Generally, this lasted two-tenths of a second.
Having now taken this dramatic step, having crossed the event horizon, I waited for the earth to adjust on its axis. I looked for all the secrets of the universe to be revealed, to be equally blessed and cursed with a swell of knowledge, to receive the kind of divine inspiration that prompted Samuel Taylor Coleridge to pen Kubla Khan.
How would I best use this altered state of consciousness?
What might I build or create or imagine, having freed a previously shackled portion of my mind?
What would my stately pleasure dome decree?
“Let’s explode eggs in the microwave!” I exclaimed.
With rapt attention, my squad watched those matte white orbs rolling from side to side as they spun on the carousel, trembling slightly before detonating in a hail of yolk and shell, with surprisingly resonant and satisfying pops.
The host quickly caught on to what we were doing and forbade us to discharge any more of his breakfast foods. A gimlet eye on us, he retrieved his cat and locked it in his bedroom.
Please, we were idiots, not sociopaths.
Eggless, we had to dig deep into our collective well of creativity. My gay best friend mustered up a solution by way of neon glow stick. He ripped off the top with his teeth, as though activating a grenade in the heat of battle. He whipped that stick around the room, spraying every wall and dated furnishing and guest with stray bits of luminescence. Then he cut the lights for the full planetarium experience. We were splattered with thousands of tiny, incandescent stars, each of us part of a celestial canopy, heavenly constellations twinkling all around us.
We had become our own fabulous universe.
He had replicated the wonders of the cosmos, the magic and the majesty of the midnight sky, right there in that shitty West Lafayette apartment. The room was thrown into hyperspace and the stationary stars began to whip past in streaks of light. I felt like I was in the front seat of the Millennium Falcon, hurtling through space and time in a galaxy far, far away.
Everything surrounding me was beauty and truth and life.
Until it wasn’t.
Sweat began to pour off me and the contents of my stomach – soft serve ice cream, peach schnapps, and a handful of wax potpourri I’d earlier mistaken for Gummi bears – roiled in an unholy stew. The smell of poached eggs was overwhelming. Without benefit of loafers or coat, I ran outside to vomit in a snowbank. All I could think the entire time was, “Nancy Reagan was right.”
After that, I just said no to smoking pot, and, for quite a while, poaching eggs.
Over the next few years, I did experiment, yet found I was happiest with longneck Miller Lites or Solo cups full of trashcan punch, safely ensconced in the confines of a familiar frat house or bar. My few forays into illegal substances are much like my brief dalliance with eschewing loafers for Birkenstocks – a footnote on the permanent record that is my life.
An aberration, at best.
By the time Ronnie and Nancy rode off into the sunset at the end of his final term, NyQuil was the most rock-and-roll drug in my medicine cabinet. That’s why I was pleased to hear Fletch was of the school of saying no, too.
I told him, “I don’t smoke pot, either. The only time I tried weed was 1986. I threw up peach schnapps and potpourri in a snowbank after losing my shoes.”
“Nice visual,” he said.
“That’s my home-run swing,” I replied.
From that night on, we stopped being a “him” and a “me” and we became an “us.”
FLETCH’S LAST WORD:
Reader, I married her.
I knew a lot of guys who did cool shit in the military. I am immensely proud of the eight years I spent in the Army Infantry, although I never transcended the level of “Garden Variety Grunt.” I say that with all the due respect to my brothers that were harder than woodpecker lips and never wore a set of wings, beret, or other insignia that set them apart.
I’ve been fortunate to know and train with Army Rangers, Green Berets, and Navy SEALs, and the Army did send me to some advanced schools that would have been more impressive than the forty-hour Urinalysis Collection Observer course. Did I mention that qualified me to be a Company Prevention Leader? No, because I don’t like to brag.
I was starting to think that Jen and I were meant to be. And I had learned in my communications classes that “self-disclosure” should be “appropriate and well-timed.” No shit, that was my major. So, of course now was the appropriate time to disclose that, “The Army sent me to school to watch dudes pee in cups. Not just send them into a stall with an empty and trust the product is legit, but to visibly observe the ‘sample leave the source and deposit in the receptacle.’”
