“A bean-and-cheese burrito is only sixty-nine cents,” Jeff pushed. “You could buy three and a half burritos for that much.”
“Please, Jeff,” I pleaded, “please can I eat Kentucky Fried Chicken? I’ll just get a biscuit or some coleslaw. I need to chew something!”
“Then get a taco,” he insisted. “Maybe you should have thought about this before you spent all of your money.”
“Then just give me fifty cents for a biscuit,” I cried. “I only need a biscuit!”
“I’ll bet you wish you still had the fifteen dollars you spent to look at that dead baby!” he shouted.
I shook my head. “It was a mummy! The Cliff-Dwelling Baby was a mummy and worth every dime!”
“Your mother is never going to wear that dead-alien T-shirt!” he yelled. “You could buy a whole bucket of chicken for what you paid for it!”
I ignored him.
“You have a choice here,” Jeff said sternly. “Either you march in there and order a burrito, or you’re going to eat the Lunchables that’s still floating around in the cooler!”
Honestly, what choice did I have? Eat beans or the Cliff-Dwelling Baby. Beans or the Cliff-Dwelling Baby. Beans.
I shuffled to the counter and got another round of Pintos ’n Cheese, and Jeff placed his order for five more Wild Jungle Burritos.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the Taco Girl said. “We don’t have those anymore. The limited time expired at midnight.”
“I told you they were special!” Jeff hissed at me as I walked away with my little cup of beans on the tray, and I chuckled heartily as I raised the first spoonful to my mouth.
The Night
They Drove
Ole Laurie Down
Okay. This is what happened:
It was my friend Patti Pierson’s birthday. We were all at our favorite bar to celebrate it with him on a Thursday night.
It was what you would call a slow drinking night. I only had four bucks to my name, which equaled one solitary drink as lonely as my soul. I ordered it and put it down before the clock even reached ten, sat on a bar stool, and then felt very sorry for myself.
I decided to try several approaches to score myself some more hooch. I’m a woman, I remembered. I have feminine wiles, and, besides, I’ve seen it done in movies. Look how successful Faye Dunaway was in Barfly, she had booze available at every turn because she knew how to utilize her estrogen, and she even looked like she smelled bad. I have a chance, I convinced myself, today I used deodorant, and I also vaguely recalled brushing my teeth.
I needed to practice first, of course, so I tried to catwalk. I stood up and swayed into the bathroom, thinking, Right foot first, swing out left hip. Left foot, swing out left hip, no, right hip, no, left hip. Oh Christ, I thought, this isn’t going to work. I looked like a starving mule pulling a cart, or worse, a senior citizen missing both hips.
Damnit! I told myself, I know I can be sexy, if I can just let the sexiness out. Concentrate. Let it out, let the sexiness flow out of you, think of Gregg Allman, think of the sideburns, yes! Here it comes, here comes the sexiness, long blond hair, those beautiful shit-brown eyes, seduce, Laurie, seduce, open the floodgates of sexiness, hear it rush, oh yes, my arms are outstretched and I am Whorie Laurie.
I slinked out of the bathroom like Sharon Stone in Gertrude Stein’s body, real lustylike, and spotted my victim.
It was to be my friend John.
I leaned on the bar, lowered my head and looked up, batted my eyelashes a couple of times, smiled, as in “I WANT YOU BABY,” and winked, flying in for the kill.
“You look weird,” he said, and turned back to his beer.
DO NOT GIVE UP, the coquette in my mind screamed. KEEP BEING SEXY! WE’RE TALKING WHISKEY HERE! PRETEND HE HAS SIDEBURNS! “TIED TO THE WHIPPIN’ POST!”
I blew in his ear, so delicately, like a little, almost unnoticeable breeze.
He put his beer down, turned, and looked at me.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you forget to take your medication today?”
“I’m being carnal,” I informed him in a whisper.
“You must be drunk,” John declared. “You’re trying to be a girl. I’m not going to buy you a drink. Get a job.”
I shoved my dry ass back on the bar stool. The alcohol I had consumed wasn’t enough to get an embryo drunk, and unless I started turning tricks behind the bar, I was going to remain broke, sober, and thirsty.
