Drive Me Crazy

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Think about it,’ he yells to us as he dashes off.

  ‘You should go,’ I tell Danny as he puts his shirt back on. ‘That’s the kind of thing you were hoping to get out of this trip. I really don’t mind if you go.’

  ‘Why won’t you come?’ he asks me, raising his eyebrows expectantly, like I might be able to give him an answer that he’ll accept. ‘I find it enriches my life, to go Batman on a regular basis.’

  I pull a face at him, letting him know I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  ‘Going Batman – taking care of business during the day, before taking on the nightlife at night.’

  ‘Not my scene,’ I tell him.

  ‘Why isn’t it your scene?’

  ‘It just isn’t,’ I insist.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You’re like a child, you know that?’

  ‘And you’re like an old lady,’ he tells me. ‘What’s the worst that could happen? It’s like you’re scared of letting your hair down.’

  ‘I’m not scared. Just because I choose not to have wild nights out, doesn’t mean I’m not capable of them.’

  ‘Fine then, don’t come,’ he sings, and if this is reverse psychology, annoyingly, it’s working.

  ‘Fine. I’ll go. But if I do this, you have to promise to get off my back for the rest of the week because you are like a broken flipping record with this.’

  ‘Deal,’ he says, jumping up and punching the air. ‘I’ll go find Caz and tell her. You won’t regret this,’ he calls back to me as he jogs off.

  ‘I hope not,’ I say quietly to myself.

  Chapter 16

  My body aches from head to toe. It’s that kind of uncomfortable feeling you sometimes get, that can only be righted by moving…but I can’t move.

  Perhaps my balance is off – maybe something is wrong with my inner ear, my trip across the Irish Sea having messed with my head. This is definitely the worst headache I have ever had in my life, I know that for sure. So bad, I’m scared to open my eyes, let alone get out of bed. That’s when I realise that I don’t remember going to bed… Come to think of it, this doesn’t feel much like a bed that I’m lying face down on. It’s too hard.

  I raise my head with great care before slowly opening my eyes. Not only am I in the back of the Love Bug, but I’m lying face down on top of Danny, cuddled up on his bare chest like we’re replicating a black and white photo of a proud, handsome dad with his newborn. He’s fast asleep, looking quite peaceful and comfortable, but I can’t help freaking out the second I realise where I am, who is under me and just how little of the previous night I actually remember.

  As I attempt to jump up, all I achieve is a bump on my head courtesy of the roof of the car, not only making my epic headache much worse, but also sending me back down towards Danny, my face stopping just inches from his as he wakes up. He doesn’t seem as alarmed by our close proximity as I do, and as I freak out on top of him, he gently holds me still by my arms.

  ‘Candy, calm down, you’re flailing like a cat trapped in a ball pool,’ Danny says as he tries to keep me still.

  I pause for a moment. I have too many unanswered questions to calm down though, like how did we wind up sleeping in the back of Danny’s little two-door car? Why am I on top of him? Why is he shirtless? I glance down at my own body. My skirt is rolled up and my shirt is unbuttoned and tied under my boobs, like a cross between Britney Spears in the ‘Baby One More Time’ video and a rebellious schoolgirl, tarting up her outfit once she’s safely out of the sight of her parents. Why the hell am I dressed like Britney circa 1999 and, worse still, behaving like Britney circa 2007?

  None of these questions are the one I ask out loud though. Oh no, the question I ask Danny – while still sitting on top of him – is: ‘My arse is killing me – what the fuck did we do last night?’

  ‘Well we didn’t do that,’ he says with a cheeky laugh. ‘I’d remember that.’

  I stare at him in horror. ‘I’m serious,’ I insist. ‘My skin is stinging and burning; I’ve never felt anything like it.’

  Danny yawns a loud, exaggerated yawn. As he stretches his arms out as far as he can in such a confined space, he seems truly relaxed, like his night out did him good. I scoot off him onto one of the seats, so he pulls his legs closer to his side of the car, so that we’re no longer touching or so squashed up together.

  ‘What are you fucking smiling about?’ I ask, angrily.

