To say that Havasu has its share of fireworks is like saying Heff has his share of blondes. There are some major fireworks companies that use Havasu as their main testing and demonstration area. Tonight is one of their big semi annual gigs, where they test out new stuff and invite prospective clients to watch. The show is great, if a little slow in parts, but offset by colored bursts of something so powerful it knocks people down while the glass in car windows ripples like the surface of a rock-addled pond. It’s hard to separate the car alarms across the parking lot, crying their disagreement, from the ringing in my ears as my vision starts to refocus.
There are children going nuts all over the place and I instantly fall in line. We are become ninja, wrestlers, pirates, Death; all manner of amazing retards battling for control of Soda Cans of Power and bejeweled tailgate palaces. Jen is getting antsy as the moon fades into the smoke from the fireworks, made so as much by the screaming heathens as the late hour. If we leave now we will be lucky to make her place by 1 a.m. Reluctantly saying goodbye to people while I narrowly avoid yet another fist in the nuts from Logan, the 4 year old berserker, we jump into the cars and head on down the road.
Amy makes the rest of the night bearable with a lot of conversation. As the miles peel away like $1 bills at a strip club, her voice fills my ears and world with laughter and promises. I’m struck by the thought that the next time I make this particular drive, it will be for a very different reason, and with something far more promising than a couch and return plane ticket waiting at the end of the road.
Moments after signing off with Amy, the phone rings again. Jenn is calling telling me that her new roommate just happens to be driving down the freeway next to us. Narrowly averting disaster at the hands of hastily scribbled directions on notebook paper, I drop behind his black Chevy and follow him back to the apartment.
The roommate is nursing injuries from the mosh pit he just left. I guess he can’t be all bad. The unloading process goes quickly, broken by the occasional stomping noise coming through the ceiling from an angry neighbor. Soon enough I’m lying on the couch trying to imagine that this wretched couch is really a nice fluffy snow drift of a bed. The last thought going through my head is “Why the hell is the naked guy jumping in front of a truck?� You would have had to see the picture.
Despite his apparent attempts at stealth, I am awakened by the roommate leaving for work. Another 10 minutes or so of staring at the back of my eyelids in a vain attempt to reclaim some sleep and I get up and clean out my mouth, then wander around the apartment in a daze. Around this time I start to realize that I don’t feel well; kind of like I was deep-throating frozen chickens all night.
A crash and curse from the Jenniferocious lets me know she is awake. Crawling from her room into the bathroom and exiting long minutes later, she swears up and down that we are going to the best Italian joint in the world today, run by a pair of twin gay Italian men. Horrible visions of Pinocchio and Gipetto flying through my head, I am afraid and insatiably curious at the same time.
It’s a bit earlier than I want to be eating so Jenn takes off to run some errands and I decide to take full advantage of the perfect weather and set off in search of the pool. The weather is about 80 degrees with only a virgin’s whisper of a breeze; Seurat couldn’t have painted a better day. Bored with aquatic pacing quickly, I climb out of the pool and flop down on a surprisingly comfortable pool chair, spending the next couple of hours soaking up sunshine and peace.
Jenn calls me to let me know she has returned from her errands so I walk slowly back to the apartment, drinking the noon warmth in thirstily. As I open the door to Jenn’s apartment, the smell hits me like an elephant enema. I yell out to Jenn asking what the hell is going on, answered only by another angry stomp from upstairs. Jenn is decorating her bathroom with salvage from Chernobyl. The particularly disorienting vapor comes from the shower curtain. It’s made to look like the crowd at a rock concert complete with painted signs of adulation and camera flashes, and the high I’m feeling is probably not unlike the feeling of taking a stage to the screams of thousands. Before I start really hallucinating, I suggest to Jenn that we go grab that aforementioned gay spaghetti.
As luck would have it, the Italian eatery is in the same plaza where I had my ear pierced with the helix I wear. Funny, how things go. The gay men have apparently decided to enact the Day of Rest clause in their pizzeria contract and have taken Sunday off. Bless their butt-slapping balls. Braving the A.S.U. traffic again we careen down the couple blocks to Oregano’s, another Italian place of singular quality, the gay men being replaced by some of the most delightful Arizona college girls I have ever had the opportunity to meet over beer and pizza. The hostess is no exception.
Her white t-shirt is missing a name tag, which is perhaps more out of necessity than any aversion to identification, and is obviously the smallest shirt the restaurant stocks as it is being pushed to its limits to encompass the outstanding young twins contained therein. Her skin is that beautiful Mediterranean olive tan that old sailors sang about to pass the long nights at sea. Her black hair, half tied behind her, is spilling down around her neck in thick tendrils threatening to strangle a man should he get too close.
