I spent way more time in the trunk than out. You
would be surprised how quickly you can conserve your oxygen when you know that
your sister may have forgotten she put you there. It’s not that I hated her
kind gesture; it’s just that I am not a fan of small spaces, nor my sister in
these situations. Friday nights usually started out simple in structure, but
somehow had a way of ending with broken bottles, missing clothing, rug burns,
and the occasional tattoo. This particular evening was memorable in that none
of the aforementioned tomfoolery ensued. That is not to say bad things didn’t
happen, because they did. It just means that no one got a tattoo.
It’s our tradition that the last person out of work was responsible for bringing home the alcohol. My sister usually made poor choices on her beverage selection, which inspired me to pick up later shifts at work. Unfortunately, I had the day off. She bought the Black Velvet, and we drank on the couch.
After a few hours of spirits, we concluded that a photo-shoot would be the best use of our time. Between the hairspray, cigarette smoke, and our Coldplay tributes, our lungs were close to surrendering. With our faces polished, we began. There are only so many poses you can do without eventually snagging a repeat. We filtered through the shots and discarded the ones where our necks looked fat, there wasn’t enough cleavage, a shadow made one of us look toothless, and the best one with just the corner of my eye and my sisters big ol’ forehead.
Lola was never on time. Not just minutes late, but days. But what she lacked in punctuality, she made up for in cigarettes and wine. We waited. And waited. Three episodes of Friends later, we decided that we should do something productive before we fell asleep. The winning idea involved a bowling pin, an old towel, and pledge. Like Aladdin, we rode the towel across the wood floor in an attempt to hit the bowling pin. It proved much harder than we anticipated and after two attempts and a large sliver, the game was over.
Lola finally showed up ready for action, but no plan in place. Determined not to waste our facial masterpieces, we decided to take a trip. Our hometown was not quite the mecca of nightlife, but we had some options. We wanted to stay as close to home as possible, and I would later come to be thankful that we did. Pulling into the parking lot, we instantly regretted our decision. A large blue truck that only a douche would drive was inconveniently and indirectly about to ruin our evening. The hanging nut sack from the trailer hitch took up two spaces alone. This car could only belong to one guy. One guy who was capable of single handedly bringing out the worst wrath that my sister ever unleashed. My sister’s brief boyfriend, now EX-boyfriend, was somewhere inside. Before my car came to a stop, she opened the door and like a gazelle, ran with the car’s movement just fast enough to keep from falling. Lola and I sat in silence for a second, no doubt determining our readiness/willingness to fight, or rather, to take a few hits. We did some mental calisthenics to prepare for what would happen. To our surprise, my sister was not anywhere yelling or fighting, just sitting pretty in the corner with a drink. This girl had the ability to make any man swoon, or any woman instantly jealous with even the slightest eyebrow raise. She was fully aware of her wiles and how to use them. She didn’t have to say a word to get attention. I backed myself into the corner table and sat next to her. Before I was able to talk, a tray of shots appeared.
“I didn’t order them. I didn’t even pay for them.”
She attempted to give us a bewildered look as if she had nothing to do with their arrival. There is something victorious about anything free, especially drinks, so we chose to ignore the validity of her statement. We chugged the shots down and surveyed the room for the generous donor. Feeling fairly confident in attaining another free round, we smiled at anyone and anything. Within 30 seconds the waitress returned with a full tray and we prepared to, yet again, partake. Just as the alcohol began to settle into our bodies, we were informed that the shots we had just wolfed down were intended for another table and that someone would need to pay for them. Instinctively, my sister headed for the bathroom, which she bypassed, and continued to walk out the door. Like ducklings, we followed. We comically entered my car with a rush of excitement, stumbling and climbing like horny frat guys heading for a strip club. We took off quickly, but not before my sister reminded her ex-boyfriend and his blue truck that she was still angry. Nothing quite captured that like dragging a key deep into the flesh of the paint, instantly changing it from blue to white.
