You've Probably Never Heard Of Us
I’m still half asleep, in bed with Little Miss Fuck and Run laying on my chest, when she sort of bolts up.
“Oh, shit, it’s my parents.”
It takes me a second to register what is going on. My mind flashes back to the summer after high school, when my buddy and I were picked up by these two girls in Georgetown, Washington DC. After 15 minutes of talking on the street, these two girls and their beta orbiter walk us back to his car, we start riding back to one of the girl’s place in suburban Virginia. Beta Orbiter is driving, my buddy is up in the front seat with his girl, and I’m in the back seat with mine. As we get further and further away from the Metro station, I, being the ever responsible one, ask innocently: “uh, how are we going to get home?” I ask Beta Orbiter, “are you driving us back later?” I can see Beta Orbiter through the rear view mirror, a look of pure hate crossing his face, and he says “well I’m not driving you back.”
So we reach girl number one’s place and get out, my buddy and girl number one are on her bed, I’m with girl number two on the couch, and every body has a grand old time for an hour or so, and everyone dozes off. At some point just at dawn, we can hear someone coming down the stairs. “Oh shit, it’s my dad,” says girl number one. “You guys, quick, hide.”
My buddy says, “hide? Where?”
Girl number one thinks for a split second, and says, “in the closet.”
So there we go, my buddy and I huddle in this girl’s closet, barely able to fit behind the sliding doors. If Daddy decides to check, he’ll see two scraggly looking 19 year old boys, covering our junk, like something out of a college comedy film you’d see on cable late at night. Daddy comes into the room, we’re holding our breath, and after giving the girls a bit of a talking to for making noise so early, Daddy goes back upstairs, the girls bring us our clothes and hustle us out the back door.
Great. So we’re 40, 50 – who knows? – how many miles from a DC Metro station, somewhere in suburban Virginia, in some ritzy neighborhood, walking around in the early dawn trying to figure out how to get back. We find a main road and just start walking, hitchhiking and hoping someone will pick us up. Not 15 minutes later, we see flashing lights, Mr. Cop pulls up behind us and gets out.
“What are you boys doing this time of morning in this neighborhood?”
I snap out of it, hunt around for my clothes while Little Miss Fuck and Run grabs her cell phone and calls her parents who are buzzing the door. “Daddy, I just got out of the shower, let me get dressed and I’ll come get you.” She looks at me, “let me hold them off, you can go out the other way.” So we get dressed, I sneak down the apartment building hallway towards the back door, exit the building and can see, in the distance, Little Miss Fuck and Run helping Daddy and Mommy get something out of their car. A Lexus, no less. Rich girls, they love the adventure.
That would be the last time I see Little Miss Fuck and Run for months. We had our first fight the next day. She wants to come out with me to the Hipster Bar where I met her, but I had plans to go out with Whisperer and her friends. I know enough that parading around Little Miss Fuck and Run in front of Whisperer’s friends, divorced women in their 40s, will just be cause for trouble. Little Miss Fuck and Run is 22, they wouldn’t get along anyway. Well, she thinks I’m “hiding” her from my older, more sophisticated friends, like I’m embarrassed of her. How do I explain this to her? It’s impossible. She says, “I don’t see this going anywhere” and stops answering my texts. Ah well, easy come, easy go.
So I’m in Jersey, driving back from lunch with Mr. Spooky when he starts asking me the most bizarre questions. What do I think of the “conspiracy theory” that says the government can control the weather? What do I think of the recent mini-quake that happened weeks before the anniversary of The Event? By the way, am I Jewish?
It doesn’t take long to figure out what he’s asking me, what he’s trying to get me to open up about. I had suspected this from the beginning, but had convinced myself I was just paranoid. But the little things kept popping up. After I had posted more info online one night, the next day he’s angry, complaining that I don’t understand what a tight deadline we’re under, and how I might have to work nights too. I’m not “getting” the seriousness of the contract. My worst fears are being confirmed.
It all goes back to the day Crazy Bitch showed up again. Her timing was incredible. I hadn’t talked to her in a year. But nevertheless, weeks after the Times Square Bombing, the day after I surprise everyone at work by resigning, I’m in the apartment and I hear a knock on the door. I couldn’t believe it. There Crazy Bitch was, wearing my favorite jeans, the ones she knows I can’t keep my hands off of her when she’s wearing them. She looks, well, hot. I am immediately filled with pure lust, but also pissed. I’m standing at the open door, she standing on the other side in the hallway.
“Well you stopped speaking to me. I figured I would say hi.”
It’s a volatile mix of anger and lust. I look at her silently for a second. My first impulse is to slam the door in her face. But she looks really hot and I’m really turned on. So I just grab her hand and drag her inside.
To Be Continued