Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship) (6 page)

Looking down at the scab forming around his nipple, I assumed further, “She must’ve been in a hurry then. Looks like she ripped those suckers out.”

We went downstairs and moved the table into the dining room. My mother and sister prepared the place settings and my ex-husband, a chef, stopped by to visit with our son. A few other friends arrived bearing gifts of strange casseroles and desserts, and the aroma of a delicious meal began to fill the air. The day seemed to finally be coming together like a traditional holiday as the chaos of the morning slowly faded into distant memory.

“Jen?” My mom asked, overtly inquisitive.

“Yes, mom?”

“Where are your chairs, honey?”

Shit. I had been so focused on the perfect dining room table and making sure that it was built before dinner that I had completely spaced the fact that it didn’t come with chairs. We were seatless.

“Jen?” my ex-husband called from the stove.

“What?” I could already feel the chaos ensuing. First the chairs and now something else, and it sounded important.

“Who's in charge of the turkey?”

“Me,” I answered reluctantly. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“Mind if I check on it?” he asked, needing to feel important.

“Go for it!” I half hoped he would just stay and take over that duty for me. I only had an hour to locate seating for twenty guests.

In the moments following, I performed a quick online search for chairs, called my brother who was en route from California and placed an order with him and Ikea for pickup and delivery. I thanked the retail Gods for their holiday hours and then found myself knee deep in 'fowl' play by the time I returned to the kitchen. Everyone was panicked as they fought hard to find a solution to my mistake and save the turkey.

“You cooked it upside down!” my ex announced as I walked into the room.

“I did?” I acted surprised, as if I actually knew what I had been doing when I unwrapped the bird in the midst of my covert mission to save Joe earlier that morning. I had simply just unwrapped it, set the temperature on the stove and shoved it in the oven. I assumed it was a no-brainer. I have since realized that it does in fact require a brain to cook a turkey, and in turn, stand humbly corrected for believing that my ex-husband did not possess one.

“And you left the gizzards in it.”

“I did?” again, looking dumbfounded.

I watched as my mother and ex-husband pulled a bloody bag of turkey parts from what I thought was the ass of the bird. I was later informed that it was the neck and that I had also forgotten to stuff the turkey with all the fixins. I suddenly felt a little stupider for not knowing my turkey anatomy and somewhat regretted treating Joe as though he was the one who had lost his mind that day. Noticing that my family and former spouse seemed to have everything under control, I shrugged my shoulders and decided to prep the garage for the food fight later rather than stay for a lesson.

“Don’t worry,” Joe assured me, hanging his arm around my neck on the way out the door. “You’re not the only dumb one today. I don’t know my head from my ass either.”

“Fuck you, Joe,” I mumbled as endearingly as ever.

We always had a way with words with one another. I knew he wasn’t really questioning my intelligence, and he knew I wasn’t really mad at him for saying so. We wrapped the garage in plastic without saying another word to each other. Upon completion, Joe mentioned he was headed to the police station to report his truck stolen and would be back before dinner.

My brother arrived with the chairs, and we delegated their assembly to the guests who seemed eager to help us get organized. With the living room filled with wooden chair parts and instruction pamphlets, the sound of hammering filled the air and alas the turkey was sunny side up and browning like a fat chick on a summer afternoon. All was as it should be.

Joe returned holding his police report in hand just as dinner was served. The chairs had all their parts and the glue held the table together. The turkey turned out fine despite my massive culinary snafu and we all seemed to delight in each other’s company like a normal dysfunctional family. After stuffing our faces with stuffing and mauling the mashed potatoes, everyone descended into the living room to relax for a few moments before changing into war paint and battle gear. The feast fight was next on our agenda.

* * * * *

“Feast fight!” Everyone yelled as Joe christened me with the first pie in the face.

Jell-O, cool whip, chocolate syrup and blue spaghetti flew through the air like edible bullets and missiles. I got slapped in the eye with a fast ball lobbed by Joseph himself. I never knew spaghetti could sting like that. Aside from my swollen retina, our food fight went off without a hitch. All the adults, and children alike, seemed to have a blast, letting go of their inhibitions as they flung food at one another; finally fulfilling their childhood, lunchroom fantasies. My garage became a laugh factory that evening. I have never seen people having so much fun together. We definitely put the
fun
in dysfunctional.

The mess was more than I imagined, and it took more than a hose and a mop to clean up after the mayhem. Joe helped me scrub the ceiling while the others rinsed off and reconvened for coffee and dessert in the kitchen. By the time we finished up outside and joined our guests, the party looked more like a bath house orgy than a holiday gathering. All of our friends, who hadn’t the forethought to bring a change of clothes, were lounging around in towels next to my family members, eating pie and pretending as though it was nothing out of the ordinary to spend Thanksgiving wrapped in nothing but terry cloth and socks. No one seemed to be terribly uncomfortable, so I made my way to the laundry room in an effort to wash their clothes and get them dressed again before dawn.

“Psst...” Joe whispered as opened the laundry room door.

“What now, Joe?”

“During the food fight,” he recalled, “you grabbed my shirt and it reminded me of something else from last night.”

“Oh yeah?” I tried to sound astonished. “And?” I loaded the washer with the first round of stained and saturated clothing as I awaited his story.

“I got in a fight,” he whispered.

“With who?” I whispered back, playing his game.

“The bathroom attendant at OG's.”

“What? Why?” This time I spoke aloud. It wasn’t like Joe to fight anyone, nonetheless a poor old man serving his fellow men in the restroom of a tacky whack-off club.

“Because he wanted me to tip him for handing me a paper towel. I think I punched him and he called security. I got escorted out by the bouncers. That's how my shirt got ripped.”

