Thursday, July 22, 2004

Meghan 4: Mom

You're thinking "how stupid is this guy?"  I know--I would be, too.  But in my defense, I told her no, repeatedly, until she told me where mom lived.

Who knows the circumstances surrounding her parents' divorce, but mom had remarried well, and was living in what was essentially a spanish style mansion made of blueish stucco, down in a part of the city called Heritage Hills. 

I love old architecture, and I'd spent a large part of the preceding years mowing yards down in this very area.  I knew the house, and knew that being inside would be like stepping back into the twenties or thirties, unless they'd fucked it all up by modernizing the interior. 

So off I went, with a bottle of Evan Williams and my boots securely laced.  Mom was out of town, it turned out, and Meghan was babysitting her two much younger siblings, who were already asleep upstairs.  I parked across the street from the house, under a huge sycamore tree, and approached the front door.  It had a large window, broken up into several small panes. 

Meghan came to the door, dressed in a tshirt and not much else.  She let me in, and led me to a couch, where we reclined and watched some Saturday Night Live.  We kissed, a lot, during the commercials.  It says something for our relationship that kissing her wasn't worth missing Saturday Night Live, come to think of it.

Anyway, we were interrupted by the phone ringing in the next room.  Meghan grabbed it, so the ringing didn't wake up the kiddies, and was gone for a few minutes.  Then she was back, and settling in to my lap.  It rang again.

In fact, it rang four or five times, and she was getting progressively louder and more argumentative with whoever was on the other end.  During the commercial breaks, I drank shots of bourbon and unlaced my boots.  And took off my shirt, then wandered around, bottle in hand, eyeballing the wainscotting.

Eventually, she screamed something into the phone and slammed the receiver into the cradle.  She came back, plainly pissed, but curled up in my lap and ran her fingers through my chest hair. 

"That's my ex boyfriend.  He's obsessed with me."

Oookay.  This would have been nice to know...

"Well then," I said, "is he bigger than me?"

"No," she replied, "he's not very big, but he'll probably be over here in a minute.  He saw your car outside."

Great.  A stalker, no less.  A stalker who knows the cars in the neighborhood, too.

"No problem, then.  Does he have a gun?" I joked.

"Yeah," she said, "and he'll probably bring it."

Damn...this girl was trouble, y'all.  I was thinking about how to gracefully extricate myself from the situation, or at least get my stompin' boots on, when the pounding started on the front door.  Meghan started for the door.  I took off my socks, so I didn't slide around on the wooden floors, and followed her.

She hit me full speed, right in the chest, coming back through the door.  She shrieked, grabbed my hand, and said something to the effect of "he's got a gun, let's go upstairs!"  I grabbed the whiskey bottle, and we headed 'round to the staircase.

The staircase, it turns out, was through the kitchen and right by the back door.  The back door was all glass, and as we approached it, preparing to make a hairpin turn, I saw him, silhouetted against the landscape lights in the back yard.  He had a gun, and he was livid. 



Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home