I’m not entirely sure how or exactly when it happened. At some point in my stupor, I must have said something that triggered my sister. It could have been the comment about her pepper tooth, which by the way, for those of you who have yet to meet my sister, is her term for a morsel of food crammed between a tooth, resembling pepper. Or it might have been something as simple as offering her a Tic-Tac, because that implies quite a bit. From 90 miles an hour to the slowest ticking clock, time came to a halt. We were stopped at a red light and like an unplanned Chinese Fire Drill, she had gotten out of the car, pulled me from the driver’s seat, stepped over my body, and fixed herself behind the wheel. Obviously, I had gone too far and upset her. She locked the doors and didn’t even look at my confused face staring into my own car window. I was now standing in the middle of the road, begging for her to at least let me get in the back of the car. I quickly ran to the other side and begged Lola. Lola, who was caught in the middle of all of this and clearly much more loyal to my sister, just waved and mouthed the words, “I’m Sorry,” as I stood on the side of the road, watching my car drive off into the distance.
I stood there. I laid on the sidewalk. I played in the grass. I waited. I started to walk.
After stumbling like a toddler for what seemed like hours, my car, which I heard before I saw, came barreling in my direction. Along with every other rule in life, the speed limit did not apply to my sister. She stopped the car in a driveway in front of me and rolled down the window. As she started to speak, I envisioned her heartfelt apology. It may have been my inebriated state, but “I’m sorry” sounded more like “Get in, Ditch Pig!” Not as sentimental as I was hoping for, but endearing nevertheless. As I walked to the passenger’s side, she said, “Nope.” At that same moment, I heard the trunk latch pop. I shook my head in disbelief, rounded the back of the car, gathered myself into my trunk, and took a deep breath of either relief or disgust. When you’re drunk, they feel the same. In a situation such as this, it’s important to focus on the positives. I found my perfectly tinted lip gloss that must have fallen out during my pervious visit.
As I watched the lid of the trunk close, I thought to myself, would yellow throw pillows really clash the carpet? Just how well would the spare tire serve as a table? How many people could comfortably fit in this secondary apartment of mine? Just as I was beginning to mentally measure my space for curtains, I happened upon a very weathered ticket stub from the movie Titanic, which came out in 1997. It was now 2004.
As much as I wanted to hate my sister, I could never be mad at her. Although she completely disregarded my safety and neglected my wishes of not being folded into the rear end of my very own car, she constantly provided the color in my life. Granted, black and white would be nice now and then. However, momentary discomfort was a small price to pay to avoid being ordinary. I had always loved sharing life with her—if only the trunk had a spare bedroom.
It’s our tradition that the last person out of work was responsible for bringing home the alcohol. My sister usually made poor choices on her beverage selection, which inspired me to pick up later shifts at work. Unfortunately, I had the day off. She bought the Black Velvet, and we drank on the couch.
After a few hours of spirits, we concluded that a photo-shoot would be the best use of our time. Between the hairspray, cigarette smoke, and our Coldplay tributes, our lungs were close to surrendering. With our faces polished, we began. There are only so many poses you can do without eventually snagging a repeat. We filtered through the shots and discarded the ones where our necks looked fat, there wasn’t enough cleavage, a shadow made one of us look toothless, and the best one with just the corner of my eye and my sisters big ol’ forehead.
Lola was never on time. Not just minutes late, but days. But what she lacked in punctuality, she made up for in cigarettes and wine. We waited. And waited. Three episodes of Friends later, we decided that we should do something productive before we fell asleep. The winning idea involved a bowling pin, an old towel, and pledge. Like Aladdin, we rode the towel across the wood floor in an attempt to hit the bowling pin. It proved much harder than we anticipated and after two attempts and a large sliver, the game was over.
Lola finally showed up ready for action, but no plan in place. Determined not to waste our facial masterpieces, we decided to take a trip. Our hometown was not quite the mecca of nightlife, but we had some options. We wanted to stay as close to home as possible, and I would later come to be thankful that we did. Pulling into the parking lot, we instantly regretted our decision. A large blue truck that only a douche would drive was inconveniently and indirectly about to ruin our evening. The hanging nut sack from the trailer hitch took up two spaces alone. This car could only belong to one guy. One guy who was capable of single handedly bringing out the worst wrath that my sister ever unleashed. My sister’s brief boyfriend, now EX-boyfriend, was somewhere inside. Before my car came to a stop, she opened the door and like a gazelle, ran with the car’s movement just fast enough to keep from falling. Lola and I sat in silence for a second, no doubt determining our readiness/willingness to fight, or rather, to take a few hits. We did some mental calisthenics to prepare for what would happen. To our surprise, my sister was not anywhere yelling or fighting, just sitting pretty in the corner with a drink. This girl had the ability to make any man swoon, or any woman instantly jealous with even the slightest eyebrow raise. She was fully aware of her wiles and how to use them. She didn’t have to say a word to get attention. I backed myself into the corner table and sat next to her. Before I was able to talk, a tray of shots appeared.