Patti, on the other hand, who was two beers away from residing in an alcohol-induced coma, announced to the bar via the PA system that all one hundred fifty people in the bar were welcome at his house for his birthday party after the bar closed.
His roommate Chris, however, missed the announcement, since he was cornered by a woman who had snakes wiggling out of her head, a woman that I recognized as his ex-girlfriend, Medusa.
I watched them. Her hands flew about viciously, several times coming dangerously close to his face, and her lips beat together as quickly as the hands of a clapping monkey. He wasn’t saying a word. He stood there, dazed and mildly confused, waiting for the chance to escape. Chris glanced over at me with anxiety written all over his face, and I shrugged my shoulders. There wasn’t much I could do.
She finally took a breath, and he beat it to the bathroom, which I thought was a smooth move. But when he peeked his head out from behind the door, there she was again, animated, angry, and yelling.
He walked out of the bar with her following inches from his heels as she barked at the back of his head.
It was last call, and I had sorely missed the boat. I accepted the fact that I was not going to get another drink, Whorie Laurie or not.
The bar was emptying out, directions to Patti’s house were being screamed through the gray smoke of the bar, and I headed for my car across the street.
As I pulled out of the parking lot and stopped at the traffic light, I glanced to my left, and there was Chris again, shaking his head as Medusa screamed at him.
I rolled down the window. I could hear her now, her voice screeching like a rape whistle, flames shooting out of her mouth.
I did the only thing that I could.
“Hey, Chris,” I shouted. “You need a ride?”
“Hell, yes,” he said and ran across the street and jumped into the passenger seat.
Undaunted, Medusa charged into the street, where we were held captive by a red light. She marched right up to my side and boldly stuck her head into the open window, flooding the car with bellows and thunder.
Chris calmly reached past me, hit the button on my door, and the window began to climb. She was still shrieking like a vampire caught underneath the sun as the glass grew higher and higher, higher and higher, until the pane stopped at the skin of her throat, and her head was stuck.
It didn’t bother her; it didn’t even daunt her. She kept roaring through the threat of decapitation, she could not move, and Chris desperately wanted to finish the job. I fought him for the button as the window zipped up and down, up and down, until I finally managed to smack the palm of my hand against her forehead, dislodging her skull from my car window.
The light had turned green. Medusa was still attached to us with one of her head snakes writhing above me, still caught in the window. I pushed the button again to release the serpent, and she took that opportunity to rear back into the car like a furious grizzly, her jowls dripping with rabid saliva and her eyes the color of burning coals.
Christ Almighty, she’s going to eat us, I thought as I punched the gas pedal and tore through the yellow light as she took one last final swing and body-slammed my car.
We hadn’t traveled farther than fifty feet when circus lights began to blink in my rearview mirror.
“Oh, no,” was all Chris could say.
I pulled into the Mobil station at the nearest intersection and stopped the car. Officer Barney Fife strolled over and stuck his head into the window, which was still dripping and smeared with Medusa’s sputter.
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“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he questioned.
I shook my head.
“You had that girl’s head stuck in the window,” he informed me.
“I know,” I answered. “She wanted to eat us.”
“You were holding up traffic,” he added.
“She was going to eat us alive,” I stressed.
“Have you been drinking, Miss?” Barney asked.
Oh my God.
“Yes, I have. One drink. I only had four dollars, and I am a failure at being a whore,” I replied.
“Step out of the car, please.”
Shit, I thought, it’s never good when they ask you to step out of the car, I’ve seen this on COPS. Bad Laurie, bad Laurie, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?
“I’m going to give you a Field Sobriety Test,” he told me. “Have you had any head injuries?”
Oh God, I thought, scratching my scalp. What constitutes a head injury? I fell out of the car drunk one night and hit my head on a river rock in the yard once, no, twice; I cracked my head on the toilet another time while I was passing out; I crashed into a telephone pole in the third grade on a field trip because I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking; my mom whacked me with a hairbrush on my eleventh birthday because I bit my sister.