The story was never intended to be impressive (obviously.) I figured if it creeped her out then it wasn’t meant to be; but if she helped me finish that pitcher of Molson Ice, we probably had a future.
Three
The Long Con
“It is the fool who thinks he cannot be fooled.”
- Joey Skaggs
I am not a victim.
I mean, I’ll never be one to give bank routing information to a Nigerian prince. I can’t be scammed into wiring cash to a “friend” stranded in “Europe,” no matter how legit the email may seem.
Because I’m paranoid, I refuse to share secure information on the phone – even when it’s me who called the credit card company in the first place. I browbeat every single person holding a clipboard near my house because that’s what robbers always carry to blend into the background.
Yeah, little girl, you look like a Girl Scout, but how can I be sure?
[Fortunately, those little tin foil hats flatter my coloring.]
The reason I see conspiracies everywhere is because I’m the one-two punch of wary and observant. I’m your neighborhood Gladys Kravitz, peering out from behind her curtain sheers. Never forget, Mr. Kravitz called her paranoid, too, but Mrs. K. was the only one who figured out that something untoward was happening in Samantha Stevens house.
Who knew what being witch-adjacent might do to property values?
Old Gladys was the patron saint of her block in my book.
Being called distrustful is compliment, as that means people know I’m paying attention. Sure, it’s impossible to plan a surprise party for me, but I don’t even celebrate birthdays now so it doesn’t matter.
Anyway, I used to be all these things.
Because, despite my Constant Vigilance™, I never saw the long con coming when I signed up for an Italian class a few years ago. Originally, I’d planned on learning via the pricey Rosetta Stone discs, but then I found the deal of a lifetime.
“Only one hundred and twenty bucks for ten sessions? Taught by a native Italian speaker and not some grad student from Ireland like in college? Why, I’d be stupid not to take advantage of this opportunity!” I thought to my naïve self.
To backtrack, I’d started writing a bucket list book in 2013. Learning a foreign language was one of my goals. I decided on Italian because I loved my college 101 course, despite it having been taught by a genuine leprechaun. At a university famous for churning out astronauts and engineers, Purdue’s Liberal Arts department used to be a bit of an also-ran.
[Full disclosure: I’d never be admitted to Purdue now, Little Miss SAT Score That Didn’t Have a Comma in It.]
No one thought it odd to have an Irish citizen teach a bunch of American undergrads a romance language. Our entire course was conducted in Italian, not because this was more enriching, but because we couldn’t decipher the TA’s brogue when he spoke English. Remember how Bono used to sound in the early ‘80s, all Soondah, Bluddah Soondah? Charming on college radio, but kind of a bitch when figuring out which workbook pages to complete.
Luckily, I already had an ear for the language. When I was a kid, my maternal grandparents traded terms of endearment in Italian. Eventually I learned that when Grampa said, “Tua nonna e la puttana del diavolo,” the literal translation wa
s, “Your grandmother is the whore of the devil,” which is less endearing. Still, should you need to insult someone, Italian’s the most lyrical way to do so. Italian’s neither too self-important like French nor too phlegmy like German. And, unlike Spanish, there’s no impetus to roll the rs like a complete frigging douchebag.
[Confidential to the random dude in line ahead of me; it’s Chipotle. You shame everyone when you order a burrrrrrrito.]
I was all about Italian class. One of the first things I learned (outside of the fact that I was the only person who completed assignments) was that Donatella, my instructor, led tour groups to Italy.
I was intrigued.
I planned to visit Italy as part of my book project. I wanted to figure out the whole travel thing on my own. However, the notion of heading overseas was daunting, especially since my last passport expired in 1989.
Perhaps the path of least resistance would be to sign up for one of these tours? Lots of other students had traveled with Donatella previously and the walls of her classroom were covered with shots of joyful travelers in front of picturesque places.
