Weekend of My Discontent, Part 4
Welcome to the third quarter. . .
Third Quarter
The Broncos led the Patriots 24-6 when I passed out. Tom Brady’s perfect playoff record was in jeopardy. When I woke up the images on the TV were blurry. What wasn’t so blurry was the angry woman with bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair standing in front of me.
“Larry? Are you awake?”
“I am now,” I said. My mouth was like sandpaper.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I was watching TV, then I fell asleep.”
“Why didn’t you come downstairs?”
“I just fell asleep up here.”
“I see that you got the fire going,” she said, pointing to the smoldering piece of moist wood. The firestarters burned nicely but the wood did not catch.
“It wasn’t my best moment,” I replied. “What’s up?”
“You made dinner?” she asked, pointing at the blackened mess on my plate. It used to be fish before I left it on the grill for thirty minutes when it was done in ten.
“If you can call it that,” I replied.
“I have a headache.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t understand, you bastard. It hurts!”
“I get it,” I replied, trying to escape not from her but her volume.
“The fuck you do. You sure shoved that Patron down my throat.”
“I did?”
“You brought it. You knew what happens to me when I drink it.”
“I’m the one you puked on, so it looks like we’re both losers.”
“Shut the fuck up. Get me some Ibuprofen and Gatorade.”
I turned and saw the blue digital clock on microwave. It was 2:13 in the morning.
“I doubt that anything’s open around here.”
“Come on, Larry. I feel like someone hit me with a sledgehammer.”
“I have some water.”
“I hate water.”
Nicole only drinks flavored water. I have a six-pack of the raspberry stuff in my fridge. When my friends come over they question my sexuality.
One hour later we were back in the Jacuzzi. The Patron bottle was long gone, possibly buried in a snowdrift. This time we carried the remains of a 12-pack of Bass that I purchased as a backup liquor option. Nicole gave me a look when I suggested a beer to solve her problem, but halfway into her first bottle she felt a lot better.
“You are so smart,” she whispered in my ear.
“Yes, I am very genius-esque,” I replied, feeling no pain. I might have been a bit smug as well since I didn’t have a hangover and Nicole’s was like a ticking time bomb.
“You’ve gone out of your way to make this weekend fun, and I appreciate that,” she said.
“You do?” I replied.
“Yeah, I really do. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to walk down the aisle together.”
I showed my composure by pretending to drink out of my empty beer bottle.
“Do you love me?” she asked more soberly than I thought possible.
“I’m very fond of you,” I responded.
She winced.
“What’s that look all about?” I asked. I was bold because I surmised that she would most likely forget this drunken speech later.
“I don’t think you really care about me.”
“That’s kind of unfair.”
“Prove me wrong.”
“Listen, Nicole, you’re a lot of fun. I’m not in love with you and I will never fall in love with you. I am very attracted to you and you must be somewhat attracted to me or we wouldn’t be here right now. What’s the harm in that?”
She sat motionless for about thirty seconds.
“Who did this to you?”
I didn’t pause. “You’re looking at him.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were bloodshot. I had seen eyes like that before. Dawn of the Dead.
“Do we have any more beer?”
We both finished another bottle before the heat of the water contrasting with the bitter cold of the outside air got to be too much. When I thought it was time, I got out of the Jacuzzi and walked to where Nicole sat. She looked at me with surprise. I indicated that she should stand up. When she did I picked her up out of the water and put her down next to me. I then opened the door, and when she started to walk in that direction I picked her up and carried her over the threshold.
Nicole kept most of her swimsuit on this time.
It’s amazing how passion can overcome being wet and cold. Once I had completed making my point, we quickly moved to the shower and huddled there to stay warm. It was nice, until I turned the water off and noticed that the towels were still wet from our previous Jacuzzi experience. Yikes.
I ran through the cabin like a steroid-crazed linebacker chasing the quarterback, searching for every washcloth and hand towel that I could find. It wasn’t much, but we were able to get from wet to damp. I saw the stacked washer-dryer unit in a closet across from the bathroom and dumped the towels and the sheets in the dryer. I knew that Nicole’s headache would return soon, with reinforcements, as we were down to our final two beers. We put on three layers of clothes each, grabbed the spare comforter in the closet and spooned on the bedroom floor. It felt like a coed high-school sleepover. We even kissed each other good-night.
