One more. I posted this a while back in a Pit thread, but it’s a funny story. I’ve taken the liberty of cleaning up some of the Pit language in it to make it more acceptable for MPSIMS. I also apologize for the length.
I once had a very fiery relationship with a woman (Irish redhead, of course) when I was quite a bit younger and dumber. Well, During the three years we dated each other, we broke up innumerable times, for every ridiculous reason under the sun, but we were addicted to each other. We would tell each other to “piss off and die” with one breath, then end up in a passionate embrace with the next. It was quite exciting at the time.
So, during one of our many (oh, so many) breakups, we both began dating a different person, but as had happened before, we began gravitating toward each other again. First we called each other names, then we began seeing each other again. She was such a pain in the butt, but I loved her to distraction. I haven’t seen her in 4 years, and to this day I wonder what would happen if I ever ran into her again. I digress.
We got all romantic again, and she invited me up to her house for an intimate evening. I offered to cook dinner for us, romance her with candlelight, and serenade her with my 12-string guitar…hopefully (in my mind) to be followed by other less mentionable, but wonderful things.
Imagine, if you will, the setting. We both lived in central Alabama. I was in Montgomery, and she owned a house just north of there, outside a tiny town called Wetumpka. The point is, she lived in the sticks. The woods. It was a beautiful little place, but God, was it ever remote. It was down not one, but two dirt roads, about 8 miles from the nearest paved road.
On the evening in question, it was raining like a bastard. I called her to tell her I was on my way, and she responded that I should meet her in the parking lot of the church on the main highway, and from there ride with her to her house, so that my poor, woefully inadequate Nissan Sentra wouldn’t get stuck in the mud on one of the dirt roads. Well, I met her there, and we proceeded to her house.
It was a great evening. I made (IIRC) eggplant parmesan and lamb, and we shared a bottle of cabernet. Everything was proceeding splendidly. Our fatal flaw was that we didn’t stop with the wine. We then started in on the gin and tonic. I should have known better. Anyway, I played a few “wooing” songs for her, and before you know it, we were on her bed, breathing heavily. So far, so good, right? So thought I, but I couldn’t be further from the truth.
I swear to God I heard the death knell for the evening when she uttered the words, “you didn’t really love that girl (name omitted) you were seeing, did you?” Now, you know and I know what I should have said. For chrissakes, her cat was sitting on the end of the bed saying, “Hesitation is not acceptable! Say ‘hell no’ and get laid, fool!”
I hesitated. For quite a while, as I recall.
This was a mistake.
She reacted in the manner I was so used to, except for the fact that the gin distilled her anger into something very like nitroglycerine. Very touchy. Well, not to put too fine apoint on it, I responded with exactly the wrong statement: “Well, there were times…” If I had been remotely sober, I never would have said this in a million years. Unfortunately, I said it, all hell broke loose, the nitro hit the floor, and that sentence fragment was all I managed to utter before the apocalypse.
She pitched a fit like I’ve never seen before. She cried. She screamed. She threw things (including a half-empty bottle of Tanqueray THROUGH her kitchen window.) She finally demanded that I get out.
ME: It’s pissing down rain, and my car’s in the church parking lot!
HER: I don’t care! Get out!
ME: Hell no. You’re stuck with me until you decide to give me a ride back to my car.
HER (you should imagine icicles dripping from her voice): Fine! Then I’m leaving.
She goes out, gets in her car, and drives off. I was (of course) drunkenly pissed at her by this time, so I got all Clint Eastwood. “If she doesn’t want me around, fine, I’m leaving, and to hell with her. I don’t need her, and I didn’t like her ANY-DAMN-WAY.” So, I pack up my guitar, sling it across my back, and I wander out into the dark, dark night, on a quest for my car.
There I am, looking like Woody-Frickin’-Guthrie, walking down a rainy, muddy road with a guitar on my back, half-drunk, stewing in my own anger, when I hear a low growl. I look around, and there is a giant dog baring his teeth at me. I’m startled, I jump backwards, and I slip. I fall flat on my back in the mud right on top of my guitar. I hear things snap. This dog jumps at me, and bites at the bottom of my boot. I kick him away, and he comes back again. I reach out, grab a stick (it was just like an adventure movie, I swear,) and with one swing, whack the dog right in the kisser. The dog runs off.
Imagine me lying on the side of some rural dirt road at 3 AM, in a mud puddle, lying on the sodden, muddy ruins of my guitar, with one chewed-up boot. I was not a happy camper.
I made it back to my car without further incident (mostly.) I drove back into Montgomery, gibbering like a maniac, I’m sure…I don’t really remember the drive. I got there just as dawn was breaking. My roommate, already up and about, nearly fainted when I walked in like a wounded infantryman. I wearily made my way back to the bathroom, where I ran a very hot bath. As soon as I immersed myself, the phone rang. Who was it? My girlfriend, of course, crying and worried, wondering why I had left.
I still miss her, sometimes.