While he gathered the rest of the empties, I sobered up for a second. Was it a terrible idea to go off with some strange young-adult bar back to an undisclosed location in an unfamiliar town to smoke pot? I looked at my phone like it was an oracle, but all I saw was that there were no new messages and no missed calls.
Dark Pony returned with a faded jean jacket on.
“Let’s go,” I said.
His place was a classic college boy’s apartment—stark and beige. There wasn’t one piece of art on the walls. I opened the fridge to look for a Brita only to find a pizza box containing no pizza and a bottle of ketchup so ancient it had stratified into dark-red and brown layers. We sat on his beige futon and shared a joint. Usually I can keep my composure through just about anything, but his pot was like nothing I’d ever smoked before, and I felt beyond fucked-up after two quick hits. My hands turned to ice. Paranoia overtook me, and I was suddenly very self-conscious. I began to question everything: Did Dark Pony see my set tonight? Did he think it was funny? He didn’t mention anything. Did he find me attractive? Or did he think I was too old for him? Why are women still not respected enough in comedy? I need Joan Rivers to talk me down. Why don’t I have more female role models? Should I wait another night before I try anything with him?
A male voice interrupted my runaway train of thought to ask, “Do you wanna do a gravity bong?”
“Yeah, okay.”
A gravity bong was not as glamorous as it sounded. He brought out a two-liter soda bottle that was cut in half with the cap fashioned into a bowl for the marijuana and placed it in a bucket of water. He told me to “watch and learn” as he lit the cap. The bottle rose up in the water as it filled with smoke. He cleared his throat in preparation, unscrewed the cap, placed his mouth on the lip of the bottle, and sucked back a half-liter THC cloud, as the bottle top fell back into the bucket due to . . . gravity. After my first hit, I felt closer to Sir Isaac Newton than ever before. The beige futon was sinking. My skin itched and my clothes felt too tight. My head was heavy and hot, and I felt really slow and dumb, as if I were encased in half-chilled Jell-O. Maybe everything would be better if I laid down with Dark Pony . . . or maybe I needed some chamomile tea and a banana. Instead, I wrapped my lips around the mouth of the soda bong and inhaled deeply, slipping further down the introspective rabbit hole. Now I thought about how even my nieces in Calgary owned houses with backyards. I was so behind in life. I should be in my hotel room working on a pitch for a reality show, but instead I was breathing in crack-laced pot through a Canada Dry bottle with a stoned pony boy. I needed serious help.
Dark Pony asked if I’d like to see a cool video. Yes, I need a distraction, perfect. I nodded, he smiled, and everything was okay for a moment. He put in a DVD and pressed play. I expected porn. What I got was video footage from a live Devo concert, but just the drum cam. That’s right: a two-hour recording from the point of view of the drummer. Then my high little pony did the unimaginable. He reached under the futon, pulled out a pair of drumsticks, and began to air drum along. I wanted to scream, “Please Dark Pony, stop! With every second you’re making it harder and harder for me to sleep with you, so could you please not air drum?!” It also dawned on me that I might be too messed up to have sex with Johnny Depp, let alone this guy. It was time to reassess and retreat. Interrupting his percussion solo, I asked if he could call me a cab. He laughed.
“There are no cabs around here. Don’t worry, I’ll drive you.”
He excused himself to the bathroom. It was going to be okay. We’d make out tomorrow, right? I could still play like the kids, just not tonight. I was pacing myself. I had all week.
He took his time in the bathroom. I could hear running water, and it sounded like maybe he was brushing his teeth? Then I put two and two together; he was preparing for the car make out. Yes! Maybe I wasn’t too fucked-up. Maybe the night was just getting started. He finally emerged, smelling slightly of mint, and it turned me on. We slid into his car, the pony express, full of potential.
As he stuck the key into the ignition, he asked, “So, I don’t see a ring. Are you married?”