“Oh my God, Joe! You must’ve been really fucked up last night!” It finally donned on me that Joe should never be allowed to venture out alone, and more than likely also required a leash.

“I can’t remember if I punched him because I didn’t have my wallet and couldn’t tip him or if maybe…” he paused. “I wonder if the bouncers took my wallet?” His eyes glossed over again as he tried to remember anything else from his untimely departure from the club. It was clear he was still having a hard time putting his timeline together.

“Maybe they kept it to pay your tab. You should call OG's and see if they have it before you order new credit cards on Monday.”

Slowly but surely we pieced together the parts of Joe's wild night while doing laundry and then joined everyone downstairs for coffee and dessert. Everything seemed to be coming together as the night wound down to a peaceful halt. Eventually the clothes were clean, our friends dispersed and my family members curled up on the couch for their final slumber. Joe found peace in knowing some of the small bits and fragments of the night before, and on our final ascent upstairs to call it a day, we agreed to start his search over again in the morning. Our sleuthing skills were sure to be sharper after a good night's rest.

“Good night, Joe,” I said at the top of the stairs, hugging him dearly.

“Night, Monkey.”

That was all on a Thursday. By Saturday afternoon, Joe received a call from the police station informing him that they had found his car. It was in the parking garage of a casino. It was exactly where Joe had parked it at the beginning of his evening, and his wallet was safe and sound on the driver's seat next to his keys. He had apparently left his valuables where he wouldn’t lose them. The whereabouts of his nipple rings and dignity, however, is still a mystery to this day.

The dining room table we built that afternoon:

The night started out like any other. Joe and I met some friends at the bar for drinks and duckpin bowling. For those who don’t know, duckpin bowling is a miniature version of the game. The lane is shorter and the balls and pins are half-size. It’s perfect for Joe, who is short and sweet and everything neat. It is also perfect for people like T-Rex Popsicle, who have short arms. In fact, I met T-Rex on that particular eve.

We had settled in with our Dr. Pepper-tacos and sweet teas, armed with two hundred dollars for our entertainment. Our typical night out required a budget. We bowled until our money ran dry, or until our arms fell off. It was usually the former and generally too often, and it was my turn to fund our addiction. I refer to it as an addiction because we really were addicted. We bowled every night if we could and experienced severe consequences when we didn’t. I once bowled a 190 because I hadn’t practiced in days. I was devastated.

We wouldn’t have been so obsessed if we had been bad bowlers, but the problem was that we were good. Better than good. I bowled a 220 with my eyes closed, and Joe could knock them all down with his left hand. We would often fantasize about going pro and taking over the airwaves with our fancy moves and hip wardrobes. It was all about the practice, and we knew in our hearts that if we trained hard every night, we would have the PBA by the balls. Literally.

Our friends arrived mid-game. The bar was exceptionally crowded that night and we had trouble fitting them in our little nook in the back. The people from the lane next to us seemed to be spilling over into our booth, so we made do by sharing laps. The closeness set off a chain of events that inspired a bit of truth or dare. Apparently the body heat had a few of us firing up for some friskiness and before we knew it we had made up a game called Makeout Bowling.

The rules of the game were neither here nor there. In fact, they seemed to change as we went so that a certain two people could continue sucking face in the corner. Michele and Andrew had just met. Michele was my friend and Andrew belonged to Joe. The twenty year age difference didn’t seem to faze them as they found every excuse to get close and jump down each other’s throats. It was disgusting, but then again, we were all kissing each other after ten minutes of Makeout Bowling, which was enough to make me vomit on its own.

I had to kiss Joe, which wasn’t half bad compared to the others. I kissed Michele. She tasted like a litter box and pursed her lips like an old lady. I knew then she was destined to be the crazy cat lady when she got older; which was technically in five years for her. I kissed a fat person. I can’t remember his real name, but I called him Chubs. He was the best kisser, but only because his lips and tongue were plump. I kissed other boys and other girls, and the other boys and girls kissed each other. It was a giant spit-swapping party. Thinking about it now gives me the heebie-jeebies.

At one point, I noticed Michele and Andrew had disappeared. It wasn’t long before they returned with freshly-fucked hair and guilty smiles. Andrew tapped Joe out of the game and they excused themselves to the patio for a little man-to-man chat. I, on the other hand, got the full scoop from Michele between turns.

“There was a lot of ass-grabbing in the bathroom just now,” she bragged. “I just fucked his brains out in the men’s room.”

Michele prided herself on being a cougar. In her late thirties, she looked more like she was in her mid forties and spoke like she had been sucking on cigarettes since she was six. She wasn’t a particularly attractive woman, but she had new boobs and dreams of becoming a nudist. She had lost 120 pounds in the last few years, and although she still wasn’t skinny, was convinced she had the body of a Goddess. Her confidence was attractive, that’s what she had going for her.

“Happy for you, Shell,” I appeased her, although imaging the two of them going at it repulsed me.

“He was a tiger!” she meowed as I walked up to retrieve my ball.

Just then Joe approached me from the other side and asked to speak with me. I excused myself, knowing I was forfeiting my perfect game but relieved from kissing duties for the time being.

“What’s up?” I inquired.

“Andrew left.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“He had to leave,” Joe started. “He looked like he was going to be sick.”

“Did he eat something bad?” I asked honestly.

“No,” Joe laughed. “He was grossed out.”

It was at this point that Joe began to chuckle and I knew there was a story.

“Oh God, tell me,” I insisted.

“Okay,” Joe regrouped momentarily to make sure he had the ability to get through the story without peeing his pants, “Andrew went to take a piss. Michele ended up following him. She cornered him in the men’s room and propositioned him.”