Good Vibrations

by Elizabeth Parrish

  “Lady?” I was vaguely aware of a gruff, heavily accented, voice muttering at me from the peripheral of my consciousness and I turned to find the driver waving a Kleenex in my general direction.

  Well now, perhaps there were still gentlemen in this world after all.

  “Thank you so much, that’s very kind of you,” I said, genuinely moved by his thoughtfulness as I started to dab my eyes.

  “No, no, to clean seat!” the cabbie muttered at me crossly, gesticulating menacingly with his hand in the direction of the wet spot my tears had left on the seat of the cab.

  That’s it; I am so done with men!

  Seeing that we were pulling up to a light, I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “Thank you but your services are no longer required,” as I dropped my fare on the seat before hopping out and slamming the door in disgust.

  Then, as the cab angrily peeled away from the light with its tires screeching, the skies opened up in typically Vancouver fashion and large pellets of rain almost immediately drenched me to the skin.

  Seriously?

  Whoever’s at the controls up there, if I did something to piss you off, let me know what I need to do to make it up to you because ruining my suede shoes and stealing the best prospect I’ve had in years on Valentine’s Day is a bit more than this girl can take!

  The course of true love never did run smooth – William Shakespeare

  48. Later that day (the exact time being a bit nebulous as I had consumed a tiny bit of wine upon the conclusion of my slog home), I found myself collapsed on the couch with Kahlua squeezed in tightly next to me, helping to ensure that none of the Chunky Monkey escaped the two chunky monkeys which had taken up residence on the couch.

  It was truly amazing how animals could instinctively figure out when something was wrong and know not to leave your side. If only the male species could somehow evolve some semblance of those skills; the world might be a much less traumatic place.

  “I’ve heard that most guys actually like a little junk in the trunk. At this rate, that can only help our prospects down the line,” I noted to Kahlua as she licked a drop of melted ice cream from the outside of the bucket before stretching out and purring contentedly.

  I’ll take that as agreement.

  “You would never let your career get in the way of our relationship would you,” I continued, my voice going squeaky as I playfully rubbed her giant furry belly.

  In response, Kahlua rubbed her head against my thigh, her audible purr undoubtedly signifying her assent.

  Speaking of the less evolved half of humanity, I could feel my phone vibrating yet again. Jonathan’s constant stream of messages was making it pretty clear that he desperately wanted to come over and talk before he left.

  As I stared at his latest plea to meet up, I asked Kahlua, “What do you think, should I let the bastard come over? I’m sure I won’t say anything that I would regret later. I’m usually pretty articulate in these situations, right?” The words were emerging ponderously as my tongue had started to feel a bit thicker than normal.

  Kahlua rolled vigorously from side to side on her back, apparently very much in disagreement with that notion.

  “Well really, what do you know about matters of the heart? I haven’t seen a boy so much as sniffing around you in years,” I continued, as I playfully scratched her head.

  I knew that I was probably going to regret it if I didn’t talk to Jonathan before he left, but my babbling, somewhat one sided, conversation with Kahlua had left me fairly certain that I was in no condition to talk to anyone that was capable of requiring a response.

  Plus, there had been nothing in his texts so far that gave me any reassurance that talking in person was going to change anything, and the idea of getting hurt again was more than I could bear.

  Hmm, perhaps texting would be safer? At least that way I would have time to think about my replies, and I wouldn’t just be blurting out the first thought that popped into my head. Really, what could go wrong?

  Having concluded that my approach was virtually foolproof, I fired off a very benign response to his repeated requests to meet which read:

  Hi, I’m sorry I ran off like that but your news was completely unexpected. It really upset me and I didn’t want to make a scene in the restaurant. I’m not sure meeting in person is a good idea to fight.

  There, nice and safe, no harm done. But perhaps it was time for another glass of wine to calm the nerves a bit…

  A few minutes, and sips, later, I felt my phone vibrate with his reply:

  I understand, and I didn’t mean to break that news to you so abruptly. I wanted to sit down later in private to tell you, but when it came up at the restaurant, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to meet up to fight though. I just wanted to talk things through and to properly say goodbye.

  To fight? What on earth was he talking about? Oops, I see now. That was supposed to be “tonight”.

  Fricking auto-correct.

  Wait a minute, he wants to say goodbye? So he is breaking up with me?