If I weren’t already sold, then her subtle but constant pitching would have brought me on board. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize we never discussed class topics that didn’t dovetail into something magical students might experience while on tour. At no point did I comprehend that the super-affordable language class was basically a time-share presentation.
Hearing fanciful tales of luxurious villas in Sorrento, I desperately wanted to join the Amalfi Coast tour, but the dates overlapped with a paperback release. I eventually pulled the trigger on a trip to Rome with Fletch in the summer of 2014. Turned out to be the vacation of a lifetime – but that’s a whole different story.
With a happy ending.
The siren song of Italy was almost impossible for me to ignore after I’d been there. I’d find myself lingering in the international aisle at Mariano’s Supermarket, quietly reading the labels on their few Italian products as a sort of mantra.
When Donatella announced a brand new, all-inclusive tour to her hometown in Southern Italy, with equal time allotted to the east and west coast, I had to find a way to get there. I mean, eating unlimited fresh pasta and swimming in foreign seas – what was not to love?
I ran the tour idea past my girls. I didn’t pressure them, knowing how difficult it might be to schedule time away from their various responsibilities. In the end, the itinerary sold itself. Who wouldn’t want to take a sail on the Adriatic? Or sample farm-to-table cuisine in the Italian countryside? Or visit a vineyard for a wine and Spumante tasting? Plus, the trip was all-inclusive at an incredibly fair price. Really? The whole thing seemed almost too good to be true.
[Spoiler alert: nothing is ever too good to be true.]
Our flight to Italy was glorious. Due to weather delays in other cities, the plane was practically empty. Everyone claimed her own row and we arrived in Rome rested and refreshed.
My friends Alyson, Julia, Alex, and Joanna, and I made up part of the tour group – the other half were three sets of couples from Northern Illinois and Southern Wisconsin, as well as my teacher and her husband. We noticed that all the couples indulged in the free beer and wine offered on international flights, whereas none of us drank to avoid jet lag.
After landing in Rome, we were to take a luxury coach to the Puglia region of Italy – the spur on the heel of the boot – where we’d spend four days relaxing in a quaint, family-owned beachfront hotel, with ample time to swim each morning before our excursions began.
The first sign of trouble was when the “luxury coach” turned out to be more of a modified “rape van.” Since there was no cargo-hold, all the luggage was stacked precariously in the rear seats, causing Mt. Samsonite to avalanche whenever we’d hit a bump.
Longing for the comfort of an airport shuttle or perhaps a school bus, we crammed into seats best suited to kindergartners.
Donatella promised we’d have Wi-Fi in our rape van, which was important because our beach hotel wasn’t wired. Except when we asked for the password, Donatella replied the Wi-Fi was in a different, four-days-from-now ride, not this one. Disappointing, but certainly not a harbinger of impending doom. I was sure I could find something to look at other than YouTubes of goats who yelled like people.
After hitting the road, we quickly deduced that thirteen passengers and twenty-six assorted bags put far too much strain on poor L’il Rapey’s engine, so we found ourselves traveling at seventeen kilometers per hour.
Not an exaggeration – I could see the speedometer from my tiny seat.
Also, our driver had never driven a stick shift before, so we all tried to coach him through his learning curve. Upshifting from second to fifth was his signature move.
We played the game of noting what went faster than us on the road, but quickly tired of pointing out everything, including bicycles piloted by the elderly and infirm. Once the driver stopped concurrently blasting the air conditioner and the heat, our speed increased to an impressive twenty-five kilometers. The good news is that at no point did our chauffeur stop taking phone calls for his sport-book business while we crawled across the country. If you need to place a bet in Puglia, I know a guy.
Five hours into the journey that was supposed to take three, we stopped for lunch.
At a gas station.
