the best man’s wedding toast when he first noticed it.

-Dude, what’s up with her hand?

Reflexively, I glance down at my own before I squinted to see what he was talking about.

-Huh? I don’t know. You tell me.

-Check it out. Third bridesmaid on the right. Something’s wrong...

He starts to stand up and I jerk him back down hard.

-Sit still, stupid.

-No, seriously. Her left hand. It’s either too big or too small or got something extra...or missing something. No offense, dude.

-None taken.

-Well, what the hell happened to it?

My mother used to say if a spider spun too many webs in the womb (never mind how it got in there to begin with) it could choke off the circulation on whatever parts of the baby are sticking out. And after a while, you could lose a thumb, or worse. Well, I hate to demystify it, but the condition my mom was describing is actually something called Amniotic Fiber Syndrome. Or Tendril Affliction. Or Constriction Band Syndrome. Or something like that. And there’s no medical evidence that a spider is ever involved. Hold on, I think there’s more names for it...

Amniotic Rupture Sequence. Congenital Constriction Rings. And (my favorite) Streeter’s Syndrome, which is slightly more interesting than the rest because it sounds more like an injury. But, of course, no title will ever be as good as my 13-year-old brother’s expert diagnosis, “Prenatal Spiderwebs Cut Off Your Shit” Syndrome. You know, you’d think that mothers would be more forgiving about the good ol’ Thumbsucking Syndrome because, if you’re sucking a thumb in the womb, with all these webs flying around, there’s a better chance you won’t lose it before you’re born. Unless you eat the fucking thing. A fetus doesn’t just have a tail and flippers, you know. It’s got sharp little teeth, too.

Damn. Don’t ever say “syndrome” that many times or it starts sounding real stupid. To sum up, all you really need to know is that the condition means the sac was split and amniotic fluid seeped inside, formed this hard, ropy tendrils, wrapped around the Third Bridesmaid’s thumb like a rubber band that didn’t seem too tight at first, maybe even seemed like something for the baby to play with. But after a few days cutting off the circulation...snap. And that’s exactly what was wrong with this girl’s hand. I give an abridged version of this to Jay:

-Spider bite got infected.

-No shit.

Right then, the wedding party noisily unrolls a portable movie screen and starts the obligatory sideshow of the bride and groom as kids. Did I say “sideshow?” Because that’s what I meant. As he watches the shadow of someone’s child run in front of the screen, Jay’s drunken eyes suddenly light up with bad ideas. It’s horrible and wonderful to see.

-Dude. Dude. Dude. Get her to walk in front of that screen. It’ll be the most fucked-up shadow puppet you’ve ever seen.

I try to distract him.

-Can you make shadow animals?

-Uh...yeah. Of course.

-Which ones?

-Rabbit. Cat. Man. Dog. Man fucking a dog. Clown. Whoa, you know what I can do?! I can do Bigfoot and The Loch Ness Monster. And the Yeti, the Jersey Devil...and yes, even though few have ever seen it, the Goat Sucker! Also known as the mythological Chupacabra! That too. Although that one looks more like the rabbit fucking the clown. Just wait. As soon as they’re done showing us the first time Gray wiped his ass, I’ll show you.

Five minutes tick by. A groomsman gives a toast, holding up the groom’s cell phone, deleting all the numbers from his contact list to cheers and laughter. “Might as well throw it away!” he exclaims. An attempt to get people to join in my chant of “Eat it!” are unsuccessful and everyone starts tapping their glasses with forks instead. Five more minutes and some polite applause while they wrap up a final, twitchy toast from the smallest groomsman. I begin to lecture Jay on new theories about shadow animals.

-You know, it’s no accident that all those unexplained creatures and
photographs resemble a jumbled combination of hand shadows. In fact, I’ll be that if you like up every blurry picture and had enough time and all the fingers you needed for research, you could prove that...

As I’m mumbling, the Third Bridesmaid finally excuses herself from the table. When she walks in front of the slideshow, Jay interrupts me by almost doing the classic spit take with his beer.

-Holy fuck! It’s The Loch Ness Monster! That’s what her hand looks like!

-Shhh.

-Look! There it goes! It’s huge! See?! Thumb kind of sticks out and up to the side like the tail. That other knob is the head. See it? It looks just like that black-and-white picture you always see...

-What are you talking about “always see?”

-That blurry picture you always see. All fuzzy ‘n’ shit. Someone must have took the picture with their phone when the battery was dying.

-Didn’t happen.

-What didn’t happen?

-You couldn’t take a picture with your phone back then.

-Back when?

-Back then.

-What are you talking about?

