by Jeff Strand
"Ouch."
"Yeah. And it's not like we rushed into the wedding or anything. We met in high school, but we dated for four years before we got married. Anyway, it was my fault."
I wait for her to elaborate. I don't think it would be appropriate to use "Did you cheat on him?" as my follow-up question.
She doesn't elaborate, so I come up with a different follow-up question. "Any kids?"
She shakes her head. "You?"
"Nope. Do you want any?"
For a split second, her face is overcome with intense sadness. She recovers quickly and smiles. "It's not going to happen for me."
Another inappropriate thing to ask about: her uterus. I move to safer territory. "What are your favorite TV shows?"
"Have you ever seen Exit Red?"
"I love that show! I never miss an episode. I mean, I sometimes miss an episode, but I always watch it on DVR. One of the best shows of all time."
"Only one of?"
"Top ten, easily."
"Best ever," Amy says. "Cheesy dialogue and all. It is the greatest thing society has ever created. No offense to Shakespeare and Thomas Edison and all of those other smart productive people, but Exit Red is the pinnacle of achievement. I'm obsessed with it."
Exit Red is about a group of eight archaeologists who discover a cave in South America. The cave contains countless portals, and when you step through one, you find yourself on a different continent, in a different time, or even in a different dimension. Unfortunately for those poor archaeologists, the things they do after going through a portal have an impact on the real, current world, and they've really made a mess of things.
The show follows the efforts of the archaeologists to put things back to the way they were before they started interfering with forces they didn't understand. In any given episode, the characters are split between various eras and locations. The portals have an inconvenient habit of disappearing, so our heroes often have to befriend/fight with/be kidnapped by the locals (human or otherwise) to find them again.
The show is heavily serialized, with a jaw-dropping cliffhanger at the end of almost every episode. Everybody agrees that the first season was brilliant. The second season was even better. With the third season, it started to lose its way, as the show continued to introduce new mysteries and complications without resolving enough of the old ones, and the fourth season sucked donkey balls. But with the fifth season it got completely back on track. The sixth season, which has only eight episodes left, will be the final one, with creator/executive producer Blake Remark promising that all of our questions will be answered.
It's a great show. It hasn't had blockbuster ratings since the second season, but there's a hardcore loyal fan base keeping it alive.
"Are you caught up?" Amy asks. "I don't want to ruin anything."
"Yep."
"Could you believe that Alicia shot Darwan? I know she was defending her son and all, but holy crap!"
Exit Red is not afraid to kill off its characters. Only three members of the original cast are still on the show, though occasionally the departed reprise their roles in flashbacks, as hallucinations, or in other dimensions.
Our discussion of Exit Red lasts until the entrees arrive. I already loved the show, but Amy's enthusiasm makes me want to watch the whole series again from the beginning to catch the details I missed.
"Oh, jeez, this is good," says Amy, chewing on her first bite of shrimp cocktail. "I mean, this is really, really good. I don't know what they did to these shrimp, but they're delicious."
I take a bite of my salmon. It's pretty darn tasty. I'm thankful that our first date won't end with projectile vomiting.
"Do you think they'll be able to pull off a satisfying ending?" I ask. "Because they've got a lot of loose ends to wrap up."
Amy nods. "Sometimes it feels like they're making it up as they go along, but apparently there's always been a top-secret high-level outline of everything that's going to happen. They've promised they won't leave us hanging. And the final episodes are already done."
"Well, we'll find in two months if we've wasted our lives."
"I hope so."
I'm not sure what she means by that. Amy eats another shrimp, then leans forward. "It's always hard to decide when to share certain things with people," she says, speaking quietly. "You know, like an STD--which I don't have, don't worry. Do you say it right away, in case it turns out to be a deal-breaker, or does it come off like 'Whoa! Too much information!' if you say it too soon? I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet. So I apologize if this is uncomfortable, but I want to get this out before you invest too much time in me."
"Are you dying?" I ask.
She pops another shrimp into her mouth. "Yeah."
"Seriously?"
She taps her forehead. "Brain aneurysm. Right behind the eye. Unruptured but inoperable. This sucker is gonna pop."
"Jesus."
"I hope I didn't mess up our meal. For all I know, you don't even like me that much, and we'll never see each other again after today. But, I don't know, if there's a second or third date it just seems kind of mean to suddenly say 'Oh, by the way, this is a short-term relationship.' Maybe it's egotistical of me to think that it'll upset you. But it's out there now. Please eat your salmon."
I take another bite of my salmon. It doesn't taste quite as good anymore. I don't think it's just because this piece didn't have as much of the dill cream sauce.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Please tell me that dead body on our floor isn't Ben Franklin."
--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 12
I'm glad she told me, but yeah, the meal is suddenly awkward. I think to myself, At least she didn't say she had herpes, and then I feel guilty, because I'm relatively certain that most people, given the choice, would take herpes over a brain aneurysm.
"How long do you have?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Nobody can say. It's hard to put a timer on this kind of thing. Could be as long as a year from now. Could be tomorrow. I might never find out how Exit Red all turns out. Is that a bummer or what?"