Let me just say this – I’ve enjoyed many Amoco egg salad sandwiches in my day. I’m all about grazing from the cooler. Hell, half the reason I love road trips is because of gas station snacks, like those Hostess cupcakes with the orange frosting? My God, those give me life. But, when we’ve paid for an all-inclusive “luxury tour” of the greatest food country on earth, it’s reasonable to expect an actual lunch, and not microwaved burritos eaten while sitting next to a pyramid of windshield washer solvent.
[Wait, I mean burrrrrrrritos.]
The gas station boasted a hot food bar in the corner next to the restrooms. The only items I recognized were oddly-topped pizzas and wizened old hot dogs, wrapped in antique French fries. Honestly, that combination would have appealed enormously, had they not been sitting under the heat lamp since Berlusconi’s first bunga-bunga party. Also, I’d just observed the chef exit a toilet stall, bypassing that whole pesky hand-washing step entirely.
I bought a bottled water and sat at a picnic table next to the windshield washer solvent, across from Julia. She looked at my purchase and said, “You’re not eating?”
I replied, “I don’t eat in Italian gas stations.”
She shrugged and took a bite of her zucchini and... paperclip? bumblebee? covered pizza slice. She chewed thoughtfully for a few moments before spitting out the pizza in a rather violent manner. I handed her my water. She rinsed her mouth and wiped her tongue with a stack of napkins, then stated, “I guess I don’t eat in Italian gas stations, either.”
Before we re-boarded, our faction asked Donatella what the deal was with the driver. She replied with what has since become a trigger mechanism for me. Said gesture is a shrug that includes a slight shoulder raise. There’s also a turning over of the wrists and a splaying of the hands while the forearms spread. The mouth opens as if it means to say something, but then stops itself, as if having thought better. Occasionally, a small, “Eh,” may first escape before the lips are pressed back together as the shoulders relax.
This, I have come to realize, is the universal Pretending to Give a Fuck whilst Giving Zero Fucks motion.
She told us, “My contact did not send the right kind of bus.” No, “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you,” or, “Crazy, right?” or, “Do you want to put fifteen bucks on Tampa Bay?”
“How long until we get there?” I asked.
“Soon,” she replied, with great confidence.
This was the first of so very many untruths to come.
Thing is, no one from the Team Couple part of the group was complaining, largely because they spent the whole ride passed out due to the free airplane bo
oze.
Three additional claustrophobic hours later, we arrived at our destination.
When Donatella described the hotel, she mentioned it wasn’t going to be quite as plush as where we’d stay during later legs of the trip. She said her friend owned this place and it was located on a beautiful beach, so she was sure we’d love it.
I’d envisioned a Hampton Inn – clean and comfortable and nice, but not overly heavy on the amenities. Like, maybe there wouldn’t be a minibar or free HBO.
Also, when Fletch and I had been to Italy, I learned how to not be an Ugly American. We tried to be Zen, extra chill, all Mr. and Mrs. Citizen of the World, ready to get down with whatever Rome had to throw at us. We accepted that American standards simply don’t coincide with the European way of life. We learned we could have charm/history or we could have ice – pick one. I wasn’t expecting the Ritz.
However, given what we’d pre-paid per night, and that we’d traveled off-season, I had some expectations regarding cleanliness, comfort, and condition. History was optional.
Turns out our hotel had a bit of a past. In the 1960s, the building had once housed… wait for it… a gas station.
Decorated in a style best described as “Former Communist Bloc Chic,” my room boasted four twin beds, jutting from the walls at random angles best described as “snaggletoothed,” all of which had to be navigated around to reach the broken TV, the disconnected phone, and the one functional light fixture out of five.
My room faced the beach, but I didn’t have “windows” overlooking the water. Or, even a window. Instead, I had one small, gloomy security door draped in swaths of stained fabric, leading out to a balcony made of balsa wood and chewing gum.
With a single glance, I knew the structure wouldn’t support the tiniest Italian, let alone my generous American ass, so I never went out there. The great irony is that although I was fifty feet from the water, I’d still have to listen to my ocean sounds app to fall asleep because, no window.
Stories I'd Tell in Bars Page 3