  With my heart pounding furiously in my chest, I quickly banged out a response; all my good intentions about providing carefully crafted responses having immediately flown out the window as I sent out the following:

  What happened to you wanting to see me when you get back? If you’re staying goodbye, I don’t need you to break up with me in person. And that was supposed to be tonight, not to fight!

  This was not going well at all!

  I could have sworn that he had said he wanted to at least meet up again when he got back but my memory was starting to get a bit cloudy.

  And why was Kahlua swaying back and forth all of a sudden?

  The silly cat looked like she was drunk!

  I had put my iPod on random and, wouldn’t you know it, it seemed to be feeling my pain. As Gotye came on, I couldn’t help belting out a few lines as I weaved unsteadily around the living room.

  “Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over,

  But had me believing that it was always something that I’d done,

  But I don’t want to live that way,

  Reading into every word you say,”

  I had unintentionally been increasing my volume a bit with each line before I crashed back onto the couch, causing Kahlua to glare at me as I sobbed, “Now you’re just somebody that I used to know,” softly into the pillow.

  A few minutes later, I was jolted back to semi-consciousness by the harsh vibrations of my phone alerting me to the following:

  I’m a bit confused about you saying goodbye if I’m staying? I honestly can’t stay. I would if there was any way that I could. I’m not sure what you mean about breaking up tonight, but I don’t want to fight either. I just wanted to see you in person before my trip. I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I’m completely open to picking things up where we left off whenever I get back.

  Staying? What is he talking about? Oooh wait, I see now. I guess that last text didn’t turn out to be quite as eloquent as it had sounded in my head, but the letters on my phone seemed to be shrinking all of a sudden.

  Well, I’ve got to be able to improve on that! With my fingers moving ponderously, I managed to fire off this articulate retort:

  You should’ve assed me stay. This night not supposed about fights suck. See you before I trip too. Pick me up!

  Why was it that I had thought texting was a good idea again?

  And who was dimming the lights all of a sudden?

  If you are going through hell, keep going – Sir Winston Churchill

  49. The next morning, I groggily emerged from my slumber to find blinding sunlight streaming into the room and searing my rather dry, irritated retinas.

  I moaned in agony as I attempted in vain to shelter my eyes, wondering what had possessed me to leave my bedroom curtains open. Then, as I cracked one eye open just enough to shed some light on the situation, it slowly dawned on me that I had never made it back to my room l
ast night, and that I had instead passed out on the couch.

  As I raised a hand to my face to rub the sleep out of my eyes, I made a horrifying discovery. Peering out into the sunlight, I realized that my right hand was covered in some sort of, caked on, brown goo.

  I sat up, startled, wondering just what exactly had happened the night before. After my eyes eventually came into focus, I spotted a, mostly empty, ice cream cartoon lying on the floor and I quickly deduced where my hand had come to rest when I blissfully parted ways with consciousness the night before.

  It’s a really proud moment when you realize that you’re capable of indulging to the point that even submerging one of your limbs into a frozen food product wasn’t enough to shock you out of your stupor.

  Suddenly, an even more horrifying thought crossed my mind; just what else had I managed to get up to last night?

  Spotting my cell phone lying in the middle of the floor, I summoned all the energy I could muster and I reached out to grab it.

  Taking a deep breath and uttering a short prayer, I began surveying my increasingly nonsensical texts to Jonathan from the previous night.

  If my head hadn’t already been pounding like it had a Viking trying to drive a spike through it, it sure would have been after I had a chance to look at my texts.

  Yikes!

  Who could have known that drinking and texting could potentially be a toxic combination?

  Scrolling down to the end of my messages, I saw that Jonathan had, very wisely, declined to respond to my final communiqué after I had parted ways with consciousness for the night.

  Glancing back at my phone, it dawned on me that I had also managed to sleep (yes, that might be a charitable term for it) well past Jonathan’s departure time.

  The thought of not seeing him again for a couple of months, if ever, did nothing to moderate my misery. Making things even worse was the realization that, even after reviewing his texts, I still didn’t really know where things stood between us.

  If only he just thought I was fat, or something else that I could control. It’s not like I could realistically up and move to a country that I couldn’t even spell, yet alone find on a map.

  Then again, I didn’t mean enough to him for him to even ask me to wait for him, so that’s got to be some sort of sign, right?

