Apparently I live in an underwear colony. Wait, let me back that train up and expound:
I had my first soiree at my new apartment on Friday night. My intention was an post-work happy hour, short and sweet. 2 hours and 3 cocktails later, I “decided” to morph the evening into an indulgent, booze and pizza filled shindig. I was successful. Some highlights include: a half naked woman across the quad, unawares of the sea of prying eyes within earshot; Chels leaving inspirational sticky notes for me, purposefully hidden so I could happily discover them later; the drunken request at 3 am to call my friend’s girlfriend, as he just wanted to confirm that she was not, in fact, lying dead in a gutter; my grumpy neighbor’s request to please continue the aforementioned conversation where she couldn’t hear me. But perhaps the apex of the evening was the encounter with my other half naked neighbor. Let’s just call him Sven.
Now, this was not my first encounter with Sven the Depraved. The other day I stepped outside, cocktail in hand, to enjoy the breeze of an in-blowing thunderstorm and marvel at the clouds’ swift transit across the sky. I looked up as I stepped across the threshold and came eye to eye with Sven, sitting in a threadbare La-Z-Boy recliner, shirtless (only… I hope?), watching the Simpsons. He scrutinized me silently; I attempted a half smile, quickly masking my alarm with feigned politeness. He merely sniffed sharply and returned to his show, half-heartedly scratching a hair-covered moob.
This time, however, we caught him unabashedly doing dishes in lady’s underwear. Troy’s response was to attempt an ‘out-creep’ by surreptitiously snagging some evidence:
Suddenly I’m reminded of another tale of the scantily clad, one familiar to my fellow restaurant veterans. This happened many moons ago, and I call it The Legend of Stick-Butt.
It was just like any other Saturday night. Both kitchen rats and penguins were transtitioning from after work weariness and accelerating to latenight shenans. We had taken over the porch of our favorite bar, and were just breathing a collective sigh of relief when Kegger, our expeditor, came forth, and bid us retreat to his upstairs apartment for, quote, the craziest shit we would ever see. unquote. Naturally the crew was afoot immediately. Chairs were thrown back haphazardly, bills feverishly thrown to the nearest cocktail waitress, and we were off.
We gathered Indian style around his TV as Kegger revealed what we were about to witness: A friend’s girlfriend rented a house in a family style neighborhood somewhere on the northwest side of town. The other day she sat enjoying a late morning coffee when she caught a glimpse of some disturbance in the adjacent yard. She gasped as she first laid eyes upon Stick-butt. In the flesh. literally. *shudder*. Stick-butt was an elderly man, completely naked. He appeared to be scavenging for kindling in his backyard, though she had no idea why that required semi-public nudity. She stared, aghast at the train wreck unfolding before her. Once the weapons (toys??!) of choice were decided, Stick-butt would lay across a bale of hay and have his way with it while he shoved said sticks up his ass, along with the occasional butt plug…
The best part? She got it on tape. The girl quickly overcame the encroaching vomit, and hurried to post up with her video camera through a hole in the blinds. The worst part? At one point in the video it almost looks like he sees the camera. In reality he was just looking in that direction, but for a split second your heart was in your throat, and it felt as if his hollow eyes bored into your soul, your humanity.
We watched the video in horrified awe. Afterwards, there was an awkward laugh or two… and then silence. And then shots… lots and lots of shots, ’cause that’s some shit you can’t unsee.
Needless to say, we were never the same again.
Here’s hoping that red stained undies are the most I’ve got in store for me here…
Current Jam: “Behind the Moon” Matt Costa