  ‘You, sailor mouth.’ He laughs. ‘You’re swearing like a motherfucker. We broke you. Well, I suspect we didn’t break you, I think we just broke down whatever wall you’d put up to stop the “fucks” and the “arses” slipping out.’

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ I snap, wincing in pain now that I’m sitting on my bum. ‘Will you have a look for me, see what I’ve done?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danny replies in an instant, clearly not about to waste his one and only opportunity to see a part of my body that I would normally keep hidden from acquaintances.

  I flip over onto all fours, so that my bum is pointing in Danny’s direction, pulling my pants down slowly enough so that I only have to show him as much as is absolutely necessary. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’ve clearly injured my self somehow, and it needs checking out. Oh, God, what if I need to go A&E? I feel my cheeks (my face, that is) flush with embarrassment.

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ Danny says cautiously. ‘I think you must have met Mr Right last night.’

  ‘W-what? What do you mean?’ I stutter.

  ‘You have a tattoo on your arse that says “Mr Right”.’

  ‘No!’ I gasp.

  ‘Yep,’ Danny says, stifling a laugh.

  I don’t believe him, so as I spot my phone on the floor of the car I grab it and ask him to take a photo. As Danny obliges, there’s a knock on the window.

  ‘You can’t do that here,’ the hotel car park attendant advises us as he stares at us both in the back seat, Danny taking pictures of my arse.

  ‘No, we’re not – ’ I call after him, but he’s already gone.

  Danny is laughing uncontrollably now as he hands me my phone. Sure enough, in a pretty swirly, girly font and surrounded by hearts is my new tattoo: ‘Mr Wright’.

  When I asked the universe for a Mr Right, I feel like it wasn’t really listening. That’ll teach me to take the piss out of cosmic ordering.

  I delete the picture as quickly as possible, not only to get it out of my sight, but because, somehow, if the picture no longer exists, maybe my mistake won’t either. As I shift in my seat and feel the stinging pain, I am reminded of how real this is, and how there’s no way I can put what I’ve done to my behind, behind me.

  ‘Why do I have Snapchat?’ I ask Danny, noticing it on my phone’s home screen.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he starts. ‘Caz told us to download it, remember?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Yeah, she said the nights get pretty wild, so everyone adds everyone on Snapchat, they keep their stories updated all night and then the next day, everyone can see what everyone got up to before the images and videos self-destruct. Then they all pretend it never happened.’ He laughs.

  ‘How do I check my story?’ I ask.

  Danny taps my screen a few times.

  ‘You don’t have one,’ he tells me, and I exhale with relief. ‘But you see all these bubbles? These are the stories from the people we were with last night.’

  I glance down the long list of usernames, not a single one of them sounding even remotely familiar to me.

  ‘Oh God,’ I whine.

  ‘Come on,’ Danny insists, excited to see the video evidence of the wild night out that neither of us remembers. ‘It’s like taking off a plaster. Grip it and rip it.’

  The first few photos and videos aren’t so bad, just lots of general silly, drunken antics in a variety of different bars. To be honest, I’m yet to spot myself or Danny in any of them, which relaxes me a little. Then I spot us, a photo of Danny a
nd me, Dowdy stood between us with an arm wrapped around us both, and a huge grin on his face. We’re standing outside a place called The North West Pole, which I easily deduce from the neon pink lit sign behind us. Then, as we watch more pieces of the puzzle, I realise that we’re in a strip club. Danny sniggers to himself quietly as we watch, but I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Were the videos not playing out in front of my eyes, I never would’ve believed it.

  ‘Oh my God, look at you,’ I squeak when a video of Danny starts playing. I laugh at him, up on the stage dancing to Nelly Furtado’s ‘Maneater’ with one of the dancers. He’s wearing a white suit shirt and a black tie that I don’t remember him starting the night in, while his lady friend keeps it simple in nothing but her bra, a skirt and a short blue wig. It’s safe to say that Danny has no rhythm, but neither does the dancer who clearly made poor choices at some point in her life, and who is clumsily grinding against him.