He’s getting too loud, and I finally have to shove him out of his chair to shut him up. Then, after some disgusted glances and half-ass wrestling back to our seats, I get more beer and proceed to drown him in alcohol. Instead, we both seen to descend into drunken assholery. I don’t ever remember congratulating Gray or his new wife. I remember Jay saying that when the bride stood next to the groom by the food, “the height difference between them makes her look like a goddamn saltshaker. Small, white, and shaking too much.” And I remember hearing Gray yell something like, “I need some balls bouncing against my chin right now!” but I don’t know why a groom would say something like that unless it was the punchline to a joke. Of course, having played basketball in college, there’s no telling what he was really talking about. See what you get when you combine alcohol with an unreliable narrator? We stumble over to sign the guest book and an argument starts. Jay wants to make one of those page-flipping cartoons of a man turning himself inside out. I become fascinated with the pen.

Outside in the parking lot, everyone is milling around their cars. Me and Jay are sort of drunken outcasts, banished to each other’s company, and I’m running around with a disposable camera that had been on our table in the reception. I think it was one of those gimmicks where you take whatever pictures you want, leave the camera, and the bride and groom get them developed later. Bad idea. But, at first, I just wanted the free camera. And now, out in the jungle among the fake palm trees in the parking lot, I suddenly think of something better to do with it. Oh, yeah, I lied earlier when I said I didn’t remember whose idea this was.

-Jay. Go find that bridesmaid and ask her directions. When she’s moving her hand around, I’ll snap a picture. It’ll be the first ever photograph of The Loch Ness Monster. We’ll be fucking famous.

Jay sets down his beer and squeezes my shoulder affectionately.

-I’m on the case. And by the way, this is your finest moment. I am proud to call you my friend.

He stumbles over to the bridesmaids and find the one that was third from the right. There she is glowing in someone’s headlights. She’s actually quite attractive, tall, fit, confident, black (I only mention this because it may be important later) and Jay momentarily forgets his mission as he instinctively chats her up. Years later, the only thing Jay will say about this night is that, in order to be so attractive, “she must have had some white in her.” I will agree with him, but it’s because of her hand, not her face.

I continue to creep closer, staying low behind the trees and parked cars. Jay sees me in his blurry peripherals, and his voice quickly changes to bad TV acting.

-So, um, where’s the nearest bar? I would like to keep drinking, please.

She blinks at his change of demeanor, hesitates, but then sighs and points past Jay to the road...with her right hand.

-Just go down to that stop sign and...

-Wait. Wait. Wait. I’ve been to that bar already. Anywhere else, ma’am.

She points in another direction with the same hand.

-Hold up. Hold up...

I can actually hear the wheels in Jay’s head grinding with the effort of coming up with a way to get the bad left hand up into the headlights.

-Uh...uh...what if I wanted to hit a bunch of bars tonight? Where are they all at? Show me them all. You know, so I can plan my attack.

My middle finger hovers over the button with both of them framed perfect in the box. She slowly pulls her bad hand into view. I’m so excited I feel like I’m getting the first clean shot at the President when he lowers his hand in the limo.

-Well, you could go there...or there...or there...or there...

I can’t believe Jay’s ruse is working. Both hands are motioning and moving, and Jay’s head tries in vain to follow them like a sleepy feline. Eventually, she drops her right hand completely and gives us our first full view of the left. There’s no doubt now. That’s what it is. Streeter’s Syndrome.

-...or if you’re looking for a bar that’s open real late, just take a right, go down two lights, turn left, you’ll come to a dead-end, turn right and right and left and left again, and when it goes down to one lane...

Jay attempts that lame cough-while-speaking move, screaming and choking instead.

-Take it now! Now! Take that shit!

The Third Bridesmaid looks confused and suspicious.

-What?

-Nothing, something in my throat. Go on.

-So, you’ll come to a dead-end, turn right and right again when it goes down to one lane. Then it’ll be on your left, right...

-Take it now! For the love of Christ!

Her eyes narrow, and now she’s speaking slow and quiet.

-You forgot to cough that time. Anyway. It’ll be on your right where all that construction is. It looks like it’s closed, but just walk in. It’s open. They’re renovating. That’s where you need to go. Trust me.

-Thanks much!

Jay stumbles back to where I’m hiding, talking too loud, of course.

-You get the picture, dude?

I show him the cool pen I stole from the guest book at the reception and my left arm covered in blue ink. She was repeating those directions so many times, I couldn’t resist writing them down.

-No, man, I missed it. You were too sly. But I do think we should go to that bar she was talking about.

-All right, but I got to hit the toilet one last time.

While I’m waiting outside the stall, I start to feel guilty and think about that bridesmaid and how I want to break my finger sideways, show her my hand, and let her take a picture of it, too. I think of different ways the conversation would go. I imagine her telling me that her hand is injured, but mine is a birth defect. I imagine that she finds me more interesting than pathetic. I’m just starting to feel sick from the glut of alcohol and the smell of Jay’s apocalyptic shit when
another idea hits.

