A Good Hug

This is probably the first party I’ve ever been to with what can be considered the old high school crowd. Party in the sense that there is alcohol, a lot of obnoxious yelping, and what seems to be the unyielding desire to beat the world record for “Most People Piled On A Small Couch.” It’s fun. I’m a bit late. I missed the frivolous “let’s get drunk!” festivities and arrived for the “dude, I’m so wasted!” brunt of it.

A particularly flushed friend of mine is off in a corner with a small group playing what looks to be a mix between Patty-Cake and Whoops-I-Accidentally-Touched-Your-Boob-Oh-God-So-Drunk!

A few… uninhibited females are running around spanking each other with ping-pong paddles and shrieking with terror.

I hate being in a mood, but I just can’t get into the whole party scene. I move to an empty couch and take a seat. In an adjacent couch, it seems nearly twelve individuals have found their way intertwined on top, underneath, and throughout each other’s limbs. I can even see Tomato Face himself peering through the middle of the tangled crowd, cuddling what is hopefully a foot.

The 40 Year Old Virgin isn’t that funny. But it’s playing. The host of the party is even quoting the dialogue word for word moments before it happens. I would be impressed but I’m nearly overcome with the urge to punch him in the nose. I suppress it.

The party has died down by now, those who are left squash together on another couch; this one is in front of the ping-pong table. Host and a particularly obnoxious partier, not half has drunk as he is pretending to be, have started a game of beer-pong, minus the beer and plus whatever lousy concoction is filling the half empty (I’m sorry, half full) plastic red cups scattered around the room. The game takes a while to begin, Not That Drunk Attention Seeking Whore letting Host know at every turn that he has failed to set up his side properly. I’m sitting against the wall on Host’s side, the game in front of me, and the couch to my left. A buddy is leaning against the wall next to me and cackles at the goings on. She could very well have one of my favorite laughs.

Riding Dirty is as good a song as 40 Year Virgin is funny. Not That Drunk Attention Seeking Whore loves it, and lets everyone know by singing along. He also incorporates a very impressive dance. Sadly he’s winning the game, too.

If only I had a nail gun…

I am probably being a little more verbose about my distaste with the young man, and Not That Drunk Attention Seeking Whore lets me know it with a snide remark.

Well, I’m not trying to talk behind your back. I’m making fun of you, because you’re being an idiot.

He shuts up, playing it off like he has to focus on the game at hand.

I don’t know… lousy concoction pong just doesn’t seem that fun.

Host loses, Not That Drunk Attention Seeking Whore gloats, everyone else rolls their eyes, quiet after party chatter begins.

I scoot over to lean against the couch. My lap is attacked by several pairs of feet, and Tomato Face rests his head on my chest.

It’s kind of sad, but I’ve missed this. Not Tomato Face’s head, necessarily, but just sitting with old friends, no matter how inebriated. I’m comfortable here. I don’t know half of these people as well as I would like, but I’m comfortable here.

Time passes, and I decide it is perhaps time to pretend it’s getting late. A quick “alright… I think it’s bedtime” gets the ball rolling, and people begin to rise and stretch. We move to the stairs and talk for a while longer, people grab their coats, find lost keys and camera cases, then begin the formal good-byes.

I’m still in a mood, which had lifted a bit during the party, but it’s coming back. I’ve waited too long to see these people again to have it end in a matter of hours.

Most of the good-byes I partake in involve a handshake and/or nod, shrug and farewell, but one in particular results in a quick hug. An amazing hug, in fact. With the sincere squeeze and quick rock side to side that at least fools me into thinking that some people are worth it.

I let go thinking I might have held on a bit too long, but I had to. I needed a good hug.

A friend and I drive Tomato Face home after finally convincing him to give up his keys, and I coast through the hometown alone with the radio off.

I don’t want to go back to school yet.

But Not Chicken Pot Piiiiiiiiiiiiie

I'm meeting her at an overrated ice cream joint. Her brother works there. He's awkward but funny. His awkwardness isn't what makes him funny, but it sure helps.

I walk in and she's standing by the counter talking to Brother. It certainly doesn't seem like we haven't seen each other in three months. I was ready to hug her like a long lost friend, but now it seems so unnecessary. She gets ice cream, pumpkin pie ice cream in fact, and rolls her eyes at Brother as he pounds on the cash register with a furrowed brow. He's worked here since August but still doesn't seem to know what button does what. By the look on his face, he's never even seen a button before.

