“Booty Calls and Chips, Who Knows the Difference?”


When it comes to work, I have something to be grateful for.
I believe Chips N Salsa are responsible for a booty call.
He said he wanted them from the restaurant I work, heated in his microwave, and so I brought them, pretty sure he was ordering me into his house for a night out, or at least my ego would like to believe that, for God’s sake.
It was a random malfunction of untimely events that the two most spontaneous people by nature would collide, Harpua being the only other person I know who doesn’t know what he is doing from one hour to the next. I am notorious for this so it makes me laugh to ask, “What you doing tonight?” to be returned with the obvious text being, “I have no idea.” I laugh because that is what I am supposed to say, and do, so our attempts to meet up never happen, until last night.
At once, the ingredients of getting off work, the girls not having school linked Harpua’s unplanned chain of events to me, an episode of “COPS” just waiting to happen.
Here are some of the highlights.
Harpua orders Oatmeal Cookie shots, ignoring the fact I say, “ABSOLUTELY no JAGER,” signaling back to me that a “teeny” bit of jager doesn’t count.
His local bar, and by local, I mean we walk to it as if it were a trip to the basement from your living room couch. Ridiculous.
No one should be that close to liquor, or a jukebox, at any given moment.
It gets him banned for playing too much Phish, which I love him for that, and me screaming Alanis Morrisette at the top of my lungs with a random older black dude. That guy was awesome.
We bonded at the jukebox, him stumped still over that one song where she starts off slow and has lyrics that have to do with her headed up stairs, just to jolt into shouting rage. What is the name of that damn song?
We never did find it, but I would love to know who invented the jukebox, a genius move, so on top of chips, I am thankful for jukeboxes.
The elevator taking him back to his apartment was suddenly stopped by a ridiculously drunk dude. It is rather precarious to be in a stunning Buckhead tower, elevator adorned with mirrors and touches of gold, unbelievable views, and front desk security to be interrupted by a stranger stopping the door on his floor with his hand in dramatic flair, yelling, “SNORTING OXYCONTIN IS THE WAY TO GO!”
Of course, a friend of Harpua.
So, we were informed of a mission, to find the DVD, “The Last Waltz” because the INXS party had to be stopped.
The INXS party, hosted by a woman with three inch cowgirl boots and no pants with a thong, was happier to see me than any family member I have ever known, yelling and hugging me, her first words to me were, “I am going to be a fat bride.”
The adorable man that reminded me of a Koala bear kept telling her to put some fucking pants on, who I soon pieced together was her fiance, the two of them were in a week getting married in Vegas.
He was apologizing for the mess, cigarette in hand, upset that it was going to smell like cigarettes the next day, in attempt to clean, dumping a whole box of Chinese food all over the floor.
I laughed, noticing one guy on the phone in intense conversation on the couch, with his eyes closed.
Harpua was being humped by Cowgirl, a fact that was cool with Koala bear, except that she had no fucking pants on, he said over and over, asking for advice as to how he was going to marry a chick who wouldn’t wear pants.
This just made her slap her own ass, fall over, and pass out, face first, next to me on the couch. Koala, the fiance, pulled her shirt down a half inch, patted her back, motioning the control towards the t.v., people shouting at “Chatty Kathy” to stop talking, his eyes still shut.
No one hesitated. Let “The Last Waltz” begin.
It WAS awesome. The wasted commentary made my sides hurt from laughter, the music was incredible, the singing along horrific, the night ending by me begging Harpua not to let anyone stop our elevator door.
I had a blast, not being the Circus for once, but coming to visit it, Harpua in town. We had breakfast with fluffy french toast and bananas surrounded by cages of exotic birds, all saying hello and goodbye.
It was then I found out that Cowgirl was a playboy centerfold, but even more entertaining, a rocket scientist, some kind of brilliant engineer of chemical formulas she works to find solutions for lubrication, or something like that. The Koala fiance, a lawyer.
Who knew?
I told Harpua not to text or call me, EVER, which is what I always tell him, who laughs in response, a total agreement.
Of course it doesn’t make sense.
It is just our way, two childhood friends colliding, mysterious chemistry drowned by bold statements made to each other, both our fingers pointing to lines clearly made in the sand. I was certainly not the woman for him, unable to produce six kids and undo my divorce and two offspring, which I agree as well, pointing out I could not live like a circus monkey, his life ridiculously absurd and beautiful, but just for a visit, not for a stay.
But there is a spark that somehow keeps it rolling, a text floating here or there, landing, a chemistry I can’t see, but feel, an illusion, but not. “If I’m inside your head, don’t believe what you might have read,” I hear him singing on his balcony, in his tower in the night sky, his glass of wine next to his bare feet.
It is good advice, in perfect tune, and so I try not to read his mind, but instead close my eyes. He is inside my head, and I may be just a memory fading away, a disappearance on a long list of short lived acts, but I hope I am wrong. I want to believe the reality I will always visit his tower, waste my time, and when he sings, I will always dance to his songs.

One thought on ““Booty Calls and Chips, Who Knows the Difference?”

  1. add this to the screenplay. i can envision this scene. something out of “lost in translation”.

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