On our first night together, when I snuck into her bed, Nicole asked me if I loved her. I didn’t say anything because I had known her for six hours at that point and she was Jim Morrison drunk. It was a sign.
I woke up a short period later soaked in my own sweat. Long-range planning was not my strong suit.
I saw Nicole curled up in a ball under the comforter. She looked cute and content. Her hair was all over her face and I liked that. I should have taken a picture. She opened her eyes and was not happy. Nicole started smacking my head with her forearm. I grabbed her wrist. That probably triggered something from her past, because she wriggled free and smacked me again, hard.
“May I help you?” I asked with the last sliver of my patience.
“My head,” she moaned.
I blinked twice and looked at the digital clock next to the bed. It was 8:02 in the morning. I miraculously didn’t have a hangover, but I could imagine that it would feel like a girl who does 100 arm curls every morning repeatedly pounding me on the back of my head.
“Am I supposed to be enjoying this?” I ask. I verified a spark of intelligence by moving away from her.
“Get me some goddamn Gatorade. Stat!” she yelled.
“How about I get you some water?” I think, stalling for time before her next period of glorious drunk sleep.
“Tastes like pond scum,” she said, rolling over.
I decided to venture outside for supplies, and get away from Seniorita Loca. While it was very cold outside, the roads were clear and I returned with a bag full of sausage biscuits and a gallon or so of Gatorade. I may have been immune to the aftereffects of alcohol, but I wasn’t taking any chances and my mouth was dry. As I predicted, Nicole was asleep on the floor. I checked the dryer and the towels inside were only slightly damp. I took that as good enough and put the sheets in, giving the dial a strong clockwise turn. The Apollo 13 used more power than this excuse for a dryer. I missed the giant ones from college that could comfortably hold three sorority girls and a ferret.
I went back upstairs and halfway through my second biscuit realized that I wasn’t really in the mood for excessive grease. Nicole would appreciate some cinnamon rolls, I thought. I remembered the one time she made cinnamon rolls for me. She burned them and tried to cover up her mistake with an inch of icing. I’m convinced that she gave me the more burned ones on purpose.
Third Quarter
The Broncos led the Patriots 24-6 when I passed out. Tom Brady’s perfect playoff record was in jeopardy. When I woke up the images on the TV were blurry. What wasn’t so blurry was the angry woman with bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair standing in front of me.
“Larry? Are you awake?”
“I am now,” I said. My mouth was like sandpaper.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I was watching TV, then I fell asleep.”
“Why didn’t you come downstairs?”
“I just fell asleep up here.”
“I see that you got the fire going,” she said, pointing to the smoldering piece of moist wood. The firestarters burned nicely but the wood did not catch.
“It wasn’t my best moment,” I replied. “What’s up?”
“You made dinner?” she asked, pointing at the blackened mess on my plate. It used to be fish before I left it on the grill for thirty minutes when it was done in ten.
“If you can call it that,” I replied.
“I have a headache.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t understand, you bastard. It hurts!”
“I get it,” I replied, trying to escape not from her but her volume.
“The fuck you do. You sure shoved that Patron down my throat.”
“I did?”
“You brought it. You knew what happens to me when I drink it.”
“I’m the one you puked on, so it looks like we’re both losers.”
“Shut the fuck up. Get me some Ibuprofen and Gatorade.”
I turned and saw the blue digital clock on microwave. It was 2:13 in the morning.
“I doubt that anything’s open around here.”
“Come on, Larry. I feel like someone hit me with a sledgehammer.”
“I have some water.”
“I hate water.”
Nicole only drinks flavored water. I have a six-pack of the raspberry stuff in my fridge. When my friends come over they question my sexuality.
One hour later we were back in the Jacuzzi. The Patron bottle was long gone, possibly buried in a snowdrift. This time we carried the remains of a 12-pack of Bass that I purchased as a backup liquor option. Nicole gave me a look when I suggested a beer to solve her problem, but halfway into her first bottle she felt a lot better.
“You are so smart,” she whispered in my ear.
“Yes, I am very genius-esque,” I replied, feeling no pain. I might have been a bit smug as well since I didn’t have a hangover and Nicole’s was like a ticking time bomb.