“Miss, don’t you think you could wear a smaller shirt? Maybe something a little more form fitting? I’m sure you are just trying to hide your terrible figure, but wearing those huge frumpy shirts only accentuates you complete and utter lack of physical gifts.�
She blinks in surprise. A move made all the more dramatic by her eyelashes, black chords jealously guarding the limpid blue pools of her eyes.
“Seriously, maybe if you started wearing something a little more revealing you would be motivated to get your weight problem under control. Just a thought.�
“You don’t like my shirt then I take it?� she asks hesitantly, still trying to process what is happening.
“Oh no, it’s splendid. My grandmother has one just like it. She wears it all the time. I would just think that you would want to do yourself up a little for work. You know, play the part of some eye candy?�
“Oh, really?� she asks, adjusting to the pace I am setting. “Well, who needs eye candy when I have you here?�
“You are so right!� I gush, pushing past her and catwalking around the outside eatery winking and kissy facing at each table in turn. Everyone is staring as I saunter back up and circle the hostess, my arm stretched out behind me in the wake of my bravado, slowly tracing an imaginary noose around her neck with my fingers a hairsbreadth from her skin. Despite the 80 degree temperature, she shivers as my fingertips retreat and goose bumps race up her exposed arms.
“So,� I ask quietly, leaning in close, “do you think you can fit me in?�
If her earlier blink was surprise, this one is absolute cardiac arrest; her striking blue orbs widening, closing, then widening even more seeming to take up her whole face, lips parting ever so slightly. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face.
To her credit she recovers quickly, taking my name and threatening a short wait but promising to find me as soon as she can to “get me situated.� Her eyes promise much more than that, working as a team with the painfully slow blink of her luscious black fringe of eyelashes, the sudden swell of her chest in her tight white shirt and the evil smile playing at her lips. Welcome back to civilization, Dave.
Before I can say anything more embarrassing Jenn grabs my arm and hauls me off to the bar for a beer and opening of an impromptu present she got while out and about this morning. One thing about Oregano’s that always throws me is their lack of my favorite import: Peroni. It’s a great Italian beer that you can only get at good Italian restaurants. I settle for a Moretti and Jenn gets a sprite in a glass large enough to smuggle illegal immigrants in.
Jenn picked up a couple of books and a hilarious card with a psychotic cow on it. One of the books is clearly for me, while the other has Amy’s name written all over it; unexpected gratitude for my helping her in her move. Our hostess and her eyelashes return to guide us to a table. Jenn and I are into our own conversation so I pointedly ignore the intruder, actually shoo-ing her away with my hands when we are seated. Her eyes flash behind those luscious lashes and she flounces off to her duties. Grinning I turn back to Jenn and we pull out the camera, snapping retarded pictures of the restaurant and ourselves acting like we belong in helmets on the short bus.
More beer, 3 feet of garlic bread, about 2 bites of pasta, and Jen is picking up the tab. Again, unexpected since I am generally the coin purse in situations like this, but greatly appreciated. The beer is catching up so I head to the bathroom and relieve myself and wash up. Jenn ducks in after me and as I turn around, a flurry of raven hair and a bulging white t-shirt assault me from my peripheral vision.
“I’m Jessica, by the way� she lilts, eyes and mouth beaming up at me.
“And your friends?� I ask, staring pointedly at her shirt. Hearing no immediate response I start to walk past her.
“You could try being a little nicer, you know!� she starts after me, grabbing my arm.
“I could… but I won’t.� I reply and with this she lets go of me only to slug me in the arm she was gripping moments before. “You hit like a girl!� She continues the beating as I walk back and sit down.
“So is that your girlfriend?�
I really can’t help myself, I just fall over laughing. “NO! No. Jenn? Noooo.� Lying as I am on the bench, I can’t see her response but as I sit up, she has lost that bubbly bright eyed look and her entire being has changed. Her hips are cocked slightly, more of her weight on her back leg, allowing her to lean forward without invading my bubble. The beam is gone from her eyes, replaced by a gleam mirrored in her canines exposed by her cocked smile, angled to match her hips; predator now, rather than powderpuff. Whoa.
“So, I’m going to a get together at a friend’s house later tonight. Just drinking and hanging out. My friends would love you. I think, um, maybe you should… come.� The shining canine leaves a mark in her protruding lower lip as she bites it.