“No, I’m not married!” I was a little insulted, but also found it incredible that he presumed that I would cheat on my husband with him. Yeah, I’m going to throw a lifetime commitment away on a guy who plays air drums. Don’t flatter yourself, buddy.
At the first red light, I took stock of the situation again. I had a small opening to make this happen. I placed a hand on his leg, he looked at me intently—god, he was young—and we started kissing. We both had dry mouth so it wasn’t fabulous, but I did find it exhilarating. It was like robbing a bank and being told I was pretty at the same time. Hands started moving, clothes were stretching . . . and then the light turned green.
He stepped on the gas, and I noticed that I was grinning hard while staring out at the road ahead of us, trying to maximize the rush from speeding and kissing. We zipped down the empty streets, and at the next stoplight we made out again. As we sped off the second time, I noticed that red and blue lights were bouncing off the windshield. It looked beautiful. Wait a second—why were there red and blue lights bouncing off the windshield?
Out of the back window I could see a police car right behind us, flashing its lights for us to pull over.
“Fuck,” muttered Dark Pony. “I’m going to pull over. Okay? Fuck. But it’ll be cool; they have nothing on me.”
Before I could ask what the hell he was talking about, a knuckle tapped on the driver’s window and flashlights shone in on either side of the car. My body tensed as I realized that I couldn’t remember what this guy’s real name was. Dark Pony rolled down his window.
“Hello, Michael.”
That’s right. His name was Michael. How could I forget that name?
Wait. Why did the cop know his name?
Michael stepped out of the car, and through the window I watched him get cuffed and escorted back to the police car. This was not good. Who was this guy? What was he wanted for? What had I been smoking? I jumped out of the car onto the street with the idea that I’d walk to an intersection and find a cab. Immediately, a police officer ran toward me yelling, “Ma’am! You wait right there, ma’am!” He had a thick Southern accent, but without the charm.
“I need to get home. I need to get a cab back to my hotel!” I fake-blubbered, playing the damsel in distress.
“I need you to get back in the car, ma’am.” He took me for more of a crack whore.
I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been in any trouble with the cops before, except for one speeding ticket. Being from Canada I’d forgotten that pot was taken very seriously in parts of America. Didn’t they refuse John Lennon at the border because of pot? And he was a fucking Beatle! What chance did I have? Oh my god, I was going to get deported for drugs all because I didn’t want to face my empty hotel room.
“Get back in the car for now, ma’am, and we’ll let you know when you can go, okay?” he said, this time a little softer.
I nodded and stepped back into the car. I waited a few minutes, sweating, shaking, and feeling pathetic. I didn’t even know who my one call from jail would be to. The opening act? He did give me his business card.
There was a knock on my window. It was the cop.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to search your bag and your person.”
“Why?”
The officer repeated what he was going to do, and I got out of the car.
“I’m sorry,” I said while handing him my purse. He halfheartedly rummaged through it, like a rented security guard at an office building.
“I’d pat you down, but it would be hard to hide something in pants that tight.” The sexist remark made me feel better. Somehow it humanized the experience, and I could tell that he was trying to be nice.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I wanted to playfully reply, “Why do you ask, officer?” but I wasn’t so sure the copper and I were ready to joke around yet.
“No, I met him tonight. I’m a comic, and he drove me home because I was drinking a lot.” I wondered if he could smell the weed on me. I prayed that my Lady Mitchum Spring Rain deodorant overpowered it.
“You’re a comic, huh? Are you funny?”
Really? I was going to have to prove my comedic worth to a police officer who was trying to bust me for drugs? Incredible.
“I’m just okay,” I replied, with my best self-deprecating delivery. Sympathy seemed the best way to go.
“I do a show, get way too drunk, and agree to let this guy drive me home. Now I’m talking to the police at 3:00 AM. And it’s only Tuesday!” I needed to make it sound like this never happens. But then I giggled, and it turned into a bout of uncontrollable giggling because of the stress and tension, and because I was STILL HIGH OUT OF MY HEAD.
