by Jeff Strand
I can't help but think that there will not be a second annual Tampa Bay Filmmakers To Watch Film Festival. The audiences are slightly larger for the evening screenings, reaching numbers as high as six, but the quality of the features remains somewhere between "dismal" and "Argh! My eyes! My eyes!"
One director introduces his movie with genuine passion. This guy has bucked the system, overcome countless hurdles, and made a movie with a message that he truly believes in, all on his own terms. I'm rooting for his film to be great.
His film isn't even a little great. It's actually worse than the lottery comedy. I understand that watching a bad movie is not equivalent to, for instance, starving to death in a third world nation, and that treating it as a mentally scarring experience is basically just confessing that I've had a pretty easy life up to this point. That said, sitting through this movie hurts. It hurts my eyes, my brain, and my ass, even with the pillow.
When our day of movie watching comes to an end, just after midnight, Amy gives me a tight hug and tells me how much fun she had. We're going to brave through the second day in hopes of discovering a hidden gem. All it takes is one and these events are worth it.
It doesn't feel like a kiss moment, so I don't kiss her.
And then we go our separate ways.
* * *
Craig is exactly where I expect to find him. "How was it?" he asks, not looking away from the television.
"The movies themselves were pretty bad," I say.
"That blows."
I stand there silently for a moment. I thought it was obvious from my tone that I had additional things to say about the film festival that did not relate to the movies, but Craig doesn't pick up on this.
"There was a stabbing," I say.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Eighteen dead."
"That blows."
"All at once, with one really long knife. Skewered them like shishkabobs."
Craig pauses his game. "I'm sorry, what did you say? I think I zoned out."
"I met somebody."
"Oh, shit, is she waiting outside? Should I do the dishes really quick?" I know it's not a legitimate offer, but it's nice of Craig, nevertheless.
"No, she's not here."
Craig unpauses the game. "Okay, good. Look, dude, I know I haven't been wearing pants very much lately, but if you've got a girlfriend now, I'll start putting them on again."
"I appreciate that."
"I just want you to know that you're not going to bring a chick back here and find me sitting on the couch without pants. I would never do that to you."
"Are you going to ask how we met?"
"I thought you said it was at the film festival."
"That's all the detail you want?"
Craig repauses the game. "I guess not. How'd you meet her?"
"It's not important. Her name is Amy. We're going to Rhode Island on Thursday."
"Whoa. What?"
"Rhode Island. Thursday."
"Like, to meet her family?"
"No, to get a hot dog."
Craig actually sets the game controller down on the coffee table. "I think I wasn't paying attention to an important part of this conversation. So you met a chick named Amy, and you two are flying to Rhode Island to get a hot dog?"
"Driving."
"To Rhode Island?"
"Yes."
"In February?"
"March."
"In March?"
"Yes."
"For a hot dog?"
"Yes."
"Not a lobster roll?"
"Nope."
"That's crazy. Their lobster rolls are great."
"We might have a lobster roll while we're there, but that's not the reason for the trip."
"Do they even call them hot dogs in Rhode Island? I thought they were called soggies."
"What the hell is a soggy?"
"A Rhode Island hot dog. Look it up."
I look it up on my phone. "You're right. Saugies. I guess people there use it as a generic term, but it's really a specific brand." It concerns me a bit that I didn't know the regional name of the food that I'm driving twenty-two hours each way to acquire.
"If I give you some money, will you bring me back a lobster roll?"
"Sure."
"Sweet." Craig picks up the game controller again. "She's not going to steal your kidneys, right?"
"Nah."
"You're not going to steal her kidneys, right? Don't implicate me in this shit if you are."
"You can go back to your game now."
Craig unpauses the game, then pauses it again. "By the way, I used the condoms you had in your drawer. I meant to say something sooner. I was going to replace them but I forgot, and I figured you didn't need them. I just thought you should know in case you wanted to bring them on your trip."
"You did this today?"
"No, no, a few months ago."
"The box was still there this morning." It's not that I obsessively keep track of them; I use the drawer for other things besides prophylactic storage.
"I probably should have thrown that away when I used the last one. Sorry. If you want I can go buy you another box."
"Yeah, that would be nice." I have every intention of respecting the no-sex agreement, but Craig doesn't need to know that. Pretty much any other time, my response would have been "No, no, that's okay," and Craig knows it, but for some reason I don't feel like being a pushover today.
"Now?"
"It doesn't have to be right now."
"Do you want the same brand?"
"I don't care."
"We'll stick with that brand. Those worked pretty well. They're ribbed, which I guess is a good thing."
I can't help but laugh. "You really are a terrible roommate."
"A terrible roommate who wears pants. I mean, starting tomorrow."
I decide that there's no compelling reason to keep talking to Craig. I take a shower and go to sleep.
* * *
I arrive at the hotel, wearing my film festival badge and slightly nicer clothes than I wore yesterday. The first movie of the morning is something called The Cements. Amy isn't in the screening room, but I see her walking down the hallway toward me. She waves, grins, and gives me a hug when she reaches me.
"Ready for another day of misery?" she asks.
"You bet."
