i was an hour in the future, in a time zone where it was not unusual to share an elevator with a dark-haired man who drops his 'r's: "fouth flooah, please." then stare blankly into his reflection of the double dooahs.
"let's go out-out tomorrow," i cooed to chuck into my cell phone. he had spent the night living my dream and was drifting off to sleep with the key pad of his phone making freakish square imprints into the side of his face. "i hope you didn't blow all your fun mojo."
i didn't sleep well. i spent a few hours basking in the glow of viva la bam, and an internal debate: do i love bam margera or do i loathe bam margera?
bam margera, somewhat easy on the eyes, is paid to have fun. during the opening credits of his show, he skateboards up to the camera and announces something like "i'm bam margera, and i can do whatever the hell i want." a spontaneous trip to the bayou, an elephant in his living room, he replaces the front door to his home with a draw bridge.
not to mention my natural affinity for skateboarders. my first boyfriend was a skateboarder, vuarnet t'shirts and teal converse high tops. tones calves and flippy blond skater hair with longish bangs and his part spiked. kissing him was like eating bananas without using your teeth.
and the world, it seems, is bam's personal skate park. he is friends with tony hawk.
bam margera, while easy on the eyes, is the quintessential playground bully. he is a 27-year-old sitting in the back of a classroom with his feet on a chair and a bic pen hanging out of his mouth. he is peer pressure. he surrounds himself with a weak-willed posse that follows his whims. he alternates practicing sadism on each of them. they will let him fill their bed with live crabs, knowing that tomorrow someone else will get it and that bam will pay for it and about 75 percent of the time it will be fun.
on a road trip to mardi gras, even tony hawk looks like he has had enough.
still, i can't not watch.
when i get back to duluth soil, i've had little sleep. fun and debauchery and neon lights screech like fingernails down my soul. "fun" sounds like scooching two-deep onto the couch and back-to-back episodes of anything.
chuck seems to want to go out. i tell him i can rally, i can rally, i can rally. i spend the day dozing, my nap interupted by about 25 phone calls -- my cell phone constantly vibrating under my pillow.
we have a late start and my gin and tonnie goes down slowly. we play a best-of-three series of bubble hockey, consecutive losses distracting me further from my drink. my center and right winger are a strong combination and we beat chuck's goalie with a few one-timers. alone, my center is pretty worthless. my defense is quite key, thwarting chuck's wingers time and time again. he finds success with his center, a somewhat selfish player who parks himself in front of my goal. around 1:45 a.m. i realize i am going to have to get serious about getting fun.
i order two shots of tequila.
"i don't want rail tequila," i tell the bartender. "i want something delicious."
"jose cuarvo?" he suggests.
"fine," i say.
i take the order back to our table and set it aside for dessert. chuck downs his quickly and gives me a greenish grimace.
"that was gross," he says.
i eye my drink. salt my hand. grab a lemon wedge. shoot it.
the second it goes in, it bungies back out and splatters on the floor.
"that's not puke," i tell chuck. "but this is going to be."
i sprint into the bathroom and heave violently, ridding myself of any trace of tequila, my gin and tonic, pizza man pizza and some loose stomach lining. i swish water in my mouth and return to the table.
"you can't do shots anymore," chuck says. "you used to be able to drink me under the table," he adds.
i stare sadly at the puddle of tequila on the floor.
back at chuck's and still unscathed by the drink, he serves me green apple soda mixed with swedish vodka. the only thing better than how it tastes is how it looks. i have two.
i wake with a headache. i'm moaning and groaning and feeling way crappier than the night's intake would suggest. eventually, chuck has memorized my reenactment of a shakespearean death scene. he climbs out of bed and returns with two aspirin.
"is this hippie aspirin?" i ask him.
"no, its real aspirin aspirin. old school aspirin," he says.
"so its not hippie aspirin?" i ask.
"actually," he says, "its soybuprofin."
it hurts to laugh.