“I’m really, really drunk,” I said, trying to cover. One thing for sure, there was no law against being a dumb, inebriated passenger with tight pants on.
“Well, ma’am, you need to be a little bit more careful about who you drink with.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll try to come see your show this weekend?”
I was amazed that things had changed so drastically that I was going to offer him free tickets in exchange for my freedom.
“Yes, sir. That would be great.” Please don’t deport me.
“I’m going to go check on your friend here so we can figure out how we’re going to get you back to your hotel. Why don’t you get back in the car and wait.”
I slumped back into the bucket seat, fatigued as if I’d finished an intense performance. I wanted nothing more than to go back to my shitty hotel room and bask in my loneliness.
Two minutes later the driver’s door opened, and there was the dark pony—or Michael. Unshackled. He seemed relaxed, like it was all a little boring and routine for him. He didn’t say a thing.
“What the hell happened?!” I demanded.
“They thought they could get me on drugs, but they didn’t have anything on me so they had to let me go. Gave me a ticket for having a busted tail light. Assholes.”
“They searched my bag!” I said, like I was too classy of a lady for that kind of treatment. I guess I should have thought of that when I was sucking on a gravity bong.
“Yeah, well, they didn’t have anything on either of us.”
Don’t pull me into your weird criminal world because I kissed you.
“Man, I’m so glad I did a little meth before I left the apartment.”
“What?” I looked at him for clarification. Pot was one thing, but crystal meth? Jesus. And then I got it. He didn’t spend twenty minutes in the bathroom getting all pretty for me; he just wanted to snort some crystal in the comfort of his own home. Great! I felt deceived, defeated, and dehydrated.
Finally, we pulled into my hotel driveway. I was no longer stoned. I was gloomy. He put the car in park.
“I could use a drink. How about you?” Was he kidding? No. He was twenty-two.
“I think I need to go to bed.”
“Oh yeah? Can I come up?”
“I think I need a break,” I said as a bit of a joke, but I also meant it. This game was way into overtime. The flip-flopping all night long was too taxing: it’s on, it’s off, it’s back on, it’s the police.
I should have laid out the itinerary at the bar: “Listen, we’re going to go back to your place, we’ll smoke a joint, make out, have some decent foreplay, subpar sex, and then you’ll drive me home before breakfast. Got it? Good. And grab two bottles of water before we leave. I get thirsty.”
I kissed him good-bye, on the cheek, and seconds later I was back at my hotel room door where I’d started. Nothing much had changed except I’d made out with a meth addict and talked shop with a North Carolina cop. My self-esteem clicked one notch lower. Two more notches until “Failed Suicide Attempt.” I still had some breathing room.
I slept most of the next day, and then slowly made my way to the club, hungover and looking a little rough. I said hi to the hostess as I walked in.
“I heard you had one crazy night last night,” she remarked. I guess that was how this town worked: Everyone was in everyone’s business. That’s how it stayed exciting. I tried to order a Diet Coke from the waitress, but I couldn’t seem to get her attention. Whatever.
The show started and the crowd seemed pumped, so I harnessed all the energy I had left for them. Onstage the adrenaline surged and the endorphins fired, making everything vivid and great. I started in on my dating jokes.
“I’m single, but I go on a few dates a month . . . just to remind myself that I have no standards . . .”
It got a good laugh, but I heard a female voice in the crowd say something like, “Yer fulla shit!”
Was I being heckled? Really? I searched for the heckler, and I saw that it was one of the waitresses. Impossible. But it was. My eyes focused in and there she was, standing, facing me defiantly with a tray in hand. I looked at her, she looked at me, and the audience looked at us both. I could feel the anticipation of the crowd, always hungry for a brawl. I had no idea why this was happening, but first things first: I needed a comeback.