  After suffering so much already today, I allow myself a moment to enjoy Danny’s shame – not that he seems at all ashamed by his antics, he’s actually amused, but that won’t stop me rubbing it in.

  ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to touch the girls, you dirty old man,’ I tease him. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t throw you out.’

  But then, as we see more video footage of the same moment from a different angle, I realise that the blue-wig-wearing girl in the video – the one who clearly made poor life choices at some point – is me. Danny notices this too and erupts with laughter like I have never heard before.

  ‘I broke you,’ he laughs. ‘I did it. I got you absolutely fucking mortal and I broke your good-girl act. And on the first night. Yes!’

  I am speechless. Motionless. I want to tell him to go fuck himself; I want to punch him for leading me astray like this. Instead, I just watch. I just gaze in amazement at the sight of this person who looks just like me slut-dropping, alternating dancing on the pole with dancing all over Danny – twerking!

  ‘We look like a budget version of Miley Cyrus and Robin Thicke,’ I say softly. ‘Only equally as embarrassing.’

  Danny’s laughter slowly calms down. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he chuckles. ‘I look awesome.’

  I take a break from piecing together the puzzle that is last night.

  ‘More, more,’ Danny insists.

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ I insist, moving to get comfortable, my arse killing me. My body is still aching from head to toe, but the burning feeling Mr Wright left me with is by far the worst. I massage my temples as Danny stares at me expectantly, excited to learn more.

  I resume watching the stories. There isn’t a video, but there’s a photograph that makes it look like we were subsequently removed from the club, possibly due to mine and Danny’s commandeering of the stage.

  Suddenly, a small group of us are in the tattoo parlour. With several people having things done, I realise why so many of the Manx employees have so many tattoos, because they have wild nights like this. It’s like they don’t realise that tattoos are for ever! Then again, I can’t say anything, not with my new butt ink. As I judge these human colouring books for their tattoos, the harsh reality of what I have done is hit home when I see a photo of me, bending over, showing off my ‘Mr Wright’ ink before turning to face the camera with tears in my eyes to announce that I ‘love it’.

  ‘Look at you crying.’ Danny laughs. ‘You big baby.’

  Then we cut to a video of Danny getting inked on his finger, the buzzing of the needle completely drowned out by his howls of pain.

  ‘Says you, tough guy.’

  Danny examines his hand in front of his face, removing the cling film from his right index finger to reveal a moustache tattoo.

  ‘Wow, you basic bitch.’ I laugh at him. Well, there’s no sense in reserving my swearing for my inner monologue now. This little mortifying archive of information has almost turned into a competition now, Danny and I getting off on watching the other doing increasingly stupid things.

  ‘OK, bro, I’d say we’re pretty even with the stupid shit.’ He laughs.

  ‘I guess we are,’ I reply. ‘And you say these self-destruct?’

  ‘They most certainly do,’ he tells me. ‘Twenty-four hours after they are posted, they will be gone for ever, so rest assured.’

  ‘Just one more to go,’ I tell him. It’s interesting, to watch different people’s stories from the same night. It’s like solving a murder mystery. Sometimes you just get the same version of events, but from a different angle – an angle that can often be far more revealing. Other times you see an entirely different version of events from a different part of the room. I have to admit, this is a pretty genius idea for remembering the events of a night out, although not something I would practice. It’s a good way to fill in a few blanks, but I could’ve lived a much happier life without the knowledge that I twerked on a lubricated pole while wearing a blue wig.

  ‘That’s my username,’ Danny says excitedly, noting the last name on the list.

  We watch as the night evolves, playing out pretty much the same as it did in all the other stories, except thankfully this one doesn’t include our little performance because Danny was too busy dancing to try and capture any Kodak moments. Then we get to the part of the night where we visit the tattoo parlour. Danny has caught the moment Caz dragged me up to the front desk, to explain to the man what I ‘want’ done.

  ‘She’s been through a lot,’ I hear Caz explain. ‘She wants something strong and powerful.’

  That’s how we landed on ‘Mr Wright’? – that doesn’t make any sense.

  ‘Rihanna has this huge goddess across her ribcage. She wants that,’ Caz says, showing the tattooist her phone.