“I didn’t order them. I didn’t even pay for them.”
She attempted to give us a bewildered look as if she had nothing to do with their arrival. There is something victorious about anything free, especially drinks, so we chose to ignore the validity of her statement. We chugged the shots down and surveyed the room for the generous donor. Feeling fairly confident in attaining another free round, we smiled at anyone and anything. Within 30 seconds the waitress returned with a full tray and we prepared to, yet again, partake. Just as the alcohol began to settle into our bodies, we were informed that the shots we had just wolfed down were intended for another table and that someone would need to pay for them. Instinctively, my sister headed for the bathroom, which she bypassed, and continued to walk out the door. Like ducklings, we followed. We comically entered my car with a rush of excitement, stumbling and climbing like horny frat guys heading for a strip club. We took off quickly, but not before my sister reminded her ex-boyfriend and his blue truck that she was still angry. Nothing quite captured that like dragging a key deep into the flesh of the paint, instantly changing it from blue to white.
I’m not entirely sure how or exactly when it happened. At some point in my stupor, I must have said something that triggered my sister. It could have been the comment about her pepper tooth, which by the way, for those of you who have yet to meet my sister, is her term for a morsel of food crammed between a tooth, resembling pepper. Or it might have been something as simple as offering her a Tic-Tac, because that implies quite a bit. From 90 miles an hour to the slowest ticking clock, time came to a halt. We were stopped at a red light and like an unplanned Chinese Fire Drill, she had gotten out of the car, pulled me from the driver’s seat, stepped over my body, and fixed herself behind the wheel. Obviously, I had gone too far and upset her. She locked the doors and didn’t even look at my confused face staring into my own car window. I was now standing in the middle of the road, begging for her to at least let me get in the back of the car. I quickly ran to the other side and begged Lola. Lola, who was caught in the middle of all of this and clearly much more loyal to my sister, just waved and mouthed the words, “I’m Sorry,” as I stood on the side of the road, watching my car drive off into the distance.
I stood there. I laid on the sidewalk. I played in the grass. I waited. I started to walk.
After stumbling like a toddler for what seemed like hours, my car, which I heard before I saw, came barreling in my direction. Along with every other rule in life, the speed limit did not apply to my sister. She stopped the car in a driveway in front of me and rolled down the window. As she started to speak, I envisioned her heartfelt apology. It may have been my inebriated state, but “I’m sorry” sounded more like “Get in, Ditch Pig!” Not as sentimental as I was hoping for, but endearing nevertheless. As I walked to the passenger’s side, she said, “Nope.” At that same moment, I heard the trunk latch pop. I shook my head in disbelief, rounded the back of the car, gathered myself into my trunk, and took a deep breath of either relief or disgust. When you’re drunk, they feel the same. In a situation such as this, it’s important to focus on the positives. I found my perfectly tinted lip gloss that must have fallen out during my pervious visit.
As I watched the lid of the trunk close, I thought to myself, would yellow throw pillows really clash the carpet? Just how well would the spare tire serve as a table? How many people could comfortably fit in this secondary apartment of mine? Just as I was beginning to mentally measure my space for curtains, I happened upon a very weathered ticket stub from the movie Titanic, which came out in 1997. It was now 2004.
As much as I wanted to hate my sister, I could never be mad at her. Although she completely disregarded my safety and neglected my wishes of not being folded into the rear end of my very own car, she constantly provided the color in my life. Granted, black and white would be nice now and then. However, momentary discomfort was a small price to pay to avoid being ordinary. I had always loved sharing life with her—if only the trunk had a spare bedroom.
|||||
Next time
on The Hindsight Bridge: Sean Staudacher’s contemporary gothic, set in mid and
northern Michigan, examines the somewhat-strange perspective of the
protagonist’s somewhat-strange experiences. It is a dark, (anti) love story
told from the perspective of the only survivor. It is currently untitled. Check
back next week, on July 1st, for more.
Awesome job Brooke!! Just when I think I might try writing something I read more from you guys and decide to just sit back and enjoy.
ReplyDeleteThis was funny. I enjoy your memoir-ish tone. It's such a quick little read too. It makes it all the more rewarding. There are no struggles. There isn't an overbearing lesson to be learned either, which is something I tend to favor these days. More of a portrait of an event. Keep it up!
ReplyDelete