Curses, foiled again! “Okay, probably, so I’ll just tell you. I finally finished watching the first three seasons of Alias on DVD—that’s sixty-six episodes.”
“The show wasn’t just Jennifer Garner wearing a variety of wigs? It was actually well done?”
“Yes. Except for all the implausible situations they resolved by using satellites. Or having Sydney kick people while wearing stompy shoes.”
“Then how come every time I’ve walked in while you’re watching it’s nothing but satellites and roundhouse kicks?” He brakes rather suddenly so a woman with an SUV stroller can cross the street in front of us, against the light. God, I hate Lincoln Park. It’s the epicenter of Yuppie living in the city, with nothing but outdoor dining and dog bakeries as far as the eye can see. The junk-bond traders began migrating up here from the Gold Coast in the eighties, snapping up cheap real estate and filling their new pads with art deco Nagle prints and Duran Duran albums. Due to its proximity to the lake and public transportation, it’s been on the rise ever since then and homes that sold for $75,000 at the time are now worth $2,000,000. Which is criminal.
“Sure, sometimes the plot holes make my brain hurt, so I always drink wine while watching. Whenever Sydney gets released from a Chinese prison because Marshall makes a couple of keystrokes thousands of miles away, I take a sip of Zinfandel and it suddenly makes perfect sense.”
We turn onto Webster, right in the heart of Lincoln Park. “Let’s see, that’s sixty-six episodes times three servings per hour equals one hundred ninety-eight glasses of wine. Congratulations. You’re an inspiration to us all.”
Before I can come up with a snappy retort, I spy a Lincoln Park Trixie5 walking her pug on a harness in front of a trendy bistro, so I instead shriek, “Slug pug! Slug pug! Pug, pug, pug! I win, I win! Aiiieee!!!” and wildly flail my fists in his line of vision,6 which causes Fletch to jerk the wheel and almost plow into the entire crowd of al fresco diners. The Yuppies drop their cloth napkins and shoot us smoldering glances.
“Never do that again!” he shouts. “I practically drove into all those people! God!”
“Oh. I’m sorry. But still, I did win. Yay, me!”
He shakes his head and purses his lips. “That’s it. This is the third time you’ve almost caused an accident in Lincoln Park alone. We need a new game, because you know what goes well with foie gras and Sauternes?”
“Um, not dying?”
“Exactly. Start thinking.”
Once we get to the store, we grab a cart, pull out our Oreocentric shopping list, and begin to debate the new game while strolling down the aisles.
“Whatever we choose, I think the name should rhyme,” I tell him. “Maybe we could play Slug Chug? I’d get to hit you every time you take a drink.”
“No way.” Oh, boy, would I win that one.
I snicker. “But it would be fun for me.”
“No.”
“Okay, how about Slug Lug?”
“What the hell is Slug Lug?” he asks, loading a big bag of Arm & Hammer Fresh Step into our cart.
“That’s when we hit each other if we see someone carrying something heavy, like…cat litter!” I whack him on the shoulder and inadvertently let out a squeal of glee.
“Do it again and you’ll lose a hand. We need to agree before we play.” He rubs his shoulder. Don’t let the pearls fool you—I pack a mean right hook.
“Oh. I’m sorry.7 Let me think. How about Slug Jug? Wait, that makes no sense. How often do we see marauding bands of jugs out on Ashland Avenue? Maybe Slug Shag Rug?”
“Dumb.”
“Slug Beer Mug?”
“Dumber.”
“Slug Prescription Drug?”
“Dumbest. Hey, Jen, why do we need three packages of Oreos?”
“Because our town house is three stories tall. Duh.”
He rolls his eyes. “What was I thinking?” Fletch insists we grocery shop together ever since the time I bought three mini birthday cakes and a Star magazine for dinner. What? It was a balanced meal—I added ice cream.
“Ooh, I’ve got it!” I exclaim. “Whenever we see someone decked out in gang colors, Starter jackets, and bling, we’ll play Slug Thug! That? Would be hilarious.”