I kick open the door of the stall, yank him off the toilet, and snap a picture of his swirl of waste. I focus on the tip, where it barely breaks the surface of the toilet water. This is a dangerous thing, I explain Jay, and a very important picture. Scientists will fight over this shot, I insist. Get the President on the line. I get so worked up, I drop my cell phone into the toilet with the remains of a long day of drinking. That’s okay, I decide. The phone bobbing in there is like the Titanic, I tell him. It’ll give the shit some scale for my shot. Jay struggles to pull up his pants without standing up. He’s mumbling.

-That’s why it’s pointed on one end.

-What?

-So your asshole don’t slam shut.

-You told that wrong, Jay.

-What? The joke’s two lines long. It’s impossible to fuck up.

-Well, you managed to. Nice work.

-Least I ain’t taking pictures of...

Jay suddenly slumps against the wall of the stall and stares in disbelief. He’s squinting at the shape in the toilet.

-You’re right, dude. It looks just like it. What do you think it means?

It’s a miracle, but her directions, and my transcription of them onto my arm (complete with tiny Sasquatch footprints leading the way) take us straight to the bar. As we enter the neighborhood, I see a sign warning of “Slow Children,” and, for some reason, I know it’s directed towards us and not the locals. I remember having the exact same sign at the end of my road and being teased because of it. It still makes me feel angry and stupid at the same time.

At the base of some creaking construction scaffolding is a glowing doorway surrounded by Christmas tree lights. I hesitate to look around, so, of course, Jay practically runs in to prove he’s braver than me.

You know those movies where someone says something stupid and there’s a noise like a needle scratching across a record? When we walk in the door, it’s just like that. This is because we’re the only white people in the joint. I only mention this because it might be important later. We’re still wearing our tuxedos, and, tragically, I think we look less like British spies and more like assholes who lost their prom dates. Jay, sensing my fear, strides past several glares to the spotlight, and turns a chair around to sit at the base of the stage where a stripper is putting on a less than energetic show. I follow his lead, but climb into my chair like humans were meant to, not like Jay with legs spread, balls exposed, heart on a string.

I get my chance to look around. She sent us here? Now I’m thinking she knew what we were trying to do the whole time. So, does her revenge make her the racist or us? The girl on the stage, a heavyset woman who appears to have had her share of children and bad relationships, moves her routine down to our end, mistakenly assuming that white boys probably have more money. Now the regulars are glaring so hard that I can feel it warming my back, and I fear my alcohol-soaked tux might actually catch on fire. Jay happily gives the stripper some more money. And more money. And more money. And pretty soon she’s sitting in his lap, whispering in his ear. Then she stands up and wanders away, pointing to a doorway covered by a shower curtain with Panda bears on it. In my drunken state, she seems to walk through it without making it move. Jay turns to me, drunk as fuck and drooling.

-Dude. Dude. I’m going back there. Stay out of trouble.

-We need to go.

-She is so cool. And smart, too. She likes all the same songs as...

-We need to go.

-No way. I’ve never fucked a black chick before. I’m just sayin’...I’m stayin’.

He’s up and out of his chair and through the shower curtain before I can stop him.

I’m sitting by myself for about three minutes before a young man walks up to me and promptly pull his own shirt up over his head to expose his midsection. He stands there looking down at me with an expectant look. He’s a perfect specimen. In addition having all his fingers (and probably toes) he looks to be sculpted out of rock, and I’m surprised every time he inhales and his stomach moves. I don’t know what to say except:

-Nice abs.

He walks off and I look around to find the exits. I see a bouncer manning the front door and replacing a burned-out Christmas tree light. I walk toward him, desperate for an authority figure for the first time in my life. I try to come up with idle conversation by the time I get there.

-How about those Red Wings?

He looks down his chest at me. He’s a monstrous, sweaty bastard, but he cracks a smile.

-What are you boys doing in here?

-Good question.

-You know why you’re still alive?

This was an answer I was very interested in hearing.

-Why’s that?

-Because everyone thinks you two are cops.

-Since when do cops wear tuxedos? We’re secret agents, my man.

-Well, it won’t matter pretty soon.

-Why’s that?

-Because this place won’t last another week.

-Why’s that?

He takes a big sigh and leans closer. His shadow eclipses my face, and I feel like I’m on the wrong side of a tree when it’s coming down.

-Well, they’re building the new stadium. And they tried to buy out this property. Only the owner won’t sell. So the city keeps sending in undercover cops to bust the place for soliciting so they can close us up. Every couple of nights there’s a mystery white boy in here asking stupid questions. Or someone stupid enough to bring a camera with him.

I try not to swallow too loudly.

-Not like me though, huh?

-No, not like you.

He grabs my wrist, moving faster than I thought possible for his mass, and he holds up my arm under the Christmas tree lights. He turns over to read it and I hope it doesn’t pop off.

