Meghan 6: Leaving Blue Stucco

Meghan was already hurling herself down the stairs by the time I hit the top, and passed me with a screech, something about keeping the kids from waking up. This was a little strange, but since she was headed back downstairs, there's no way I was going to let her go alone.

By the time I took a slug of whiskey, gotten reoriented, and observed whatever original decoration was left in her bedroom, then stepped back downstairs, she was in full swing. A harpy, ladies and gents.

Not to say that I blame her. This boy was out of hand, and threatening by his actions to wake up her babies, while potentially ruining her evening of dalliance with a boy who *(at the very least) hadn't seen the inside of a public school in three or four years. When I hit the foot of the stairs, she was pointing her finger and screaming at him through the glass fit to beat the band. She glared at me over one shoulder when I stopped behind her, then shrieked something and....

...opened the door.

Now, I was OK til this point. It seemed that everyone had pretty well accepted that he was outside, while I was inside, and that was the way it was going to remain. I had confidence that I could avoid, intimidate, or rassle him to a draw out in the yard, but I didn't want him in the house, where he could fuck shit up (which would no doubt be blamed on me, once they got back together) with impunity. But then she unlocked the door, shattering what I was just beginning to realize was a delicate balance of power, and he struggled into the house, gun first.

I know what all you armchair cuckolders are thinking: grab the gun. I missed that. Maybe I was putting down the whiskey (in fact, I think I was in the midst of another slug when she turned the knob, but quien sabes?)...but before you know it, dude was halfway in the door, screaming and being screamed at in a fit of reprehension I haven't seen since girlfriend before last--and that when she caught me drinking vodka out of a koolaid glass at 9am on Sunday morning. Anyway.

Began a gang of hollering, waving, and screeching that I really couldn't decipher. I'm sure they weren't arguing at their most reasonable, either, so I knew there was no way I'd ever get to the bottom of what they were arguing about. However, I knew what -I- would do, or rather what -I- would be yellin', were I to be in that situation, and I knew who had the gun. And ladies + gentlemen, I sided with the gun guy.

I didn't side with him because I was scared. I didn't side with him because she had tits that had disappointed me. I sided with him because I -identified- with him...and because I finally sorted out that he was the sane one of the pair. I heard him say the magic words: "I just want to talk." That was enough for me. I grabbed his arm and her shoulder, guided them both to the kitchen table, and sat them down. I confess, I didn't take his pistola away from him, because I didn't want to exacerbate the situation, but I -did- make sure the safety was on. Then I split...

...to the next room, where I began (once again) jamming on those boots. I heard them murmuring in the next room, as I heard Kevin Neilen once again failing to fill Dennis Miller's shoes as SNL's Weekend Update correspondent.

I waited, as still as humanly possible, ready to bust in and stomp some poor kid's grape--but they were quiet.

What seemed like an hour later, I heard the door click, and Meghan shuffled in the side door. "Come upstairs, he's gone," she murmured.

And you know what? Despite her weird body, her psycho lovers, sisters asleep in the next room, penchant for closets, and general incompatibility, I went.

I mean, it was pretty good--better than sitting around eating acid and staring at the woodgrain in the floorboards again. Better than sitting around staring at the girls, wondering whether anything was going to happen. So yes, it wasn't bad. In fact, it was all right.

And the next thing I knew, I heard an alarm going off next to our bed. The sun was up, I was near naked, and she was doing unmentionable things to my lower abdomen. I sat bolt upright, thinking that someone was in the house, and began looking around for (what else?) my boots.

She looked up, obscenely cherublike, and said "what's the matter? you've got 15 minutes before my mom gets home from the airport."

"Just get in the closet!"

I was out, ladies and gentlemen. I was out, and I wasn't polite about it. We whispered furiously at each other for several minutes, while her little sisters stirred next door, and minutes clicked away on the clock. Finally, I walked out of the front door, minus my socks, baseball cap, and shirt (I kept my wallet, shorts, and boots, as well as a couple of inches in the whiskey bottle), and stepped across the street, under the towering sycamore. I got in the car, and saw back east through the rearview mirror, where the sun was beginning to pink and orange the windows of various mansions down the street.

I felt good, kids. I'd marked something off my list--something I didn't even know was ON my list, and lived to tell about it. I turned on the radio, and rolled down the window. It was almost foggy, which was rare, and I enjoyed the cool air on my arm as I listened to (I'm not making this up) Johnny Cash as I drove home.

I hit Classen Blvd at 23rd Street, and headed north. The sun was completely up by the time I passed 29th, and as I looked over, I saw none other than The Dan setting a table full of coffee and fettucine liliana for a couple of female friends of mine. He waved me over, and I pulled a U-turn, rode the curb to a full stop, got out, and dragged my bottle of whiskey out of the passenger floorboard.

"Ladies," said Dan, "meet my friend Jeff."

I made myself a coke inside, dumped the whiskey into the cup, and sat down to start another Sunday.