“You’ve gone out of your way to make this weekend fun, and I appreciate that,” she said.
“You do?” I replied.
“Yeah, I really do. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to walk down the aisle together.”
I showed my composure by pretending to drink out of my empty beer bottle.
“Do you love me?” she asked more soberly than I thought possible.
“I’m very fond of you,” I responded.
She winced.
“What’s that look all about?” I asked. I was bold because I surmised that she would most likely forget this drunken speech later.
“I don’t think you really care about me.”
“That’s kind of unfair.”
“Prove me wrong.”
“Listen, Nicole, you’re a lot of fun. I’m not in love with you and I will never fall in love with you. I am very attracted to you and you must be somewhat attracted to me or we wouldn’t be here right now. What’s the harm in that?”
She sat motionless for about thirty seconds.
“Who did this to you?”
I didn’t pause. “You’re looking at him.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were bloodshot. I had seen eyes like that before. Dawn of the Dead.
“Do we have any more beer?”
We both finished another bottle before the heat of the water contrasting with the bitter cold of the outside air got to be too much. When I thought it was time, I got out of the Jacuzzi and walked to where Nicole sat. She looked at me with surprise. I indicated that she should stand up. When she did I picked her up out of the water and put her down next to me. I then opened the door, and when she started to walk in that direction I picked her up and carried her over the threshold.
Nicole kept most of her swimsuit on this time.
It’s amazing how passion can overcome being wet and cold. Once I had completed making my point, we quickly moved to the shower and huddled there to stay warm. It was nice, until I turned the water off and noticed that the towels were still wet from our previous Jacuzzi experience. Yikes.
I ran through the cabin like a steroid-crazed linebacker chasing the quarterback, searching for every washcloth and hand towel that I could find. It wasn’t much, but we were able to get from wet to damp. I saw the stacked washer-dryer unit in a closet across from the bathroom and dumped the towels and the sheets in the dryer. I knew that Nicole’s headache would return soon, with reinforcements, as we were down to our final two beers. We put on three layers of clothes each, grabbed the spare comforter in the closet and spooned on the bedroom floor. It felt like a coed high-school sleepover. We even kissed each other good-night.
On our first night together, when I snuck into her bed, Nicole asked me if I loved her. I didn’t say anything because I had known her for six hours at that point and she was Jim Morrison drunk. It was a sign.
I woke up a short period later soaked in my own sweat. Long-range planning was not my strong suit.
I saw Nicole curled up in a ball under the comforter. She looked cute and content. Her hair was all over her face and I liked that. I should have taken a picture. She opened her eyes and was not happy. Nicole started smacking my head with her forearm. I grabbed her wrist. That probably triggered something from her past, because she wriggled free and smacked me again, hard.
“May I help you?” I asked with the last sliver of my patience.
“My head,” she moaned.
I blinked twice and looked at the digital clock next to the bed. It was 8:02 in the morning. I miraculously didn’t have a hangover, but I could imagine that it would feel like a girl who does 100 arm curls every morning repeatedly pounding me on the back of my head.
“Am I supposed to be enjoying this?” I ask. I verified a spark of intelligence by moving away from her.
“Get me some goddamn Gatorade. Stat!” she yelled.
“How about I get you some water?” I think, stalling for time before her next period of glorious drunk sleep.
“Tastes like pond scum,” she said, rolling over.
I decided to venture outside for supplies, and get away from Seniorita Loca. While it was very cold outside, the roads were clear and I returned with a bag full of sausage biscuits and a gallon or so of Gatorade. I may have been immune to the aftereffects of alcohol, but I wasn’t taking any chances and my mouth was dry. As I predicted, Nicole was asleep on the floor. I checked the dryer and the towels inside were only slightly damp. I took that as good enough and put the sheets in, giving the dial a strong clockwise turn. The Apollo 13 used more power than this excuse for a dryer. I missed the giant ones from college that could comfortably hold three sorority girls and a ferret.
I went back upstairs and halfway through my second biscuit realized that I wasn’t really in the mood for excessive grease. Nicole would appreciate some cinnamon rolls, I thought. I remembered the one time she made cinnamon rolls for me. She burned them and tried to cover up her mistake with an inch of icing. I’m convinced that she gave me the more burned ones on purpose.
posted by Zach Law | 7:17 AM
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