Week Seven

Thus far in this endeavor, I’ve asked little of my readers. Beyond the 30 minutes it takes to read one of these things (I’m sorry they’re long), I’ve worked hard to make sure this saga can move forward with little to no expense from you, the fans. One friend informed me that she reads this when she can’t fall asleep. It’s good to know that the only circumstance under which the poetry of my life’s observations will become interesting to you is when the only other option you have to spend your time is to stare blankly at your ceiling while calculating exactly how many hours of sleep you could get if you fell asleep right now. 

This week is different. I must begin this week by asking you for your forgiveness. Please forgive the language you are about to read. I’ll do my best to limit the vulgarities to direct quotations from others. And I do guarantee this was all said by others. I’ve thought it best from the beginning not to stoop to the the same level of foul language as so many of my Complex Compatriots. Potty humor is for the masses and, as evidenced by my readership statistics, this blog clearly isn’t.

This is a true story that I let unfold as it does. And like mooning a Greyhound bus full of Japanese tourists or eating just one Wheat Thin, changing quotations is downright wrong. So I won’t. While the language contained in the quotes this week may be vulgar or offensive, please appreciate the earnest from which these things were spoken. If you can do that, you may appreciate this week of WhoPeed.

We soldier on.

Squirrel

One evening I went down to the jacuzzi to read. I hadn’t planned on getting in (I wore my swim trunks just in case, though) but thought I could eaves drop a moment and challenge myself to finally get passed the second page of a *not* Judy Blume novel. The dizzying aroma of stale chlorine and the waterlogged leaves and pine needles collecting in each of the jacuzzi’s corners were too inviting to pass up. I dipped a toe, a leg, a body of all elbows and I was in.

So were our friends Bridgette and Rick, who didn’t immediately remember me. They were discussing something, fast and at length. They weren’t really taking turns to talk, just both saying somewhat related things into each other’s open mouths. Each had an almost finished cigarette and a large plastic San Diego Zoo souvenir cup full of red wine. Rick also periodically consulted a mini handle of whiskey that was watching the jacuzzi from the sidelines, like I had been just moments before.

So I sat there, minding my own business. Now, this is something I never do – ever. But not a human on Earth could have understood what either of these two were saying. I’ve met Scottish alcoholics with more power to annunciate. So, instead of tiring of picking out any morsels from the two seagulls shouting into each others air-holes, I minded my own business – a phrase which here means watching the entirety of “Jungle 2 Jungle” in my head.

Then –

“Hey! What was your name again? Nice to see you!” said she.

We proceeded with a refresher on our basic info. Names. Buildings. Jobs. Rick at this point was incapacitated for any level of detailed conversation and only chimed in when prompted by Bridgette for an answer to a question or a detail in her story she couldn’t remember. This is something that has impressed me about Rick. He slurs all his speech, has never remembered my face or name but when it comes to random, seemingly insignificant data in their couples catalog of juicy Complex gossip, Rick is sitting on a gold mine of valuable input, however curt or shouted into the wrong direction.

“How’s your fiancé?” Bridgette asked.

I must make a confession. Once when I first moved to this big city to begin school, my Dad asked me if I was excited. I must have seemed nervous because his next piece of advice was random but oddly comforting. He joked, since I’ve always been doing voices, that I could be anyone. No one knew me, so I could start fresh. I could be British and enigmatic, or mid-western and prudent. I could be anyone I wanted. While I never fully embraced the Russian Villain version of me or pretended to have a lazy eye in order not to make eye contact with someone, I have always been comforted by the knowledge that when I feel awkward in a situation around strangers, I am in control of how much or how little someone knows about me. So, during one of my first “hot tub encounters” *TLC Show Idea*, in a moment where I felt very uncomfortable around a certain gentlemen, I had invented a character for myself. And now, I remembered, Bridgette and Rick had witnessed the whole thing.

This alternative version of X-cessive Bandit (you forgot about my Wu-Tang name, didn’t you?) was mostly the same as the X-cessive you know – with a few key differences. Engaged X-cessive was, well, engaged and thus unavailable and unfazed by the advances of a very handsy…well…why don’t we save that for a future post? All you need to know is, I’m publicly and openly admitting my lie. On the internet. Under a pseudonym. In a blog that’s read by maybe four of my good friends.

Bridgette is very kind and fun and was thoroughly interested in discussing my fiancé, proving problematic for me since I wasn’t too intent on furthering the lie. So while Bridgette asked me about our wedding plans, I deflected and asked about her wedding. What corsage did the groom eat? Whose garter did the cellist play? Clearly, I knew little about weddings. But Bridgette was happy to fill me in.