"Isn't there anything they can do?"
"Nope. There are medical procedures, like one where they cut open your head and pinch part of your brain with a clothespin to keep the blood from flowing into it, but it's not an option for me. I'm at the point where if they poke around in there, there's a really good chance it could pop early and then I'd lose what little time I've got left."
"You're kidding about the clothespin, right?"
"Yes, but it really is like a clothespin. It's a tiny metal clip that they leave in your brain forever. I'd be so much less lonely if I had it; I know how much you guys dig chicks with brain clips."
"That's hawt," I say.
"I know, right? Body piercings, tramp-stamps...none of that can compare to having doctors cut through the back of your skull to put a clip on an artery in your brain. I would be the most metal chick in the bar." She shrugs. "But they can't do it for me, so the point is kind of moot."
"I'm sorry." Even though I truly mean it, I've never been able to say the non-apology version of "I'm sorry" without sounding insincere. I can't get the inflection right.
Amy shrugs again. "I've come to terms with it. God is well aware of my opinion on the matter."
"So what do you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you still work?"
"Sure. I can't just quit my job. I'd die sooner if I couldn't buy food."
"Do you like your job?"
"Not really. Customer service. Makes me feel better about being anti-social."
"You don't go around checking items off your bucket list?"
"I haven't really been in a skydiving, go to Paris, learn to play guitar, or Brad Pitt/George Clooney threesome mood lately. This film festival is really the first time I've gone out in a while." She smiles. "I sound like a real prize, don't I? Whoa, did you ever hit the jackpot with the depressed dying girl. At least I'm getting everything out there rig
ht away."
"Unless it's a cover for even worse stuff," I say. "Tell the truth, how many stuffed dead husbands do you keep in your closet?"
"I find that question offensive. I've never kept more than one dead husband in my closet at a time, and I would never stuff them. That's just gross. I properly dispose of their bodies after a few weeks, like any civilized human being."
"My mistake."
"And I don't marry every man I kill. That would be way too much work."
"Not if you reuse the dress."
"Have you ever planned a wedding? There's a lot more to it than just picking out a dress."
"Well, if you were going to kill the groom anyway, I figured you'd just do a quickie wedding at Vegas."
Amy shakes her head. "No, no, no, you don't understand anything. The groom doesn't know he's going to die. Some of them want their families to see them make this lifelong commitment. Maybe one in three will go for the Vegas idea, but that leaves two in three who refuse to elope, so you're still looking at a huge amount of time spent planning these things. That's no way to live."
"You're right," I admit. "I don't understand how the world works."
"I should say not."
I think for a moment, but I don't have any more jokes to add to this comedy routine. We should probably let it drop.
"Anyway," says Amy, "I mentioned this because I wanted to make it less of a big deal, not more of one. Let's talk about other stuff besides giant unruptured saccular aneurysms. What's your favorite music?"
I don't like to talk about music, because my musical tastes are shamefully narrow. I basically listen to the same nine or ten albums over and over. My iPod, which was a Christmas gift from my mom, is maybe four percent full.
"Wait, let me ask you one more thing," I say. "Let's pretend your bucket list only had one item. What's the one thing you would do?"
"The Brad Pitt/George Clooney threesome."
"I figured."
"I'm just kidding. It would be Nathan Fillion and Neil Patrick Harris. And yes, I know that Neil Patrick Harris is gay, but in the real world, I have as much chance of being with him as I would if he were hetero."
"Okay, so how about a non-fantasy thing?"
"Paris. Generic, I know, but I'd love to go. What about you? What would you do?"
"I don't know," I say. "Travel."
"Too vague. Where?"
"Europe?"
"Still too vague."
"Ireland."
"Getting closer."
"Or maybe New Zealand."
"New Zealand isn't in Europe."
"I know. I switched continents."
"Okay."
"Do you want me to make an embarrassing confession?" I ask.
"Oh, hell yeah."
"A few years ago I was watching this show on one of those all-food-stuff networks. One of those where they go around to different junk food places."
"Man V. Food?"
"Not that one, but like that. They went to a dumpy little hot dog place in Rhode Island, basically just a shack, and it had all of these weird toppings. Since I saw that I've always wanted to go there."
"So your bucket list is to go get a hot dog?"
"Yeah."
"That's awesome."
"No, when you think about it, it really isn't."
"I disagree," Amy says. "Can you imagine how great it would be to drive from Florida to Rhode Island just to get a hot dog? It's the most frivolous trip I can think of. Why haven't you done that?"
"I guess because it's the most frivolous trip I can think of." I'm kind of ashamed to have said it out loud. What a loser.
"I would totally do that. Hot dogs are a fun food. It's not like you're driving that far for something snobby. Nobody can be in a bad mood when they're eating a hot dog. I think it's a great idea."
"Do you want to go with me?" The words are out of my mouth before my brain has had the opportunity to consider and reject them.
"Sure."
"Seriously?"
"Sure. It would be a blast."
"How far is it to Rhode Island?"
"You've never mapped it out?"