We talk for a while. Get the "so how's college?" schtick out of the way and finally move on to the anecdotes and untraceable stream of consiousness that makes for a satisfying conversation. I'm trying too hard to make jokes. She makes fun of me for it.

Pumpkin pie ice cream doesn't seem to do the trick. After mushing it around for a bit she decides it's gross and throws it out. I guess we're leaving. We wave to Brother and head outside.

So... now what?

I can't make decisions. We stand around for a while. She glares at me.

Fine.

We get in her car and she drives off. Neither of us know what to do, but at least driving makes it seem like one of us had a good idea.

We stop to rent a movie. Monster House is funny. We get that.

If you tie something around a cat's middle it won't walk around, it'll just lie down. This seems to be true, as it's worked everytime I've had both a cat and something tieable lying around. She doesn't believe me. When we arrive at her house she yells for one of her two cats. We end up finding her step dad, instead. He is not a cat. That is probably why he refused to lie down when we tied a string around his belly.

Step Dad shakes my hand with humongously large hands and asks me the required college-related questions from under his humongously large mustache and we eventually move into her home.

Her aunt and uncle are still over from yesterday's Thanksgiving festivities and we exchange "hello"s before moving down to the basement.

Neither of us can get the TV to work. There are nearly twelve thousand remotes and not a one of them seems to make the TV work. We both try each one several times before I decide it's more fun to spin her dog around in an office chair and she decides to just find Step Dad. Step Dad knows everything.

After Step Dad works his magic, Uncle comes downstairs and pulls a beer from the fridge. He jokingly asks if we'd mind if he rode the exercise bike while slurping on his beer and watched with us. We chuckle. The movie begins and I leave Dog to spin by himself and scoot back to the couch. I look over at her to see that her brow is fruzzled. I turn to see what she is fruzzling at.

Uncle is riding the exercise bike and slurping on his beer while watching the movie with us.

Um... really?

But he's wearing a goofy sweater vest and jeans. Exercise bike? While slurping on a beer? While watching the movie? With us?

... Really?

I have to check periodically throughout the film to see if Uncle Sweater Vest is still doing his thing. He always is. Everytime I check, he's definitely right there. Sometimes, I can just hear a little slurp to my left and I know. It saves me some checking.

As the movie ends, Uncle Sweater Vest's four year old son runs downstairs. I did not know this little man even existed, but he apparently has some songs he would love to sing. He jumps up on the couch and proclaims that he will now sing us his Turkey Song.

Turkey Turkey Turkey, Nice And Fat
I Am Going To Eat You
Turkey Turkey Turkey
Gobble Gobble Gobble Gobble
Eat You Turkey
I Will Eat You Turkey
Gobble Gobble Gobble
Not Chicken Pot Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie

He runs back upstairs.

Uncle Sweater Vest follows him. I can't help but bust a gut laughing.

After talking for a bit longer, I realize it's about time for her to drive me back to the car, which was left in the parking lot of the ice cream joint.

It grew considerably dark during the short time we were inside and considerably cooler as well. I even shiver a tiny bit.

I don't say much in the car. She takes a detour to inspect what seems to be a fairly serious car crash near the mall. The car crash is, in fact, quite severe.

We talk about how weird it is trying to meet old friends during these breaks. How boring it seems to be in the larger groups, and how only a few friends really seem worth the effort.

I can't help but smile. I was worth the effort.

She pulls up next to my car. I feel like there's supposed to be a good bye. I wait for one. There isn't one. I unbuckle and start to get out of the car. I thank her for the ride on my way out then pause for what seems like an eternity. I finally turn around and look back at her.

If you get exhaustingly bored tomorrow you should, um... you should give me a call.

She pauses for a while. There really is supposed to be more of a good bye here... why can't I find it?

Yeah. I will.

I head around to get in my car and she drives away.

I hope she calls. It will give me a second chance to tell her that I love her.

Even though I know I won't.

Train Ride

The train leaves on time which is amazing. The train never leaves on time. But it does today. I am thoroughly excited.