“I don’t think so,” I decided.
“All right. This is what you need to do,” he said. “Pretend there’s a straight line here, and I need you to, heel to toe, start out with your left foot first, place it directly in front of your right foot, heel to toe, in back of your left foot, directly along the straight, imaginary line, traveling westbound, heel to toe, nine times, not eight, not ten, swivel with the heel of your left foot, spin a cartwheel, a back flip, heel to toe, complete a Flying Dutchman, and then do a back bend. Leave your cigarette in the car, please.”
I had already practiced catwalking in the bar, so I figured that I might be able to do the drunk walk, although it seemed a little more complicated. And, if I do this, I wanted to ask him, do I get an endorsement from Wheaties? However, I recognized that this was no time to be a comedian.
I handed Chris my cigarette and began my routine, though I would have preferred to have background music, like Molly Hatchet’s “Flirtin’ with Disaster” or anything by Foghat. I began, heel to toe, heading westbound, nine times, outdid myself with a one-handed cartwheel, and flawlessly executed the back flip, although my aerial was a bit sloppy.
“Sorry,” I said when I was done, “I have a slipped disc in my back.”
Barney didn’t believe me, I could tell.
By this time, two other patrolmen had stopped by to join the fun of administering a drunk test to a sober girl, the lights of their cars flying about, transforming the Mobil station into a full-fledged carnival.
“She’s drunk,” I saw them agree as Barney and his security guards with real guns, Goober and Gomer, nodded their heads in unison. “That girl smells like a still.”
I had failed the coordination test. I failed it. And I was sober as the day I was goddamned born. They decided to proceed onward to the technical “pen and light” test, for which none of them was certified but they gave to me anyway.
It was at this point that I noticed all of the cars migrating to Patti’s house, all the occupants of which recognized me in the Mobil parking lot, which by now had enough cops in it bugging me to qualify as a homicide scene. Some of the people I knew in those cars even waved at me after they honked.
Goober came forth with a Bic pen and flashlight in hand, and told me to follow the pen with my eyes without moving my head. He started off slowly, moving the pen to his right, my left, then moving it back, and all of a sudden the pen started whizzing around, darting back and forth, up and down, sideways, like the lights of a crazed UFO. I thought Goober was having a seizure, so I just plain stopped trying to play his game and looked him dead in the eye.
“I AM NOT DRUNK,” I said sternly. If I was, the drunk test would have seemed like a lot more fun than it really was.
Goober, Gomer, and Barney huddled together, rock, paper, scissors, and in the third round they decided that maybe I was telling the truth.
“I’m going to give you a warning,” Barney declared. “Don’t hold up traffic anymore. You know, that third car behind you completely missed the light.”
“That sucks,” I said sympathetically.
“And don’t do any more drinking!” he added.
“I can’t,” I replied. “I’ve run out of money, charm, and, apparently, luck.”
I looked at Chris. He looked like he had lost a gallon of blood.
I lit another cigarette as we pulled out of the gas station and joined the caravan of cars headed to Patti’s place. I realized then that I was lucky that I had absolutely no sex appeal whatsoever; if I had, I, without a doubt, would have been drunk, cuffed, and on my way to a new life and new job in the prison laundry.
Well, it might not have been so bad; maybe I could have found myself a nice girl and finally settled down.
This Is a
Public Service
Announcement
I hate public bathrooms.
I love and respect the sanctity of my own home potty; it may be as dirty as a truck stop, but at least I know the filth is mine, and I am free to do as I please or need. The fear of having to use a public bathroom is so horrible that I will do just about anything to avoid it.
When I was in sixth grade, my mother made me sign up for Girl Scout camp, and when I got there, I knew I was in for a long haul. The only way the facilities remotely qualified for the term rest room was because there was a light switch and a swinging bare bulb; other than that luxury, it was an outhouse, a long stream of port-o-potties lined in a row that smelled like the 4-H exhibit at the state fair on a hot day. The acoustics were incredible, and nearly echoed. What choice did I have? I held it for nearly two weeks and probably should have been hospitalized when I got home, but the pain that shot through my body when my intestines finally seized was nothing compared to the shame of pushing out a plopper within earshot of fifty Girl Scouts.