Instead of responding to my brilliant idea, Fletch looks at the speaker in the ceiling, head cocked to the side like our pit bull Maisy when we say “Doggie Park.” “Do you hear that?”
“I hear a lot of stuff, Fletch. Cash registers, squeaky shopping carts, ridiculous girls so busy barking into their cell phones about their hookups they don’t notice they keep cutting in front of us.” Glaring, I address the stupid blonde with a phone glued to her head, totally blocking access to the Frankenberry cereal and utterly oblivious to our presence. “BTW, sweetie? Bob’s not calling you back because you ‘did’ him on your first date. He thinks you’re way too easy.” No reaction. I turn back to Fletch. “See? Nothing. For God’s sake, I’m a loud, fat girl in a black-and-yellow rugby shirt—I look like a school bus. How does she not see or hear me? Do you think I’d get in trouble if I ‘accidentally’ smashed into her with a shopping cart? She wouldn’t know it was us.”
“Shh—listen!” he hisses.
“To who? Slutty McGabsalot? I’ve heard about three separate dalliances since we’ve been behind her. She practically hosted her own personal Fleet Week last Saturday. If she tells her friend she has chlamydia, we’re so out of here.”
“No, listen to the song that’s playing—it’s Whitesnake!” He points at the ceiling.
“Pardon?”
“Whitesnake.”
As a New Wave eighties girl, I was all about Madness, the Clash, and the like,8 so I never learned which hair-band was which. In my mind, the metal groups are all stuck together in a viscous cloud of Aqua Net, groupies, and bourbon. “Help me out here, Fletcher. Whitesnake—were those the we-thought-fireworks-indoors-were-a-good-idea guys?”
“Nope, that was Great White.”
“Tragic. Okay, so they were the look-at-my-pretty-face-and-teased-bouffant-and-bare-chest-lead-singer folks?”
“That was Kip Winger of Winger.”
“He was lovely, wasn’t he? Fabulous hair. So, do you mean the single-entendre-she’s-my-cherry-pie-and-here’s-a-fire-hose-just-in-case-you-didn’t-get-the-symbolism jackasses?”
“You’re thinking of Warrant.”
Wow. Fletch is a repository of shitty eighties music. I take one final guess. “Whitesnake, were they the Tawny-Kitaen-writhing-on-the-car-hood-and-making-me-feel-like-a-fat-chick-even-though-I-was-borderline-anorexic gentlemen?”
“Yeah.” He continues to listen and nod his head in time with the song.
“Did you know years later Tawny got arrested for assault? She kicked her husband in the junk with pointy shoes and then he divorced her. I guess they didn’t have their own Slug Nuts game. Too bad. Also? She’s totally not hot anymore. I saw her mug shot. Ha! Serves her right for getting ass-prints all over that lovely Jaguar. And ruining my nineteen-year-old self-esteem. Anyway, Whitesnake’s playing at Jewel Foods, what’s the big deal?”
Fletch shrugged. “For a brief moment in the eighties, those guys were rock gods. I saw them open for Mötley Crüe in 1987, and they were Led Zeppelin meets Deep Purple.”
“Hmm, fascinating.” I examine the fat content on a jar of Alfredo sauce and place it in my cart anyway.
“Whitesnake put on an incredible show—I thought they’d become legends like their predecessors. But where are they now? They’ve vanished, leaving nothing but eyeliner and acid-wash in their wake.”
“Number one, I can’t believe I married someone who’d pay to see Mötley Crüe—they’re more like Mötley Eeew.” I explode into a fit of giggles while Fletch patiently waits for me to compose myself.9 “And number two, according to all the episodes of VH1’s Behind the Music I’ve seen, the metal guys manage to hold on to their money, unlike poor bankrupt MC Hammer.10 What’s the big deal?”
“I just feel bad fo
r David Coverdale. I bet he never expected the anthems of his youth to echo through the produce aisle.”
“Unless David Coverdale’s working the register here tonight, I wouldn’t waste your sympathy. After all, he got to nail Tawny Kitaen.”
He laughs and grabs a couple of cans of refried beans. “You know that most women don’t say stuff like that, don’t you?”