“She’s just bitter because I’m talking about her boyfriend!” I got a solid laugh, but I saw a fire ignite in her eyes as she whipped her blonde head around and walked away. I continued with my act while trying to piece it together. Why would she do that? Did she have a thing for Dark Pony or . . . Oh my god, I was talking about her boyfriend! Holy fuck! And now she was going to kill me. I kept telling jokes, going over my time, because I was scared stiff of what awaited me off stage. She couldn’t attack me while I was still holding a microphone. The red light went from solid to flashing, signaling that it was time to wrap it up. Reluctantly, I said thank you, calmly shook the emcee’s hand, and then bolted from the stage to the bathroom. It was the only place I could think of that had a door with a lock.
She came into the bathroom a few minutes later. Fuck.
“Ophelia?” she barked. Technically that wasn’t my name, so I didn’t have to answer. I wondered if she had a gun pointed at my faded yellow stall.
“Uh, yeah?” This wasn’t the time to correct her.
“Never, ever come near my boyfriend again.” Simple. Succinct. Super scary.
“Seriously . . . I didn’t know . . . I had no idea . . .” I stammered. How did she even know about last night? Did he tell her? There was one thing for sure—they didn’t live together. No woman lived in that apartment.
“Shut up. Did you hear me?”
“Yes.” What was I going to say? Don’t worry, I don’t really want him. I was bored and he seemed easy. God, that pony turned out to be the furthest thing from easy. Harder to break than I ever could have imagined.
She said something else, something like “have a nice week” or “I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” but I couldn’t hear her over the pounding of blood in my head. However, I did hear the swooshing of the bathroom door as it swung shut. The brevity of our talk freaked me out. It made her all the more dangerous with her carefully chosen words and confident delivery. She sounded like she’d killed before. After half an hour, I quietly emerged from my stall and took a seat at the far end of the club to order my comp meal, but no one approached my table or came by to take my drink order. No one working there even glanced in my direction. Waitresses walked by and deliberately ignored me. This was her revenge. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink. I was blown away that she had that much pull with the staff. She must do the payroll or scheduling.
The rest of the week was particularly lonely. I was invisible to the venue, hungry and parched, and Michael didn’t acknowledge me at all. Half of me felt bad for the waitress—after all, Dark Pony was part of her life—and the other half thought that after what I went through, it was me who deserved sympathy. I arrived, did my set, and left. On Sunday when I got paid, it seemed like a lot less than what I thought I was getting, but I didn’t say anything.
That po
ny ride cost me a lot. I should have hired one of those male prostitutes from the postcard; it would have been cheaper and easier. Thanks so much, Raleigh. I asked for different, and I got it.
CHAPTER 16
ENDLESS LASAGNA
My roommate was often out of town, so for the most part I lived alone. I used the freedom to lie around the apartment half-clothed and ponder, “If I killed myself right now, who would be the first person to find me?”
I usually came to the conclusion that it would be a tie between MasterCard and my student loan processor.
Even though I equated being with one person for the rest of my life with settling for less, all my freelancing, subletting, and casual dating made me thirst for some kind of permanence—on any level. I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, dating someone for, say, four months would be nice . . . or even a year, but I didn’t want to be greedy. While I was getting good at the witty and biting repartee and deleting guys’ phone numbers before they could call me back, I was concerned that my behavior was unsustainable, much like particleboard furniture: It’s cool-looking in the beginning, functional for a few years after that, but eventually, it looks like cheap crap.
I still had plenty of time to figure it out. Right?
At least until after the weekend?
I scored a stand-up gig opening for a local headliner at a comedy club in Orange, New Jersey. Calling it a comedy club was generous—it was more of an abandoned event space in the basement of a family restaurant. The stage was a small wooden platform, like a children’s sandbox turned upside down, surrounded by a bunch of scuffed and chopped banquet tables. Still, rumor had it that it was packed every weekend with intelligent, excited crowds.
Screw Everyone Page 15