“Wouldn’t it be great if I did?� I say, pausing meaningfully. “Look, I’m busy this weekend and, well, even in this progressive age, I think my girlfriend would have a problem with that. I’m afraid I must respectfully decline.�
“You just said she wasn’t…�
“She’s not. She isn’t here.�
“Where is she?�
Sighing because I know where this is going, I reply, “She lives in Atlanta.�
“That’s not a girlfriend! That’s a penpal! Come on!!!�
“Ok, look. I wasn’t lying when I said I was busy. Give me your number and I’ll call you if I get freed up.�
I’m not sure if she does this all the time, or if she has been planning this exchange, but she already has her number on a paper in her back pocket. Her left hand grips the table edge for support and her right arm creeps backwards with the precise and dreadful grace of an executioners axe. If it’s at all possible, her shirt stretches even tighter as she arches her back. I’m practically inhaling her nipples as she drops her head to the side exposing her neck and her pulsing jugular to my incredulous eyes. She leans her face in uncomfortably close, hand moving like a pickpocket now, slowly setting her number in my lap; her eyes come back up from following her hand, now gazing into mine. She gives me that smile that would look at home on a tigress and turns and walks off just as Jenn comes back.
I’m still in shock when I hear a crash and notice the table is now in my lap and Jenn is climbing up off the floor with a sincere mark taking up most of the real estate over her left eye. I need to teach her how to tie her shoes. We pack up our trappings and our containers of our barely touched repast and head out the door. Jessica is back at her hostess stand and pauses in her work to track me with her eyes and smile on my way past her. I can’t help grinning; it feels good to be lusted after. Good in that blue light special sort of way; cheap and ultimately serving only to make you really appreciate an item of true quality.
Jenn makes plans to go to a Dane Cook movie with her friends and I finally raise Roy on the phone. He agrees to meet me at Jenn’s place and I delude myself into thinking I have time to go to an old haunt of mine after dropping her off along the way.
Bookman’s is a store unlike any I have ever been to. I like Barnes and Nobles. I dig Hastings. I adore Bookman’s. It’s a used book store taken to new levels. They sell old magazines, games, records, comics, cassettes, laser discs, and just about anything else you can imagine. I saw a registry there that people have to list themselves in to be considered for appointments with some of the older books in the back because they are that valuable. I always imagine what that room must contain. The first issue of playboy. George Washington’s journal. Who REALLY shot J.R.? The possibilities are endless.
Wandering amid the stacks of tomes, I remember all the times I came here to lose myself during my stay in phoenix. Oddly, I never shared the store with anyone. Sure I knew other people that came here, but it was always my place to go when I didn’t want anyone else around. A time for me to go and live someone else’s life, escaping the rigors of my own, if only temporarily. Roy rings my phone and he is already at the apartment so with a last nod to Tolstoy I break for the door and wheel back out into the Arizona night, life in my hands.
I meet Roy back at the apartment and opt to rush in and change clothes before heading out for the evening only to discover that Jenn, in her infinite wisdom, took the house keys off the keyring and along with her on her outing to the movies. I can’t be too upset as I’m sure the blow to her head earlier is affecting her already dubious judgment. Roy quickly proves to me that I am not the craziest driver in Arizona after all. I’m uncharacteristically mellow this evening so after buckling my seat belt, I just lay back and indulge the conversation; thoughts permeated by the occasional scream of a pedestrian and honking of horns. We decide to hit up the Library in Tempe.
Most people are impressed or confused when they hear I am going to the library to hang out. Then I tell them. This place is like Hooters great grandchild. The entire bar is lined with books on shelves, some nice couches and chairs above the main area, and ALL the staff aside from the bouncers are clad in a rendition of the traditional Naughty School Girl outfit. It’s enough to make a man give praise to his maker. Sadly, Sunday night seems to be the hot girls’ night off, and rejects night out.
“I’ve got this one,� says Roy as our first round comes.
I’m totally shocked; I can’t remember the last time someone other than myself bought the first round. I’m not sure if this is because none of my friends have money, or whether it’s just rote with everyone I go out with. It’s good to have friends who don’t fit the mold. We opt to play pool for a bit and see if the place heats up at all since it is 9 p.m. and a little early. Roy pays for the first game.
For some reason which escapes me, this bar has stolen lawn furniture from the dump, spray painted “Jack Daniels� on the ruined sod posing as felt, and added slots for quarters and pool balls. The 8 ball comes out where the cue ball should, there are three “3� balls and the only cue stick left is missing the counterweight off the back. Far from unsettled, this actually makes the game that much more fun for me. I’m ready to go after two games, though. Enough is enough and there is nothing happening here, so Roy suggests we walk to the end of the street to a bar that isn’t open on Sunday. Nice.
Driving up to Scottsdale in search of adventure, Roy and I reminisce about all the stupid people we know and the stupid things they are doing with their stupid lives. Despite our best efforts at inciting riot in the crowds, there is nothing happening in Scottsdale either so we head back to the apartment after notification from Jenn that she has graciously returned to unlock it. After a quick stop by the store for booze we, the Mormon Pariah and the Mexican who can’t speak Spanish, head south once again to the mighty realm of Mesa.
That was great! Have I told you what an amazing writer you are? You have the ability to take a mundane story and turn it into an interesting, exceptional tale! Just for the record, you are amazing.
Now THAT was funny. (most of it, anyway… hehe)