“And that’s why you’re with me.” Because I? Am all about the locker-room humor.
We continue to shop, one ear cocked toward the sound system. While we wait in line for deli-sliced roast beef, we hear a Journey song. While we thump melons, we hear another. While we inspect eggs for cracks, we hear a third.
“Why does this place play so damn much Journey? I feel like I’m at a high school dance. Makes me want to feather my hair, yank the zipper up on my skintight Chic jeans with a rattail comb, and be mean to the cute boys because I’ve yet to master the fine art of flirting,” I say.
Fletch exclaims, “That’s it! Journey! Steve Perry!!” And then he punches me in the arm. Hard.
“Ow! What the hell, Fletcher?” I rub my throbbing triceps.
“I figured out our new game! Every time we hear Journey, you have to say ‘Steeeve Perry!’ the way Matt and Trey did in BASEketball.11 Whoever says it first gets to take one shot.”
“I don’t really recall most Journey songs because I didn’t listen to them. Remember? I was all about Belinda Carlisle and Madonna, back before she lost her mind.”
“Then I guess you’re going to get hit a lot.”
Wrong answer. “I hate this idea.”
“Because you’re going to lose more often than not?”
Yes. “No.”
“Would you prefer I run over a crowd of casual diners next time we play Slug Pug because you’re such a terrible winner?”
Yes. “No.”
“I’ll make you a deal—how about we keep a log? If you’re getting creamed, I’d be willing to reconsider.”
I mull over his proposition, finally deciding, “That sounds fair.”
* * *
Jen’s Steeeve Perry Victory Log
May 26, Stanley’s Fruit Market on Elston—Fletch scores with “I’ll Be Alright Without You.” I resist the urge to throw a bunch of plantains at him. (Barely.) Fletch 1, Jen 0.
May 30, Trader Joe’s on Clybourn—Fletch scores with “Wheel in the Sky.” Arrrgggh! Fletch 2, Jen 0.
June 2, Best Buy on North—Fletch three-peats with “Faithfully,” “Who’s Crying Now,” and “Separate Ways.”12 I am starting to feel a bit stabby. Fletch 3, Jen 0.
June 9, Jewel on Ashland Ave—Fletch again with “Oh Sherrie.” I actually notice it before he does but can’t tell if it’s Steve singing. “Is this him or another guy?” I ask. “Didn’t Journey have a couple of vocalists?” Fletch responds with a blow to the biceps and a jovial, “It’s Steeeve Perry!” I demand a rule change and decree that I can punch first and ask questions later when in doubt. He grudgingly acquiesces. Fletch 4, Jen 0.
That same night, Jewel on Ashland Ave—I hear a familiar song and strike an unsuspecting Fletch right in his breadbasket. “Steeeve Perry!” As he leans over the frozen vegetable bin, gasping for breath and clutching his stomach, he sputters, “That was Pearl Jam, you asshat.” Then he gets to punch me back because I’m wrong and I forfeit my win. Fletch 5, Jen still 0.
June 14, en route to post office—Fletch scores with “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” (and divorcin’ if I don’t get a legitimate hit soon). Fletch 6, Jen 0.
June 17, our living room, at the end of The Simpsons episode guest-starring Rodney Dangerfield as Mr. Burns’s son—When Fletch doesn’t realize “Any Way You Want It” is playing during the credits, I nail him in the thigh and shriek, “Steeeve Perry! Steeeve Perry! Steeeve Perry! Aiiiieeee!!”
While jumping around crowing about my great victory, I trip on the coffee table, spill my glass of wine, twist my ankle, and collapse in a puddle of Riesling. I spend the rest of the night in damp sweatpants, icing my ankle with a bag of frozen cauliflower.
And you know what? It’s totally worth it.
Jen 1.
I win! I win! I win!!
* * *
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: jen equals glenn close? not so much.
Hey, all,
The driver of the number 56 Milwaukee/Blue Line bus thinks he has a stalker now.
Specifically?
Me.
A variety of errands too banal to explain here—yes, even I have my limits—put me on the number 56 a total of five times over the course of the day. Since I’ve taken a lot of cabs lately, I’ve become accustomed to giving salutations upon entering and exiting the vehicle.