-The cops already know where we are. They don’t need directions.

Then he sees my hand and finally makes eye contact.

-What happened to you?

-Huh? Nothing. That’s what all our hands look like.

He stares a minute then drops my arm, smiling again.

-They might.

Right then, two older white women dressed like an ‘80s music video walk through the door. The bouncer turns away, looking alarmed.

-You better tell your boy to hurry up. If them ain’t cops, I don’t know what.

He walks past me, brushes a shoulder against one of the ‘80s women, and motions for the bartender. The regulars begin turning away from the stage, and the stripper slows down and starts missing the beat of the music. Then a man messing with his belt comes flying out from behind the shower curtain and starts yelling something into the ears of the bartender and the bouncer. I consider ordering a drink to get closer and hear what’s going on, but I know my stomach’s flipping too much to keep anything else down. I pull out my cell phone and start to call Jay instead. It’s wet against my ear, but the ring is loud and strong. You ever drop your phone in the toilet? Don’t worry about it. They love it in there. It’s where most of them end up.

I look to the spotlight where another girl is stretching out before she starts dancing. She’s holding a knee to her naked chest, steady inhales and exhales like she’s all business, ready to run a mile. I start hoping for the bridesmaid to walk out on stage, thinking that could be the reason she sent us here. Then I understand that she didn’t need to be up there to make that exact same point. Maybe it would have been more dramatic to end the night that way, but no one would have believed it.

On Jay’s end of the line, it’s going to his voicemail as I’m yelling into my fucked up hand.

-Answer your fucking phone!

That’s when someone snatches it from my grip, and I turn to again find myself facing some washboard abs and the indistinct shadow of a face lost in the bundle of T-shirt still pulled up over the back of his head. He shows me my phone for a second or two, then rips it in half like a wishbone, handing me back the half with the numbers. I seem to be in the middle of some sort of duel, an impressive display of plumage. I wish for either a lifetime of sit-ups or a full-length mirror to distract him with identical posturing. I take a deep breath, and my next move feels very important. Remembering everything important I ever learned in school, I stick the bottom half of my phone into my mouth and start chewing. A wire dangles off my chin, plastic shards splinter and pop on my tongue, and the numbers from the keypad drip from my lips like teeth.

The shirt comes back down over his head and covers his stomach as he wanders away in confusion.

It may be impossible to actually eat a phone, at least without something to drink. I close my eyes, spit out a mouthful of metal that’s stinging my molars, count to ten, count to ten again, then run through the panda bears. On the other side of the shower curtain are a row of five bathroom stalls with the doors off. In place of the doors are, of course, more shower curtains with panda bears on them. Must have been a sale, I laugh.

Only one curtain is pulled closed. And it opens before I get there, Jay tumbling out onto the ground, pants down around his ankles and the tuxedo unhinged, unbuttoned, and unhooked in five places. Their honeymoon is apparently over as the stripper is taking wild swings at his head while she rolls her skirt back down. She’s screaming at him but looking at both of us.

-What the fuck did you call me, motherfucker?!

-Huh?

Jay is simultaneously trying to cover his head, pull up his pants, and clip back on his bow tie. This is the second time tonight he’s left a bathroom stall from the ground. Before he was finished. The stripper still wants her answer.

-What the fuck did you just say?!

-Nothing! What? Said what? What did I say?

The panda bears are rustling behind me, and I catch sight of the red glow of an exit sign only three car lengths away. I start running, arm down and ready to bull rush him out the door with me. However, the stripper is going to get her answer. And she’s angry enough to be quicker than both of us. She’ll reach him first.

-I said, what the fuck did you call me?!

The flashbulb of my camera in her face is enough to slow her down so I can build up momentum. I silently vow to put tonight’s pictures in a wedding album someday. I see understanding dawn in Jay’s eyes as I get him under one arm like a cop and finally get us both moving in the right direction. He looks back at her with love.

-No! I said you were an “enigma!”

On the way back, I stabbed the gas pedal too hard when we were going uphill and, according to the mechanic who looked at my brother’s truck when we rumbled into town, I apparently “blew my rods” through the engine block. Everyone at the garage wanted to know how we drove the remaining fifty or so miles with the truck in that state. I told them that I’d heard a noise on that hill, and the cab stunk like gasoline for the rest of the trip, but other than that, we just kept on going. The mechanics said we wouldn’t have been able to drive faster than ten miles an hour. And with the fuel squirting out the spark plug holes like that, the truck could have exploded, “should” have exploded, I’m told over a dramatic cigarette exhale and flick. When my brother grilled me and Jay about it later, both of us explained that, besides the gas fumes, which we both agreed smelled great, we never noticed that it took us ten times longer to get home. We’ve never decided if we blew up or not.

::: david - 3:39 AM [+] :::
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