Friday, May 18, 2007

keeping your publics private ...

lately, chuck and i have been experimenting. with public transportation. neither of us like to drive if we've smelled alcohol in the past week. but leaving our cars in foreign neighborhoods seems like a recipe for a tire boot or a dismembered cd player or my 900 dollars in parking fines coming to some sort of fruition. so. last night it was the civic ditched at the radisson and went to quinlin's and at the end of the night took a cab from allied.

our driver was young. attractive. hairy.
he was in a huge hurry.
he drove on two wheels and was super thorough.
our ride was successful. we got to the east hillside without a lecture from MADD, but the fingernail scars in chuck's upper thigh ... well ... bacitracin.

he drove about 45 miles per hour down second. he wanted to hit two more fares from quinlin's -- at least. the lights are timed, and he had it down to a science. another fare called while en route. the eager beaver answered the call to the reef: "i'll reef it up."

we went home and watched "the virgin suicides" until we couldn't take WE's commercials for "wife, mom, bounty hunter" anymore.

so. tonight. we had plans to meet my unemployed friend at the bar formerly known as the pio. chuck's car was at my house and mine at his -- long story involving a game of H-O-R-S-E, another game of around the world, a painted turtle, thumb nail graffiti on a park bench and other west duluth dreams come true.

a cheeseburger pizza from shamrock. with pickles.

evs.

we took the bus to the bar. we negotiated our trip according to the DTA. 10:03 p.m. at east 12th street and we're on an empty bus with a guy who smells like lip balm, who is flipping through a copy of a weekly publication. he seems nice, but not someone i'd want to date.

the entire episode unfolds without incident. chuck tells me about a time a man dug a hard boiled egg out of a hockey bag and ate it on the bus, i begin thinking about his hardboiled breath. from our co-riders: more into text messaging, 12 packs of shasta and arm pitty.

"what's arm pitty?" chuck asks. as i write this.
"there was this guy. in front. talking really loudly. he was wearing a really loose wife beater. and ... i saw his nipple through his arm pitty shirt." i respond.


we go to the pio. five bucks, all you can drink busch light and my unemployed friend considering ways to massage jcrew's pancreas with his tongue. we all slowdance to tiny dancer. whatever. we're all friends. we call a cab.

"can you take us to the ghetto spur, on sixth street?" we ask our guy.
"yes," the cab driver says.
"we'll be quick. we're a finely oiled machine." i say.
"that reminds me of my girlfriend," hank williams responds.
"oh yeah?" chuck says.
"yeah. we go to the dollar store, and she comes out with four tubs of vasoline!" he mentions.
"vasoline?" chuck asks.
"yeah. she said 'its medicinal.' BUT FOUR TUBS!" hank says.

chuck, meanwhile, is horizontal with hilarity. me? i've just inhaled my own appendix.

we stop at the ghetto spur. i get a bean burrito and a green chili buritto for chuck. he gets two powerades. we are in and out in less than a minute. we're smooth like that. this is true. i get the food, chuck the drinks. we meet at the register.

"that was fast," hank says.
"finely oiled machine," i remind him.
"did i tell you about the four tubs of vasoline?" he asks.
"nooo?" chuck says.

3 comments:

Kate said...

So, is Hank Williams the cab driver? I feel confused by the whole painted turtle reference. I am assuming it's an innuendo.

nanners said...

i believe the phrase is "well-oiled machine."

christina said...

nah. we actually saw a painted turtle. literally.

as for well-oiled machine ... you use the terminology you want in your relationship.