Even as an adult, I’ve noticed that some people don’t play by the rules and terrorize other people in the potty. I have therefore documented several bathroom terrorists that have tormented me and countless other potty hostages, forcing us to hold it for unnatural periods of time. If you see yourself in any of the descriptions below, seek help. Cease your awful behavior before I am forced to do it for you.
Because I will.
The Trespasser: This violator is no friendly neighbor. She seeks pleasure by invading audio and aroma space of an already occupied unit by ignoring the “One-Stall Cushion” rule. She blatantly chooses the one next to it, despite groups of other available units within the vicinity. This action will automatically cease the operations being conducted in the already occupied stall, causing health risks and alarm. From a personal perspective, I can tell you that I try to use my turn-on/shut-off valve as little as possible so I don’t wear it out and become incontinent by my next birthday, because they don’t have transplants for those, you know. Try this catchphrase to remind you: “Beware of Fart, Stay One Apart.”
The Hoverer: Perhaps to avoid using a time-consuming potty protector, perhaps to mark her territory, this offender won’t let her bottom touch the seat, although it’s perfectly OK if her by-products do. Now, the target area of a bowl is rather generous, so the reasons for a misfire are rather mysterious to me, unless the participant is completely standing up and aiming from a corner. Hovering is never, NEVER acceptable behavior unless you just dug a hole in the forest. Remember this the next time you’re tempted to resist a complete landing: “Don’t Leave Your Mark, Just Sit Down and Park.”
The Talker: Easily identifiable as the office chatterbox, the powers of this malefactor increase in strength once you are trapped in the same room and you’re half naked. Starting off with something as innocuous as “How are you?” the Talker pers
ists in conversation until your gastrointestinal system has recoiled and everyone else in the bathroom has discovered that your mom is a lesbian, your husband has left you, and there’s a wart on your left hand. Words of caution: SILENCIO! Once the door closes on that stall, I am a nameless entity. If I am at work, I do not exist as Laurie your coworker, Laurie in the car pool, or the Girl That Everyone Hates. I am simply the Anonymous Pee-er. Do not attempt to make conversation with me. Do not ask me questions, and especially do not say, “BOY! Indian food again, huh?” When considering opening your mouth, let this come to mind: “Hear Me Unzip, Button Your Lip!”
The Waiter: Pity the Waiter. Unlike the others on this list, the Waiter is no criminal, sadly just a victim. Typically, the Waiter has urgent emergencies at hand, yet is too polite and thoughtful to shoot off a missile while others are present. The Waiter is often in pain, clutching her abdomen in order to keep her organs from exploding. She is minutes away from death. Unfortunately, many don’t recognize the symptoms of a Waiter and hang around the bathroom like it was a free-sample booth at Costco. If you suspect there is a Waiter in your presence, leave immediately. If you are a Waiter yourself and sense that you are engaged in something of a Mexican standoff with another Waiter, call a truce, count to three, courtesy flush for background noise, then release. Offer to exit first, but only with the promise that the rival Waiter will not emerge until you have cleared the premises, lest you see each other’s face. Don’t forget now: “Silence, No Doubt; Just Get the Hell Out.”
The Primper: If the Waiter has a mortal enemy, it is the Primper. I hate the Primper. HATE THE PRIMPER! If there’s a horrifying sound a Waiter never wants to hear, it’s the THUMP of a purse on the counter. Then the digging sound of the Primper’s claws trying to find makeup, hairbrushes, and perfume. You see, I feel that if you cannot complete your prep work by the time you leave your house in the morning, you have completely forfeited your right to do so at any other point in the day. Your opportunity is over and you have lost your chance. Once, I was stuck in a bathroom waiting for a Primper to leave while my intestines threatened to shoot out of my belly button for hours. By the time the ordeal was over, it was dark outside, and everyone in my office thought I had gone home. So the next time you plop that feed bag next to the sink, recall: “Face of a Gnome? Do Your Makeup at Home!”