That Was The Worst Sleepover Ever!

As I walked toward the car I took a moment and pretended to struggle with the sleeve of my jacket. It only bought me an extra few seconds, but I used the time to devise a scheme I was sure would work. I'd perform my best pratfall and fake a seizure in the driveway. My aversion to the sun was heavily documented and I was pretty confident that I could justify the charade with claims of an optic disorder. After all, wearing glasses had to provide some other benefit aside of not getting me laid. I'd managed to work out all the details in my head, but before I had a chance to put my plan into effect I felt my fingertips graze the underside of the passenger's door handle. Foiled again!

"How ya doin' hun?"

I hesitated a minute to take the question in and really ponder every facet of my response. This was my ticket out, after all, and I didn't want to mince words. After some deliberation I determined that words alone would not be enough to convey to this woman the severity of my plight. I wanted to grab her by her ears and shake her head. She knew. She knew exactly how I was doing. Why would she ask such a foolish question knowing full well what the answer would be? "They've always said indifference is just as bad as the crime itself," I'd yell into her ear, "but I've never had reason to believe them until now!"

"Eh, can't complain I guess."

I may as well have jumped headfirst into a vat of jellyfish, because at that moment I had no spine.

I made an effort to not contribute to the tear along the middle of the navy seat, exposing the yellow foam padding underneath as I sat down. I put my stuff by my feet and pulled the shoulder strap across my chest before struggling with the clasp. It was an exercise in futility, as the locking mechanism had long since been warped and melted by what I could only determine had been an unfortunate meeting between alcohol and a maverick cigarette. I made note of the burnt out seat belt light on the dashboard, indicating that this was anything but a new problem. John Couger Mellencamp belted out the chorus to Jack 'n Diane through the one working speaker. If rednecks ever managed to secede from the union and form their own sovereign nation, Jack n' Diane would undoubtedly be the national anthem.

We sat in awkward silence for a few minutes as Mellencamp gave way to one of those yammering drive time DJs more concerned with pitching a station we were listening to already as the only one to really rock than playing anything of substance took caller requests. Rather than endure some moron's insatiable desire to hear BTO, I took my chances with casual conversation.

"So is Keith not home from practice yet?"
"Nope. Not fer another hour. It's just you and me, babe."
"Oh. Awesome.
""I've got to run into the supermarket and grab somethin' fer dinner. I hope you packed yer appetite wih ya."

We pulled into the parking lot and I politely declined an invitation to accompany her into the store. I waited for her to disappear behind a Caravan before frantically lunging toward the radio dial in an attempt to cleanse my auditory pallet. Her programmed stations were an insufferable blend of sterile contemporary, country music and trailer rock, but I managed to make out the chorus to Semi-Charmed Life through some radio static. I'd made it through the second refrain before catching a glimpse of her unmistakable NASCAR t-shirt featuring the characature of a driver giving a thumbs up out of his window and turned the dial back just in time to hear Randy Bachman ensuring his baby that she ain't seen nothin' yet. I couldn't help but relate.

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