I have my own seat. Seats are big. Big enough, at least, and the one next to me is unbelievably empty. I could put my backpack on it if I wanted, but by leaving it on the floor I can appreciate just how empty the seat really is. No creepy old man to keep me company. There's always a creepy old man to keep me company. But there isn't today. I am thoroughly excited.

I don't even know what to do. I always used to just sit awkwardly, focusing on keeping my hands on my lap as I try not to jab Creepy Old Man with my elbows. He never liked it when I would jab him with my elbows. He would never tell me, but he would scoot over just so slightly an grunt as to let me know that he was not pleased. Creepy Old Man was never pleased when I would jab him with my elbows. I am so glad Creepy Old Man didn't make the trip today.

We're already stopping. A short black woman is running down the aisle yelling that singles may have to sit together because a lot of groups are getting onboard the next few stops. I eyeball the man sitting alone across the aisle. Who wears plaid shirts? I wore plaid shirts in sixth grade. That man is most certainly not in the sixth grade. The black woman runs back in the other direction reminding us that singles may need to share. I look away from Plaid Shirt Man and move my backpack onto the seat next to me.

A woman boards, begins to move her stuff so she can sit in the chair behind me. She is talking to the black woman. Her voice is pretty. She sounds like she's 17 but talks like she's 35. I split the difference and decide she's 26. I haven't looked at her yet, but if she is as pretty as her voice sounds, that would be exceptionally pretty. I can't think of any reason to look backwards. I don't want to be obvious.

I glance across the aisle. Plaid Shirt is staring at Pretty Voice. Oh jesus... it seems Plaid Shirt has taken on the role of Creepy Old too... At least he's across the aisle.

I frown at him. He is still staring at Pretty Voice.

I hear her sit down and I am overwhelmed with the urge to turn around and talk to her. It would be cute. I could put my chin on the back of my chair and smile. She would smile back and we would talk about fun things like finger painting and chocolate. I at least want to peek back between the seats and try and see her face. But that is currently Plaid Shirt's job. He won't stop looking at her. Go back to your cards, Plaid Shirt. There are lots of fun games to play with cards. Staring at Pretty Voice is not one of them. That is not a card game at all.

I want to talk to her so bad...

I hear Black Woman over the intercom. I wish I had a better name for her, but frankly her blackness is all I know about her. That and she is a woman. And she talked to Pretty Voice. Lucky...

Over the intercom, Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice lets the train know the lounge is open. I'm not hungry.

But I get a brainstorm.

If I go to the lounge and buy a soda or cookie (or both if I feel particularly frivolous) on the way back to my seat I can sneak a peek at Pretty Voice. That would be most excellent.

I precede to do so. I move slowly so Pretty Voice doesn't see right through my ruse. I must not look too rushed. It is only a soda (and possibly a cookie) after all.

Maybe I can turn around and ask her if she'd like anything. She wouldn't, of course. But she'd smile at me and thank me for asking. I would let her know she was most certainly welcome anytime. Which she would be. And is.

A fat smelly guy stands in front of me buying an unhealthy amount of food from Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice. I hate them both. Fatso Stinko because he is making my nostrils want to quit their job, and Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice because, well... she's talked to Pretty Voice.

Why haven't I talked to Pretty Voice yet?

Black Woman Who Has Talked To Pretty Voice gets mad at me when I only have a twenty. Pepsi only costs $1.25, I guess.

As I'm walking up the stairs I think about Pretty Voice. What could she possibly look like? Probably astoundingly gorgeous. She has the voice of an angel. It would be super cool if she had wings.

If she has wings I'm definitely talking to her. I'd have an easy enough conversation starter staring at me, at least, in the form of two huge wings.

Her wings would definitely be huge. And gorgeous. Just like her voice.

I get to the top of the stairs and pause to breathe. I must slow down else I scare her off.

I'm practically tip-toeing down the aisle.

Plaid Shirt's sleeping with headphones on.

Pretty Voice is gone.

So are her bags.

How did this happen? Was I really gone for that long? She'll be back. She will certainly be back. But why did she take her bags? I didn't even get to see what she looked like. Maybe I could ask Plaid Shirt. He stared at her for way too long. But he's sleeping... and I don't think I want to talk to him in the first place. He might... creep on me.

I look back at her seat.

Yup... it's definitely empty...

And to think... I was in love...