"What if we changed our plans?"
"To what?"
"Are you still willing to kill your grandmother?"
"Uh...I think so."
"I was thinking about this on the drive home. Why wait until Thursday? Like you said, if we don't tweet or post on Facebook where we are, how would your boss ever know? We should do this totally spur of the moment. Leave now."
"I didn't pack any clothes."
"I did. We could share." She smiles. "Kidding. We'll just stop by your place, throw some clothes and a toothbrush into a bag, and go."
I'm not sure if I should thank some sort of deity or run away screaming. This is not standard operating procedure for a newly dating couple. I wonder if maybe she just needs a ride to New England.
"Are you sure we shouldn't just go on Thursday?" I ask. "That'll give us time to plan it out a little more."
"We can do that," Amy says. "I just thought it might be more fun to grab our things and zoom off. Spontaneity, you know?"
I'm all in favor of spontaneity. Well, okay, not really, but I'm in favor of spontaneity if it means spending more time with Amy. Still, this seems kind of extreme.
"Are we ever coming back?" I ask.
She playfully swats me on the shoulder. "Of course we're coming back."
Screw it. I'm going to go. I want to go.
"All right," I say. "Let's do this."
"Whose car should we take?"
"My car is not awesome," I admit.
"The air conditioning and heater are broken in mine."
"Mine has a weird smell."
"A noxious smell, or just weird?"
"Just wei
rd. Kind of like trail mix. But I've never had trail mix in the car." This phenomenon actually creeps me out a little. I bought the car used and got a fantastic deal, so presumably somebody could have been murdered in it, and trail mix could have been somehow involved. I do not share this thought with Amy.
"The passenger door on mine doesn't open from the inside, so you'll feel like you're being abducted, even though I promise you're not."
"Only one of my speakers works."
"Oooh," says Amy with a wince. "That could be a problem."
"I know."
"A snake died in my car. I got rid of its body, but that doesn't change what happened."
"You win," I say. "We can take mine."
Amy can't just leave her car parked at the hotel, so I follow her home. I spend the entire twenty-minute drive feeling simultaneously giddy and terrified. What if I do get busted on the dead grandmother lie? Would I lose my job, or would it be less severe disciplinary action? I certainly don't want to be terminated, but I feel that going on this trip would be worth a stern lecture and a written warning.
We arrive at her apartment complex. It's not in the best part of town, but no crack dealers open fire on us as we park. Amy climbs into the passenger seat and tosses her pink duffel bag into the back.
"It does smell like trail mix," she says.
"I know. Isn't that bizarre?"
"Sorry you had to make the extra drive. I could have just called you before we got to the hotel, but honestly, I hadn't one hundred percent made up my mind until I saw you."
"Not a problem at all. We've got a twenty-two-hour drive ahead of us, so a twenty-minute detour is nothing. And it's mostly on the way to my place anyway."
We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about how much fun this is going to be. I looked up the name of the hot dog place--Hunky Dory Dogs, which is in Providence--last night, and that is to be our only official destination. Any other stops will be exclusively on a "Hey, that looks cool!" basis.
After we park in front of my apartment building, I ask if she wants to come in with me. I'm just being polite and hoping she'll decline, but I can't rescind the offer after she says "Sure."
We walk in. Craig is asleep on the couch. He is, to my intense relief, indeed wearing pants. Pajama bottoms, technically, but as long as the shape of his penis is indiscernible to visitors, I'm okay with it.
"That guy is supposed to be there, right?" Amy asks.
I nod and we sneak past him into my bedroom.
Craig, in a rare display of ambition, has already replaced the box of condoms. It's in the center of my bed. The fucker has topped the box with a bright red bow.
I don't know the proper reaction to this. Shrieking and swatting the box off the bed doesn't seem like a good one, nor does shoving Amy back out of the room and shouting "Avert your eyes! Avert your eyes!"
"Interesting," Amy says. She kind of sounds like she might be amused, but it's sort of a tentative state of amusement, one where it's very, very important that I explain the motivation behind this gift properly, or else there will not be a trip to Hunky Dory Dogs.
I force a chuckle at the wacky oddball humor of the situation. "I told him we were going to Rhode Island together, and that reminded him that he used up all of my condoms--not that our trip should have reminded him about that; it's just the way his mind works--and so he said that he was going to replace them. He doesn't replace things very often, so I guess that's why he thought he would try to be funny and put the bow on it." Is this a good place to stop? I can't tell. I decide to forge onward. "The box was in my dresser drawer. It's been so long since I used them that I didn't even notice the box was empty. I'm not that active. Sexually. So I never had any reason to look in the box. We discussed the fact that he should have just thrown the box away, but he didn't, because he's kind of a lazy person. He'll use the last of a roll of toilet paper and then just leave the empty cardboard tube on the holder and set the new roll on the side of the bathtub. One time I was out of town for a couple of weeks and when I came back there were four empty tubes on the side of the bathtub. I should get my own place."
"Yes," Amy says. "That sounds like it might be a good idea."
CHAPTER SIX
"I don't know about the rest of you, but when an orange man with four mouths tells me it's not safe to be here, I listen."