  Fuck it, no sense in dwelling on something that I can’t change.

  Besides, no matter how much this hurts right now, at least I got to remember what it was like to feel something real for a change. Maybe I can convince myself that this pain is better than being stuck at a restaurant with someone I can barely tolerate, trying to force myself to try and forget about all the things that I actually want in a relationship.

  No, instead I get to contemplate how whether I might have messed up pretty much the exact relationship I wanted.

  Frick.

  Well, I’m not going to spend the next two or three months moping around, hoping for the best when he gets back.

  If Jonathan wants me, he can fight for me. Until then, the world is my oyster!

  And speaking of oysters, the washroom beckons yet again…

  God gave man both a penis and a brain, but unfortunately not enough blood supply to run both at the same time – Robin Williams

  50. The next day, the lingering effects of my hangover were making my Monday morning even more unbearable than normal, much to the chagrin of several motorists unlucky enough to share my route to work with me that morning.

  However, my mood quickly brightened when I realized that I would be starting off my last week of servitude under Maggie with a personal favourite of mine; George Elliott.

  George was a rather non-descript, paunchy, balding salesperson who works for some large IT service company. If you’re currently thinking to yourself, not exactly the eye candy I could use right about now; you would be correct.

  However, perhaps due to the realization that both his appearance, and his job, were about as bland as the paint in our offices, George insisted on meandering through life dressed as, and acting like, an urban cowboy; right down to his enormous, bushy, handlebar mustache.

  He had previously shown up to his appointments dressed in everything from boots complete with spurs, to a bolo tie and a cowboy hat. Even more amusingly, he also appeared to have taken a liking to me as he flirted shamelessly with me every time he had an appointment.

  At least you couldn’t fault the guy for his taste in women.

  Today he had arrived sporting a black, wide brimmed cowboy hat and a ridiculously large belt buckle complete with mini six shooters engraved on either side.

  “Well hello darlin, aren’t y’all looking mighty purdy today,” he greeted me with a horrific attempt at a Texas drawl as he stepped up to the edge of the reception desk, leaning over on his elbows in a blatant attempt to gaze down my blouse.

  Luckily for him, my ego was in need of a little pick me up wherever I happened to find it today.

  “Hey George, let me guess; you finally got plugs and the hat is so you can surprise me on my last day with you?” I replied, bantering playfully with him.

  “Today’s your last day here? he responded despondently, the disappointment plainly evident on his face.

  “And no such luck on the plugs until I get done with this process and handing over half of my hard earned cash, but if today’s the last time I get the pleasure of your company, maybe I can take you out after and show you how to fire off some rounds?” he responded, comically twirling one of the tiny imitation pistols on his belt with a finger.

  Leaning forward slightly on my side of the desk, inviting him in a bit closer with one finger as I stuck my chest out ever so subtly, I responded saucily, “George, I would love to take you up on that offer, but when I fire off a guy’s gun…” my voice trailing off as I paused momentarily for effect, “I need something that packs a bit more of a kick than what you’re currently displaying down there.”

  As Veronica unsuccessfully tried to stifle a snort of laughter, I continued, “I really prefer something that I can wrap both hands around, if you know what I mean,” before giving George a salacious wink.

  Thankfully for George, whose face had by that time gone almost as red as his plaid shirt, Maggie had come out to collect him for his session and rescued him from us.

  “Back to work ladies,” she scolded us coolly under her breath as she walked past, frowning disapprovingly at Veronica’s bright pink face as she wiped away a tear of laughter.

  “Maggie’s going to lose her mind if George ever tells her what you just said,” Veronica whispered to me, giggling furiously as she tried her best to compose herself.

  “No doubt,” I replied, “but I’m pretty sure that the highlight of his week is trying out lines on me, so I’m willing to bet that he’s only half listening to Maggie while he tries to come up with something witty to say to me on his way out.”

  Sure enough, an hour and a half later and $600 lighter, George walked out of the conference room and immediately saddled right up to my desk, twirling his moustache theatrically as he said, “Darlin’, I only wear a belt buckle this size so as to not intimidate anyone with the size of my own equipment.”

  “That might be,” I replied, “but George, I could never go out with a cowboy,” I noted breathlessly, pausing for effect before continuing, “they only want to ride for 8 seconds before they get off.”