March 7, 2003
Dueling Idiots (As Promised)
"You know, I'm liking this a whole lot more after two beers."
Our faces are cast in the blue-white glow of the theatre screen, Errol the owl having just slammed into the kitchen window of The Burrow in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. All my energies were earlier spent, and I manage to pay full attention only as far as Aragog before I am leaning heavily into Mike and allowing him to scratch my scalp until I am dozing.
I have to thank a small Hebron bar for two things. One, those two Killian's that made it possible for Mike to enjoy Harry Potter in a small, quasi-drunken way. He was not drunk, he vowed to me, only a bit tingly.
Secondly, for the confidence boosting glory that is Karaoke. I was adamant in my participation, and, once onstage, proceeded to belt out the Dixie Chicks' 'There's your Trouble' with only very subtle flutterings of my stomach. Mike and his brother Fred stood together in front of the pool table, watching and appropriately cheering. As did the rest of the house.
Mike gave me a kiss and that look that he gives me when he hears me sing, or reads one of my better poems, or one of those rare moments that I say something legitimately profound. Like he is sometimes as much in awe of me as I so often am of him.
"That was really good." His arms are wound around my waist. "Really, really good."
I kiss his forehead and giggle and make him promise to bring me back next week for the contest. If I win, I won't have to sell my body for extra income.
Mike said he'd pay.
Our adventure didn't end there. The end of the movie found me nauseated and near exhaustion, and the three of us rushed to the car in the post-midnight chill. We get in, Fred in the back, me in the passenger seat, Mike behind the wheel. He starts it up. Attempts to shift gears.
And my car won't come out of park.
He turns the wheel calmly at first, but after a few moments I can see the slightest colouring of panic in his face. Fred gets out, tries to push the vehicle to no avail. Both of them pull at the shifter, fighting it, baffled by it.
I feel like I'm going to throw up as Mike dials his roommate Kevin, as he gets the answering machine and his own useless voice.
More wheel turning, shifter yanking. It occures to all of us that the gas tank is also on dead E.
In a last ditch effort, Mike calls his father, a mechanic, in Texas. His advice follows exactly what has already been attempted. I cannot hear him talking, but I can guess as what is next said.
"Did you put your foot on the brake?"
Mike's foot goes down, hand goes over. The car shifts easily into drive.
There is a collective and symbolical slap upon all of our foreheads, and our laughter accompanies the growl of the engine as we pull away.
After five dollars worth of gas and a small bottle of Peptol Bismol (neither of which I was allowed to pay for), I am sitting in vain on Mike's bathroom floor. I don't even know how to properly gag myself.
I crawl into bed and Mike lays down beside me, scratching my back, offering hot tea and sprite and soup and a hot rag for my head. I decline each, but am warmed by his concern. My stomach rails yet, but when he kisses me goodnight, I sleep.
My life is a testimony to all the subtle, ironic, and heart aching beauty in this world.
astera at 10:39 a.m.