"See, to me, it's irrelevant that he's orange."
--Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 11
I take my suitcase out of my closet, toss it on my bed, unzip it, and open it, all while making a very strong effort to ignore the condoms. I don't want to spend a lot of time mulling over my clothing choices, so I just grab two casual shirts, three sweaters, and five pairs of jeans. Five pairs of boxer shorts and five pairs of socks follow. I don't have a jacket intended for northern climates, but I've got a decent blue one, and I'll just dress in layers. Amy has not yet announced the cancellation of our adventure.
"Let me grab my toothbrush and stuff," I say, leaving the bedroom. I get a gallon-sized plastic bag from the kitchen, take a moment to glare at Craig's unconscious body, and then hurry into the bathroom for my toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, deodorant, shampoo, electric razor, charger for my electric razor, extra box of contact lenses, a bottle of aspirin...am I bringing too many toiletries? Maybe I shouldn't shave while we're gone. Well, no, I should at least keep the option open. I throw everything into the plastic bag, seal it up, and then leave the bathroom.
Craig opens his eyes. "You're home? Did I sleep through the whole day?"
"No."
"Bummer."
I ignore him and return to my bedroom. I toss the plastic bag into my suitcase and zip it back up. "Okay, I'm ready," I tell Amy, since she has yet to say anything along the lines of "I am so not getting in a car with you, and you know it."
We walk back into the living room. Craig sees Amy, and I know he's going to say something completely inappropriate.
"Hi," he says.
But he says it in a completely inappropriate manner. Craig is good at making "Hi" sound like "I'd like to bend you over this coffee table and pound away at your Xbox."
"Hi," Amy says. "The bow was a nice touch."
"Did you like that? That was a spur of the moment decision."
"It was very clever."
"If they're not the right brand, I can--"
"This is my horrible roommate Craig," I tell Amy. "I dislike him. Craig, this is Amy."
"Nice to meet you." Craig doesn't go so far as to stand up, but he does lean forward and extend his hand.
"You don't want to shake that hand," I tell Amy. "Anyway, Craig, we're leaving for Rhode Island now."
Craig looks extremely confused. "Is it Thursday?" For somebody who doesn't do drugs, he is remarkably adept at acting like a pothead.
"No. We're going early."
"What about work?"
"I'll explain everything to you when I get back."
"All right. Call me every night."
"I will."
Amy and I leave. Murdering another human being is wrong, but it also seems morally incorrect not to murder Craig at some point in the near future.
"Sorry about that," I tell her, as we walk over to my car. I pop the trunk and throw my suitcase inside.
"He seemed nice."
"He could be worse. At least he doesn't try to lick my ears while I sleep. And I'm sorry about the gift. I promise you, I had no--"
"We're going to erase that part of our history," Amy says.
"Thank you."
We get in the car. I can't believe we're really going to do this. This is completely unlike me. This is Todd 2.0. (Maybe 3.0. When I was nineteen, I did go through a phase where I spoke with a British accent.)
(An unconvincing British accent.)
(Not one person was ever fooled into thinking that the United Kingdom was my country of origin.)
(I prefer not to discuss that particular phase of my life.)
As I insert the key into t
he ignition, I suddenly feel like this is all a cruel joke. The car isn't going to start and I'm going to hear the loser theme from The Price is Right. No way am I really off to do something this exciting.
Of course, a large percentage of the world's population might suggest that going on a ridiculously long road trip just for a hot dog isn't very exciting at all. There are probably those who wouldn't travel fifteen minutes for a hot dog, much less twenty-two hours. This may be a story that I'm embarrassed to share in my later years. "Gee, Grandpa, you sure did do some lame-ass things when you were in your thirties!"
Not that it's about the hot dog, of course. It's about being with Amy. We'll find out pretty soon if we can stand to be around each other for extended periods of time. Some people don't discover this information until much later in the relationship.
The car starts just fine.
And, all of a sudden, I realize that I've spent very little time focusing on the fact that Amy is going to die.
* * *
My car is a twelve-year-old Honda Civic. It's only the second car I've ever owned, because I have no real interest in cars except as a means of transportation. I take an I'll replace this car when driving it puts me in severe physical danger approach to my vehicle. I got my first car in high school (very used) and kept driving it until the day it suddenly wouldn't go above 15 MPH on the freeway, and I spent nine terrifying miles whispering "Please, oh please, just get me home, that's all I ask!" It did, and then the poor thing never started again.
I glance up at the little reminder sticker on the corner of the windshield. I'm not overdue for an oil change, but I'm pretty close.
"I should probably get the oil changed," I say.
Amy leans over, looks at the sticker, then looks at the dashboard. "You don't really need one every 3000 miles. That's just something they say to get you to pay for more oil changes."
"I know, but now I've said it out loud. If we get stranded with engine problems, we'll have to look back at the moment where I said that I should probably get the oil changed. It will tear us apart." There's some sort of line, I assume, between being spontaneous and being kind of stupid, and if Amy judges me harshly because of my desire to responsibly change my oil before embarking on a road trip, then perhaps we weren't meant to be together.
