The Pickup Letdown The Pickup Letdown Its ...
It's hard not to think that something is wrong with your life after you've been dumped for Jesus. When this happened to me one brutal winter, a year out of college, I decided I needed to stop reading Henry Miller and start living like him. Nothing like losing out to someone who's been dead for 2000 years to make you seek out less-god-fearing damsels. Hedonism, however, requires as much inborn talent as any other sport. Either you're Barry Bonds, or you must gape in awe from the stands as he knocks 'em out of the park.
Friends of mine in New Orleans, sick of my moping, offered me a place to stay anytime I wanted to take in the Crescent City. This seemed the perfect town in which to prove my debauched worth. I had been warned by my host before arriving: "This town does things to some people," he said. "They come here and party all the time, and they never come back."
At that time in my life, though, I didn't like where "back" was and honestly hoped that I would have a transformative experience that fucked up my soul.
One evening, midway through my stay, some friends and I set out to hit a bar, crammed into the tiny cab of a Ford F-Series. We picked up an acquaintance?a rosy-cheeked gal from Jersey with curly, shoulder-length auburn hair. My host had said before we left?with eyebrow-raising emphasis?that he was really looking forward to hanging out with this woman that evening.
She climbed into the cab, careful not to spill the contents of a large plastic cup in her left hand. "We ready to fuck shit up?" she asked, and the air filled with something that smelled like cleaning fluid.
When we arrived at the bar, she was immediately hit on by a huge cat with jailhouse tats and gun-barrel arms who had a coven of equally large friends. Whatever she said to this gentleman caller must've been unflattering. Her missile launched, she wandered off to a table, giggling?leaving me behind to receive death stares from the assembled host as I waited for a Guinness to pour.
As my other friends chatted over our heads, she produced a small vial with contents she rubbed on her lips like balm. Then she demanded that I do the same?vehemently, almost to the point of screaming. I refused to apply something to my skin without knowing what it was first, so she glopped a bit on her fingers and rubbed the unknown stuff on my lips. It festered and popped there for a while, no taste but burning.
"Tingly, right?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Kinda like Big Red." She found this hysterical for some reason, and it took her a good minute to catch her breath.
"You know," she said, "I bet if we kissed right now it would be crazy," batting her eyelashes like the best coquette. Or perhaps it was a reaction to the heroic amount of booze she had consumed.
Before we could do anything about it, she slipped off her stool and nearly took a header onto the barroom floor. She saved the stumble by using the momentum to wander back over to the gorilla she had insulted earlier. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two of them hug in an apologetic gesture. I glared at my friends for some kind of guidance, but none of them seemed to notice what was going on. Least of all my host, who had already expressed his designs with the utmost clarity.
I brought it to mind that my host could kill me in my sleep at his leisure, as I was staying there for four nights. And I looked to the gal, one arm around an enormous stranger whom she had insulted not fifteen minutes earlier, one hand clutching a to-go cup filled with vodka. She'd grasped firmly the life of this town with both hands, and had no intention of "coming back." I had to admire her and that boozy freedom, but she was probably not the best companion for someone who valued his skin.
Our drinking companions drifted off, and pretty soon the only folks left were my host, the gal and myself. She was falling-down drunk, but insisted we hit another bar near the levee on the outskirts of town. As we climbed into the pickup, I offered her the seat and said I would crawl into the trailer bed.
"Don't be stupid," she said, and plopped down on my lap.
When the car started, she cranked up the radio and danced vigorously to classic rock. Or rather, jumped up and down in the cab's small confines, using my thighs as a trampoline.
Obviously, this turn of events couldn't escape the notice of my host, but his face betrayed nothing. Perhaps he was ceding his claim. And yet, all I could think was, This girl's gonna get hurt. She doesn't even have a seat belt on. We're gonna hit a bump and she's gonna break her neck?
It was then and there I realized the sad truth: Some folks got it, some don't. If a drunk girl is dancing on your lap and all you're worried about is someone else's feelings (and the traffic laws), a life of debauchery is just not in your blood.
When we arrived at our destination, I left my host and his more important guest to themselves. They slumped together on a squeaky black couch, sleepy-eyed and torn to the core. I wandered off into a far corner of the bar, PBR in hand, and found an old-school Atari hooked up to an equally old-school television. I channeled my energy into Pitfall!, one of my childhood favorites. Though I hadn't played it in years, running through the jungle, jumping over the crocodiles and asps, the moves felt very familiar.