I take out my cell phone. My pulse is pounding at a dangerously rapid rate, and I wonder if I'm going to die of a heart attack long before Amy dies of her brain aneurysm. What the hell did I just do? I can't drive all the way to Rhode Island with a woman I met today. That's utterly freaking insane.
I enter the details on my map app. "Almost twenty-two hours."
"Who else in history has driven twenty-two hours for a hot dog? You'd be a pioneer."
"You're messing with me, right?"
"Not at all. I'm serious about doing this. I need an adventure."
"I can't drive that far."
"Why not?"
"I don't have the vacation time."
"How much time do you have?"
"One day."
"D'oh!"
"I go through it pretty quick. I don't think I've ever had time left between the middle of March and the end of December."
"Can you call in sick?"
"My sick days and my vacation days are part of the same pool."
"That bites. What do you use it on?"
"Being sick."
"Really?"
"Feeling sick. Maybe not actually being sick." I'm over-sharing. I'm self-aware enough to know that I'm a hypochondriac, but I shouldn't be blabbing this to Amy.
"One big advantage a brain aneurysm has over cancer is that it doesn't eat up all of your sick time," Amy says. "When do you get off work on Friday?"
"Four-fifteen."
"And when do you start on Monday?"
"Seven-thirty."
"All right, that gives you...seven hours and forty-five minutes on Friday, plus twenty-four hours, plus twenty-four, plus seven and a half...twenty-four plus twenty-four is forty-eight, seven plus seven is fourteen, plus another hour and fifteen minutes, so that's...forty-eight, fifty-eight, sixty-two, sixty-three hours and fifteen minutes. See, you could do it without even using any vacation days, if you had somebody to help you drive. And if you took your last day you'd have all the time in the world. Think about it."
I'm thinking about it. A road trip with Amy sounds incredible. Yet I can't help think about the whole I wouldn't want to be part of any club that would have me as a member concept, although my version is Any woman who would want to go on a road trip with me this soon after meeting me must have dismemberment on her mind.
Or maybe it doesn't have to be slaughter. She could just be a con artist. I'll wake up in a rest stop in Atlanta without my wallet or my car.
She seems to realize what I'm thinking. "I just want you to know, I don't make a habit out of going on road trips with strange guys. I've never done this before. I'm not that kind of girl."
Okay, I was thinking homicidal maniac, but she was thinking slut.
"I understand."
"I'm just comfortable around you. You're obviously a nice guy. And we'd both have fun."
It is better to regret the things you've done than the things you haven't done. I've never lived my life by that mantra. It seems like a good way to totally fuck things up for yourself. Climbers with broken legs freezing to death on Mount Everest aren't thinking, "Well, at least I won't regret not doing this!"
But I'm pretty sure I will regret this if I don't do it.
"Okay," I tell her. "I'm in. We're going to get a hot dog in Rhode Island."
She breaks into a huge grin. "This is so cool."
"Can you get Friday off? Instead of doing this as an endurance test, I'll just use my last day and we can leave Thursday afternoon."
"Sounds good. I never go anywhere or do anything, so I've got plenty of vacation time. And even if I did go places or do things, it's only March."
"Or..." Now it's my turn to propose something crazy. "Technically, I can get three days for bereavement."
"Holy shit! Don't kill your grandmother on my behalf!"
"My grandparents were all dead
before I even graduated high school, but my boss doesn't know that. She wouldn't make me bring in a death certificate or anything. As long as I don't do something stupid like post where I am on Facebook, I think it could work."
"Are you sure you won't get fired?"
"I'll be fine."
"No. I'm okay with being a bad influence, but I'm not going to be responsible for you losing your job. We'll go on Thursday."
I nod, but now I'm really attracted to the whole fake dead grandmother idea. If I'm going to throw caution to the wind and live life without a safety net, why not start immediately?
No, this idea is stupid. And morally wrong. If I pretend that my grandmother is dead, somebody close to me will die for real. I can wait until Thursday.
Anyway, my car needs a tune-up and probably new tires, or else we'll be spending our spur of the moment vacation standing on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck.
"All right," I say. "Looks like we're having a second date."
"I'll do half of the driving and pay for half of the gas," Amy says. "One of us can sleep while the other one drives."
"Works for me."
"And no sex."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to that, so I say, "Works for me" again, which is not all that great of a response.
"It's not anything personal," Amy explains. "If we set a no-sex rule from the beginning, then we won't spend the whole trip wondering if it's going to happen. This is just about the hot dog." She grins. "That sounded wrong, didn't it? What I mean is that I want this to be a fun, relaxing trip, and not complicate it with a bunch of sexual tension. We're just two friends going on an adventure. Fair enough?"
"Sounds good to me." I didn't actually think I would be getting laid on this trip, so it's not a devastating clause to add to the contract. Virtually every social situation I am a part of ends without me having intercourse.
"Great!" Amy finally returns her attention to the shrimp cocktail that she's been neglecting. "I can't wait!"
CHAPTER FIVE
"Any last words before I shoot you in the face?"
"Nah, I'm good."
"Seriously? Nothing?"
"Nope. Let's do this."
--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 3