Bridgette in her true form is a keynote speaker at a pinterest-themed Ted Talk. She had a prepared photo album, DIY collections, and a breakdown on the price points of each of her wedding’s features compared to those of store-bought options. Then she offered to help plan my  wedding.

Have you ever had to sit through a slideshow of photos you don’t want to see? I’m not talking about that abstinence focused health class slideshow of dismembered, chlamydia-ridden genitalia we all had to sit through and that one kid in every class unhealthily enjoyed. I’m talking about photos of stuff you just don’t care about. Like photos of your coworker’s niece or when a distant cousin got their tonsils removed and posts one to thank the doctor’s steady hands on Facebook. Looking through uninteresting photos is the greatest acting exercise the world has ever seen. Perhaps some of the kids at this Complex should spend some more time with Bridgette.

So we’re looking through photos and Rick decides to chime in.

“Starp burrin hum wit are wittin photuss, Bridge,” he mumbled at her, “axe him abutt squirrel.”

“Oh. Yes.” She said. “You’re smart. Let me ask you this.”

Here’s the winner.

“When a man comes inside a woman, how long would it take before she knows she’s pregnant?”

This is where I draw the line, I thought, I’ve gone too deep. There are things I should not know about Bridgette and Rick.

“I’m asking for a friend,” she said.

“Well,” I still can’t believe I honestly tried to answer, “I think it takes a while. A few weeks, as I understand it.”

“See,” she hit Rick’s chest, “Told you. Bitch is lyin’.”

Bridgette must have read my bewilderment and clued me in to the story.

“So we have this friend Squirrel…” she said.

From what I understand, Bridgette and Rick have a real human friend named Squirrel and Squirrel had been seeing this girl, we’ll call her Dev. After several months together, Dev and Squirrel went their separate ways. Squirrel moved on.

“Mind you, Squirrel has a lot of money but he’s in a unique situation in that he can’t really prove to the government he has that money…if you catch my drift?” So he’s good with penny stocks? I wondered. Bridgette continued, “But he’s really good at getting nice tail and doesn’t need Dev in his life. She’s a three.”

“Nah, Bridge, an eight at least,” Rick interjected.

After a few months apart, Dev began seeing another guy. Bridgette and Rick were familiar with him as well and both agreed the new guy was Scummy. They described Squirrel with loyalty and empathy. While he’s clearly a drug-dealer in some capacity and has access to darker realms of this world I’ve only seen in Far-Side comics, it would sound like Squirrel is a decent guy who will do right by his friends and values kindness. The new guy on the other hand could…how did Rick put it…?

“Suffocate on his own shit for all I care,” Rick shouted upwards, suddenly and briefly articulate.

Here’s where Bridgette’s question became important. Dev is pregnant and, what Bridgette and Rick assume is at the behest of her new Scummy, is asking Squirrel to be financially responsible for the child.

“The math wouldn’t really add up, if they’ve been apart for multiple months, I think,” I was surprised at how quickly I was on Squirrel’s team.

“Well,” Bridgette shrugged, “that’s the interesting thing.”

Bridgette informed me that two-nights before Dev received her first positive result on a pregnancy test, she and Squirrel hooked up in the backseat of her Mazda 6. Within 48 hours she’s got a positive pregnancy test and a lump sum of child support due her. Bridgette hypothesizes that Scummy and Dev already knew she was pregnant and that Scummy encouraged Dev to hook up with Squirrel in order to bind him to the child. Knowing that Squirrel 1) cannot do what Bridgette called a legal “fraternity” test or legally challenge their paternity claims (due to his income vs. government woes) and 2) that he’s an upstanding guy that would take responsibility for his actions, Squirrel would likely pay the two a wad of cold cash and be on his way. Plus, Dev and Scummy could guilt Squirrel for money for the next 18 years, any time they’d want.

Bridgette suggests the two are scheming. Rick is skeptical.

I tried to offer what input I could and reminded Bridgette, “I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure it takes a week to multiple weeks for you to be able to get an accurate test result.”

They thanked me for my input and let me go on my way.

This encounter with Bridgette and Rick made me thankful for their friendship. Not their friendship with me. Again, I barely know them. But it’s nice to know that two friends are so loyal to their buddy that they’d ask an almost-stranger about the fertilization properties of a man named Squirrel’s bodily fluids in order to provide some totally inadmissible but nonetheless relevant evidence that he’s being duped. Bridgette and Rick are rough around the edges but are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. You and I would be so lucky to have friends like these.

I never heard about Squirrel again. While I have seen Bridgette and Rick, I never could figure out an appropriate way to ask. Is there an appropriate way to ask someone about their friend named Squirrel?

Coming up on WhoPeed: The FireBall Incident, the Naked Russian, and Bros from Penn State.