  I nod, like a drunken fool, before backtracking a little. Good girl, Candice. Be smart. ‘Maybe just the name,’ I chirp. ‘And not on my ribs, like, on my wrist.’

  Suddenly, the story is towards the end of the night. It’s daylight, and Danny and I are in the back of his car, singing ‘Love Shack’ together.

  ‘I didn’t realise I knew all the words to “Love Shack”,’ I say, puzzled.

  ‘You clearly don’t.’ Danny laughs.

  The last thing the video shows is Danny presenting me with an ugly, chunky, gold bangle, telling me that he found it, and that I’d need it. Then the video ends.

  ‘Well, it could’ve been worse,’ Danny muses. ‘Much, much worse.’

  Danny flips the driver’s seat and climbs out of the car. I follow him. As I grab the side of the car to steady my achy body, I notice the disgusting second-hand bangle still on my wrist. Finally out of the car, it is only as I go to remove it that I spy the telling cling film underneath it. Danny notices me notice it.

  ‘That’ll be your Rihanna goddess tattoo,’ he tells me as he stretches his arms in the air, stiff from a night of dancing and a morning of sleeping in the car. ‘Which goddess was it, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not a huge Rihanna fan, surprisingly,’ I snap. ‘And I can’t remember a fucking thing.’

  That’s not strictly true; little bits are coming back to me. Especially since watching the video, just seeing the occasional trigger causes memories – that I would rather suppress – to come flooding back. That said, I don’t remember the tattoo, but I’m glad that I went for the name in a small size on my wrist, rather than the goddess herself emblazoned across my body.

  I remove the bangle before slowly peeling off the cling film, and that’s when the true horror of my poor choices hits me like a ton of bricks.

  ‘You OK?’ Danny asks, clearly having seen the look on my face.

  ‘I…I have an Isis tattoo,’ I tell him.

  Danny’s eyes light up, and he looks like he might burst with joy. If this is a competition, and the winner is the person who finishes the night significantly less mortified than the other, then I am certainly the loser.

  ‘I have an Isis tattoo!’

  ‘Isis is the goddess of fertility and motherhood,’ he says as he chuckles
, to try and make me feel better.

  ‘It’s also the name of a militant group who aren’t exactly getting the best press right now,’ I tell him, as though there is a chance he might not know. ‘Not everyone has heard of the goddess, Isis. Everyone has heard of the other Isis.’

  Unable to hold back a second longer, Danny erupts with laugher, throwing his head back. He calms, but only a little, his laughter steadily continuing. He literally slaps his thigh as he chuckles, his eyes red and so bloodshot they look like they might burst.

  It’s amazing how different Danny and I are. What I see as a series of terrible mistakes during a difficult time of my life that have left me absolutely mortified, Danny sees as a great night out. A victory. Both a good time and the successful demolition of my good reputation. Everything he could’ve hoped for.

  As I watch him laugh, relishing in my misery, I feel an anger growing inside me. This is all his doing. He goaded me into this night out, into drinking too much, into doing all of this stupid stuff.

  ‘This is all your fault,’ I say angrily.

  ‘I told you to get an Isis tattoo?’ He chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes.

  ‘No, the bigger picture. This was supposed to be a business trip and you’ve turned it into a fucking stag do.’

  OK, so it wasn’t supposed to be a business trip, it was supposed to be a romantic getaway. I can’t say as much to Danny, but it’s all the same. He’s turned this into The Hangover-fucking-4, creating the perfect storm scenario to ensure my downfall, and all for his amusement.

  ‘It was fun,’ he insists. ‘You had fun. The videos prove it – watch them again.’

  ‘I never want to see them again,’ I insist, deleting the app. Interacting with my phone only serves as a reminder that Will hasn’t texted me back, which only angers me further.

  ‘It’s done, don’t worry about it,’ he says, talking to me like the hysterical woman I most likely am being. ‘Chill out.’

  ‘You’re so cluelessly aloof,’ I tell him as I pace back and forth in front of his car.

  ‘No, you’re too much of a stress head.’ He laughs. ‘Just calm down.’