Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship) (2 page)

No one ever got a terribly nice nickname either. Names were typically given out based on a physical deformity or character flaw. For instance, a boyfriend of mine, T-Rex Popsicle, was named for his short arms and his willingness to allow me to practice blowjobs on him (clearly, more
my
character flaw). Tissue got his name because he cried a lot. DHL was given to a neighbor who tried to deliver a slow grind to my backside one afternoon in my garage. His name started with the letter L, preceded by DH for Dry Humper. Sleestack Steve got his name because he had no eyelashes. You get the idea. We weren’t very vague with our descriptive words. It didn’t differ much with Joe’s girls either. There was White Trash Julie, Underage Rachel, and Halfer, some girl who only shaved half her bush; the wrong half, according to Joe.

We’ve also had our fair share of friends that have earned nicknames. Every few years, we find ourselves in a new circle. I’m not sure if it’s because Joe’s malfunctioning filtration system wears them out, they tire of our inside jokes or whether it’s because they’re getting older and we haven’t matured, but they seem to come and go routinely. There was Hoodie Ass, who got her name from a guy in our group that she screwed who said her ass was so saggy it felt like the hoodie of his sweatshirt. Emo Chris possessed more feminine qualities than I did. Babylegs had skinny legs. Token James was our only Asian friend and Finger Bangin’ Jane was our favorite waitress. No one was safe from a nickname and we gave them out fast and freely.

Joe and I aren’t immune to name-calling either. Though he calls me Monkey, I’ve also been referred to as Stupid, Dork and Princess Little Butt (my Indian name). My friendship with Joe has never been ordinary. We are like two peas in a pod, or rather a kernel of corn and a baby carrot, who found each other in the produce department and decided to venture out into the rest of the grocery store to see what exciting adventures await us before someone comes along to buy us and take us home.

See, Joe is not the man I am to spend my life with, but he will be standing next to me when I walk down the aisle. I’ve promised him to be my Man of Honor, even if he does wear the peach taffeta and Chuck Taylors he threatens me with repeatedly. He is the only person I would trust with the details of my wedding, my bachelorette party and my bridal shower. He is the person I would want closest to me, aside from my groom, on my special day. He is the friend I expect to give the best speech at my reception, which, if I have it my way, will be more like a roast than a reception. He knows everything about me and he can tell my stories well. I, on the other hand, hope to someday give him away to a woman even half as good as me. Joe has low standards. That’s no secret. But damn, do I love him...like a brother, like a friend, like the Dumb to my Dumber.

And though he is my Lloyd Christmas for now, I realize that sharing Joe with the world will inevitably mean I have to let him go. So, for any ladies that may be reading this and still think he sounds attractive despite what you’ve read so far, I’ll share a few more of his winning stats.

Joe is a Taurus with a Scorpio rising. He likes long walks on the beach and orange creamsicles. He has a good job and likes to shop. He loves kittens, but not babies. And his idea of a romantic date is a picnic under the stars with a five foot blonde who loves mopeds.

Yes, even as I am writing this book, I will honor my oath as Joe’s Monkey. I know my place. I know what I am good for. I know why he needs me. No matter what I do, my first and only agenda is always to help him get laid. What are best friend’s for?

I woke up to the unfamiliar sound of thumping against my bedroom wall. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I rolled over to check the time on the digital alarm clock glowing from my nightstand.

“5:03? Are you kidding me?” I thought to myself as I refocused my attention to the sounds coming from Joe's bedroom. What the heck is he building now?

My best friend Joe was notorious for building things. Things and stuff, as I always referred to them. They were never necessarily useful things; however it was typically clever and innovative stuff. He would often get a wild hair up his ass to construct some off-the-wall idea that he dreamt of or saw on TV. Just never at this hour.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I laid there in the waning darkness of the in-between. Moments ago it had been pitch black in my room, a symbol of the night. And now as I lay there tossing and turning under my cool sheets, the sun was peeking its head over the mountains of the east, slowly brightening my room like someone in the sky was turning on the dimmer switch. Ugh. I rolled over and covered my ears with the pillow.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

It was then that I heard something peculiar between the thuds echoing through my drywall. Did my ears deceive me? I lifted the pillow off my head for a better listen. No, it couldn't be. But it was. True enough, the thumping from the other room was in fact Joe’s headboard banging against the wall, followed by tantric moans escaping the lips of a woman.

A woman? Joe brought home a woman?

