Okay, so F*ck Head and I are coming back from a relatively nice lunch. Decent food, good company, some chuckles and laughs, when his car suddenly dies and he pulls into a parking lot. Now, the car, which was just paid off less than 45 days ago, has recently been in the shop with fuel related difficulties, and was exhibiting the same symptoms, which basically means it stops running and stubbornly refuses to restart and get us back to work.
In the parking lot, F*ck Head drags out his phone. Does he call the mechanic first to rant how he’s pissed away his hard earned money to pay for a car that still is having the same problem as it was BEFORE it was repaired? No. Does he call his friend who works for the towing company who can tow his car off the parking lot where it sits under the very large sign which reads, “one half hour parking limit for customers only”? No. Does he call the taxi company to come and get me to take me back to work so at least I won’t be late? No. The very first phone call is made to an EX-GIRLFRIEND who works at a FUCKING BANK. (Perhaps, she was going to throw hundred dollar bills at him, but I somehow did not pick this up from the conversation which I really attempted not to listen to.)
At this point, I’m feeling sympathy for the car situation–I’ve been there, and really wouldn’t want to wish that upon anyone–but at the same time, after the phone call to the ex-gf, I’m glad the car isnt’ running, because I’d back it over his body in the parkinglot of the Unimart, under the big sign, “one half hour parking limit for customers only”. Think they tow squished bodies?
So, I say nothing, and he makes a few more phone calls, in between which he talks to me–I think, but really am not sure because he has the earpiece in his ear, and I can’t tell when he’s talking to someone on the phone, or talking to me, or talking to the invisible aliens who hang out at Unimart, sniffing the gas fumes. I realize that time is passing, and that I probably should get back to work, and about the same time, I realize he has the ex back on the phone. (Apparently, she doesn’t need to count the money at the bank that badly.) A thought dawns on me, and I say, “Are you planning on having Nicole” (that’s her name) “coming to get you?” He gives me a look which makes me wonder if I have asparagus sprounting from the crown of my head. “Well, I can,” he replies, like that would ever be an option for me. I’d rather ride back with the high-on-gas-fumes-invisible-aliens. Too bad I left my broom at the office…
Anyway, I reply with as much self control as I can manage, “I don’t think so. I’ll not ride with her.”
Now, we’re to the pride/petty part. I don’t have to like anything that he does or does not do, but I figure I’ll be damned if I’ll have my nose rubbed into it. A car ride with an “ex” girlfriend? --Did I mention that I’m wearing minimum make-up, a dress that although is comfortable, looks like some grandmother’s couch, and I’ve been taking advantage of the warm weather with the car window rolled down so my hair resembles and Irish setter having a bad hair day? And by this point, I’ve sat in the sun for a good fifteen minutes, and it’s the first sun of the season, so I’m beginning to exhibit signs of “strawberry face”–a common condition of fair skinned people in the sun.
So, I called my boss, who good naturedly came and picked me up and left F*ck Head in the parking lot with the aliens, huffing gas fumes.
[sup]Another example of truth being stranger than fiction.[/sup][/indent]