Apparently, this small politeness is not de rigueur on public transportation and speaking to the bus driver is frowned upon.
So, when the vagaries of the Chicago transit system put me on the same driver’s bus that many times in a row, I couldn’t help laughing and exclaiming to the driver, “Hey, it’s me again! I must be following you!” as I fed my card into the slot for the fourth time.
That motherfucker had the gall to look at me as though I’d just boiled his bunny.
Okay, not to blow my own horn or anything, but if I were to:
A) completely shit-can my happy marriage, and
B) start stalking a desirable member of the opposite sex, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be
C) a sixty-year-old bus driver named Jesus.
Jesus, indeed.
Jen
* * *
Loathe Thy Neighbor
My track record of befriending neighbors leaves some room for improvement. Like, Aaron Spelling’s house complete with bowling alley, discotheque, and gift-wrap-area-sized room for improvement.
I’m not really sure how this happened; I used to be great at making friends with those around me. Growing up, I was buddies with almost everyone on my street,1 and once I got to college things didn’t change much. My pals were those who lived on the same dorm floor as me,2 and my very best girlfriend was my roommate, although I’m sure had Joanna and I been paired differently, the girls we may have lived with would have fit that bill, too. And when I pledged my sorority, suddenly everyone under that roof became my BFFs.3
The fast and easy friendships from those days make sense because by residing in a college dorm or on a cul-de-sac in a subdivision, circumstances are fairly homogeneous. Whether it was having lunch in the same dining hall or playing on the same swing set, we were living similar circumstances and therefore intrinsically knew a CliffsNotes version of each other’s lives. We didn’t have to share long backstories to get a bead on our histories because they were pretty much the same. Maybe they watched Happy Days instead of Good Times,4 or they pledged Kappa instead of Pi Phi, but overall we had a real understanding of one another because we were one another.
I guess things changed after college when I moved into my first Chicago-area apartment. Suddenly I found myself living around people very different from me. We were diverse not due to ethnicity, race, or age, but because we didn’t come from a shared past; our jobs, hometowns, educations, and experiences were all vastly different and we had no instant commonalities. Proximity was no longer the pool from which I drew friends; those I made at work. Plus? Our neighbors were weirdos.
Fletch and I lived in a suburb called Palatine5 for the first few months before we worked up the nerve to move to the city proper. We had a one-bedroom place on the top floor of a decent building. Our apartment was small but well laid out and brand-new, so it felt very grown-up. One wild night we were watching The X Files and playing Scrabble6 when there was a knock at our door.
“Who could that be?” I asked. Ours was a security building and we’d yet to meet anyone who’d be comfortable enough to drop by unannounced at nine p.m. on a Friday night.
“Dunno. I�
��ll get it.” He rose from his spot on the floor and looked out the peephole while I surreptitiously swapped out my X tile for one with a vowel.7 He turned and shrugged at me before opening it. “Hi, can I help you?” he asked the guy standing at our door.
I recognized the man by the excess body fur creeping out of his shirt and up to his ears, as I believe he was half Sasquatch. I’d learned he was our downstairs neighbor because he introduced himself the day I moved in. He told me if I heard thumping, not to worry. His daughter wore a helmet to bed and sometimes she hit her head on the wall, and also, his wife had night terrors. So…yeah. I figured there were more details as to why Follicle Man and the Family Helmet Head opted for the tiny one-bedroom place, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know what they might be. (I guess circus folk have to live somewhere, right?)
“You need to keep it down. My daughter is asleep.”
“Excuse me?” Fletch and I shot confused glances at each other.
“You’re making too much noise.”
“Are you sure you mean us?” Do you think he washes himself with soap or shampoo? Really, it could go either way.
“Yes, I’m sure. The noise was coming from directly above me.”
I rose to join Fletch at the door. “Dude, are you kidding? We’re playing Scrabble. We couldn’t make less noise unless we were asleep. Or, like, dead.” God, look at all the fur on his hands. You can’t even see his skin. He’s Robin Williams hairy.
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 13
