The march of the memes continues on Facebook. Two of my closest friends, Glenn Hauman and his lovely wife, Brandy, posted the invitation for fraudulent first-encounter tales in their status updates, and these are the flights of fancy I fabricated for them.
You had just stepped off the stage at Pedro’s Bijou after receiving a standing ovation for your matinee performance, and I stopped you so I could shake your hand. “That was amazing,” I said.
“Well, thank you. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare Pepsi, would you?” I fished an ice-cold can from the mini cooler under my seat and handed it to you. As you popped the tab, you sighed. “Gracias.”
In awe, I watched you guzzle the entire can in one pour, and then you ate the can. “So, you’re a method actor.”
You nodded as you finished chewing. “Yup.”
“Well, I have to admit, that was amazing. Until tonight, I’d never have believed a man could take the place of a donkey in one of these shows.”
Shrugging with feigned modesty, you replied, “Well, I’ve been his understudy for years. I just had to wait for him to get sick.”
My brow furrowed with confusion. “Whose mouth?”
“Carmelita’s. She bit down and refused to let go.”
You started to leave, so I followed you out into the teeming, sewage-stinking streets of Tijuana. “Where you headed?”
“Terceira Axila. An after-hours club on Via Barranca. All-you-can-drink two-dollar pitchers of Chango.”
“Isn’t Chango just bottled piss?”
“Yeah, but it’s all you can drink for two bucks.”
I nodded. “When you say it like that, I guess it is a bargain.” A stray thought skittered through my consciousness. “Do they have a show?”
“Best in Tijuana. If you like orangutans, that is.” You glanced my way. “But we’d better get you a poncho. I’ve got front-row seats, and it gets messy.”
And with those words, I had a new best friend.
I knocked on your door and stood on your back porch, shivering like a monkey fresh from the sea.
It seemed an eternity before you opened the door. I admired your mint-condition, vintage 1950s French Navy frogman wetsuit, accessorized with a strap-on rubber phallus. From behind your SCUBA re-breather, you mumbled, “Yebth?”
Lifting my hands, I showed you the police handcuffs that bound my wrists. “Can I borrow a hacksaw?”
You plucked the re-breather from your pouty lips. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet. I’m Dave.”
“I’d shake your hand, but…” The cuffs’ chain jangled as I waved my hands.
“Hang on.” You turned away, the flippers on your feet slapping your kitchen floor. “Glenn!” Over your shoulder you added, “My husband should be able to help you with those.”
“Thanks.” An awkward moment stretched out between us while we waited for your Brobdingnagian lummox of a spouse to extricate himself from the upstairs toilet. I offered up a nervous wrinkle of a smile. “What’s with the, um…”
“It’s a sex thing.”
You pointed to your living room, wherein I caught a glimpse of a children’s wading pool overflowing with $240 worth of pudding and flanked by some Klieg lights and a video camera on a tripod. “Care to come in?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I followed you inside and shut the door behind me.
You shot a suggestive leer my way. “Mind leaving the cuffs on a bit longer?”
“I don’t see why not.”
An approving nod. “Like pudding?”
“Does Michael Jackson like little boys?”
“I don’t suppose you know how to run a video camera.”
It was a stroke of amazing good fortune. “Are you kidding? I have a degree from NYU Film School.”
“Dave,” you said, wading into the pudding, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…”