This is almost like what happened at my five-year college reunion. Well, we called it a college. And it wasn't exactly five years, but none of us could count at the time.
I was sitting over the grates outside the DMV, trying to warm up even though the steam was soaking me right through my tattered blanket. It was the second week in November, the time of year when the wind cuts through the buildings like a papercut through an eyeball. I was hanging out with some friends, Mark Wolrich ('93) and Jay Thomassen ('92), and thinking about heading over to the shelter for some soup but debating whether the pro of gruel countered the con of an enormous feral rat population that would steal your bread the second you turned your back.
Anyway, this girl approaches me:
GIRL: David? David Pacheco? Remember me? I haven't seen you since graduation!
I stared at her and clasped my hands tightly around the bottle in my paper bag. Call me paranoid.
GIRL: Oh my God it's been, like, years!
She was achingly beautiful. Skin like finely sanded fir. Eyes into which I would gladly dive if the bungee cord snapped. A body like a treacherous mountain drive, all hairpin curves and the occasional goat.
GIRL: So how have you been doing? Did I tell you Paula got married?
I was mesmerized by her smile. Her lips were moving, but the words washed over me in a soothing, warm wave, like Diuretic Day at the Incontinence Clinic.
GIRL: God, it's been so long! This is so trippy because I was just thinking about you yesterday...
My eyes drank her in thirstily from head to toe like a refreshing Coca-Cola on a hot summer day, but with boobs. I was sweating, despite the cold: she was too much stimulus all at once for a mind dulled by years of glue-sniffing and peroxide abuse. I took a step backward, my hand looking for support. I grabbed onto the lip of a window ledge.
GIRL: ...and I was remembering that second semester of sophomore year when we were together, like, *all* the time. It seems so long ago!
Eeeeeeew! Pigeon poop! I wiped my hand on my pants.
GIRL: So what are you up to right now? Want to grab a coffee? I was just heading into the DMV, but God knows I wasn't looking forward to standing in line all afternoon. Much rather catch up with you, huh? What do you say?
Her hand was outstretched towards mine. I looked down at it, then back towards Wolrich ('93) and Thomassen ('92). They were looking back at me, the expression on their faces saying "Go on, you fool! Take her hand! Get out of this stinking dystopian nightmare you call a life and cleanse in the warm embrace of a loving, caring woman!", the mouths on their faces saying the same thing. I turned back to the girl, nervous, my eyes dropping.
ME: Well, I...
GIRL: C'mon! We'll catch up! I've missed you, guy!
I slowly raised my eyes, taking in all the details of her shoes (red pumps), her pants (silk 30%, rayon 70%, hand wash cold water MADE IN KOREA), her exposed midriff (the '22' in '36-22-36'), the LED screen embedded into her belly button, the dark blue blouse with just the right combination of tight around the curves and loose around the glimpse-worthy bits...
GIRL: Hey, I'm buying! You comin' or not?
Whoa. Wait a second. Girls don't have LED screens embedded in their belly buttons...
GIRLS DON'T HAVE LED SCREENS EMBEDDED IN THEIR BELLY BUTTONS!
GIRL: Hey, you OK?
Her eyes widened and her arm came up, faster than a human being could ever react. I heard something snap, felt the bone splinter and tear through the skin in my arm, but it was still too late: the corkscrew was plunged deep into her eyeball, and she opened her mouth to scream. But all that came out was the sound of a 56k modem trying desperately to connect, probing at different speeds, downshifting to 33k, 28k, 14000, 9600... all the way down to 300 before finally falling silent as she slumped to the floor, spewing black ichor out of her destroyed left visual input module.
Wolrich ('93) and Thomassen ('92) came up silently beside me as I stood bent over the body in a puddle of ichor, panting and wondering, distractedly, what I was going to do with the bone protruding out of my arm. The head of beautiful hair at my feet started to cave in as the face dissolved, the stench of burning plastic and rubber joining forces with the waves of pain from my shattered wrist to make my stomach loll to one side and the other like a giant oil tanker made out of Jello. My body was an endorphin and adrenaline cocktail, my head a tiny paper umbrella, my hat a slice of pineapple.
All of those were metaphors, except the last one.
I dropped the bottle in the paper bag and it rolled towards the grate. With my free hand I carefully pried back each finger from the handle of the corkscrew, one by one, each finger making the bone shards in my wrist grind together like ball bearings in a shaft made from ground glass and tin foil. Another wave of nausea and pain came over me, worse than when I saw "Beautician and the Beast".
I stood up. Thomassen ('92) looked at my arm, then silently placed both hands on the broken wrist and closed his eyes. In a few seconds, a warm, white glow surrounded his hands, a crackling hiss of electricity sparked between his fingers. His face was calm, impassive, and when he finally opened his eyes again and smiled, I looked down at my wrist: it was still broken, but I had a great tan.
I tilted back the slice of pineapple to a rakish angle and said, in my best Jimmy Cagney: "Do the other side next, I hate being uneven."
"You have so much to learn," he whispered, before repeating the procedure on my other arm, pausing briefly only to break that wrist as well.
"What shall we do with... her?" asked Wolrich ('93), pointing down at the bubbling, sticky mass.
"Leave her there," I shot back, "as a warning."
"A warning to who?" asked Wolrich ('93). "She's your robot."
"Don't question me."
"Why not?"
"Because I wa... I SAID DON'T QUESTION ME!"
"Sorry."
I picked up my dropped bottle with my elbows, and with dexterity honed by years of martial arts and MI-5 training, tipped it towards my mouth and spilled half of it down my shirt.
"Let's go," I sputtered.
Wolrich ('93) and Thomassen ('92) obediently picked up their sleeping bags and newspapers and locked into step behind me.
"Where to, David?" asked Thomassen ('92).
"Chicago. Chicago is where they're coming from. We're going straight to the source."
"The source of what?"
"Kellogg's Nutrigrain Bars. There's a huge complex just outside of downtown, in a disused warehouse. I've been there once before. This time..." I stopped and looked at them intently, "...I'm not alone."
They smiled nervously, and looked at each other. Then suddenly the space behind them split in half and they both vanished into thin air.
Dammit. Not again.
Stupid no insurance. Stupid expensive Zyprexa. Stupid "pre- existing condition".
-dp.
Oh well.
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