This was a rare feat for the rather tactless and desperate Joe. We had spent the greater part of the last year trying to get him laid, and to no avail. After his divorce, Joe had been enduring a rather painfully long dry spell. We tried countless tactics and rehearsed hundreds of opening lines, night after night, with little to no success. It seemed the scars of his marriage had left a lasting impression on his confidence, rendering him completely useless in the dating pool. No matter how well I prepped him before I sent him out there into the endless abyss of blonde Vegas bimbos, somehow Joe had a talent for effortlessly torpedoing into an embarrassing nosedive. Crash and burn every time.

Most of his conversations would start out strong. “Hi, my name is Joe.” But that's about as far as he ever got on his good foot. From there he would segue into comments such as, “I'm divorced. My wife was a stripper and she left me. I had a kid once, but she wasn't mine. I have three piercings in my penis. Do you want to see?” Almost always in that order, and yes, almost always in one breath.

You get the point. It was no secret that Joe was about as smooth as a serrated knife. Although I was always hiding in a corner watching from afar and laughing my ass off, neither Joe, nor the object of his abrasive introductions, were ever smiling when all was said and done. He needed practice and a stern talking to about the stench of desperation.

I explained to Joe on several occasions that desperation was like dog shit; it stinks. Sometimes you don't even know you’ve stepped in it, but when you do, it lingers. Everyone can smell it. We could wash his old shoes a thousand times, but chances were that a few sneaky remnants of poo would encrust themselves deep into the ridges of his 'soul' and remain forever. On this morning, he must've finally decided to change his shoes.

I fumbled in the faint light for my cell phone and dialed our friend Michele.

“Hello?” she answered in a scratchy voice reminiscent of a forty year old smoker.

“Michele!” I shouted in my best whisper-voice. “Wake up!”

“What? What time is it?” she asked, although it was more of a rhetorical question brought on by her grogginess. “Oh my God, Jen, it's 5 o'clock in the morning. What?”

She was half asleep, and although she was on the other end of my phone, I still prompted her to quiet down.

“Shhh...” I hushed her. “You need to wake up.” I waited a few beats for her to gather her wits and listen carefully. “Right now, right at this very moment, Joey is getting laid!”

There was a long pause as she tried to process the impossible.

“Shut up! Are you serious?” She raised her voice again briefly, but then quieted herself on her own accord as she remembered we were being secretive for reasons still unknown to her.

“I can hear them in the other room as we speak. He's got her moaning like a cat in heat. Get up, I have an idea!”

“Oh lord,” she moped. I could hear her rolling over in her bed.

“Michele, get up. Meet me in the party section of Walmart in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, alright,” she agreed reluctantly. “I can’t promise I won’t still be in my pajamas though.”

“What's new?” I joked and hung up.

Twenty minutes later I met Michele at the south entrance of the Walmart on the west side of town. She was dragging her feet and didn’t even smile at the greeter as we passed him on our way to the party section. I steered our cart around the corner and down the aisle, paying no mind to the tacky fleece, leopard-print pants and floppy, unkempt hair Michele was donning that morning. She was forgiven for the sheer fact that she showed up at all.

“Okay, what's this novel idea?”

It was clear that she was not only annoyed, but also required a tall shot of espresso to function in the a.m. I was hoping my plan would unhitch her from the chains of dreamland and inject her with enough excitement to keep her alive and kicking for the next few hours while we prepared for the celebration of the year.

“We're going to throw Joe a party!” I announced. “A Joey got laid party! Now, help me pick out some party favors.”

We walked up and down the party aisle filling our cart with streamers, noise makers, blue ribbons, kazoos, trophies and anything and everything else we could think of that would make for a proper cobweb-elimination soirée. Joe's ability to get laid on his own warranted nothing short of a cheap, plastic gold medal and the best party a roommate could throw. In my own sick and twisted way, I was awfully proud of the lad. I had every intention of convincing Michele to share in my excitement and chip in half for the supplies, as well as follow me home and help me decorate. Before checking out, she even suggested we make breakfast for the victim—ahem, girl—and somehow found the energy to join me in my enthusiasm as we headed over to the grocery department to grab some cinnamon rolls and orange juice.

Back at the pad, Michele and I tried to be as quiet as possible as we squeezed through the front door with our handfuls of plastic bags. It was almost impossible to keep those darn things from making a ruckus, but we somehow managed even as we tripped over a pair of unidentified high heels resting in my entryway. Michele preheated the oven while I rolled out some paper and began drawing giant block letters in fluorescent markers.

CONGRATULATIONS!

One down, one to go.

JOEY GOT LAID!

By the time the cinnamon rolls went in the oven, I had colored in the letters, hung the banners on each side of the kitchen and moved on to the streamers. I think my thumbs were raw and bleeding from the toothy edge of the Scotch tape dispenser by the time we finished decorating every inch of the room. We strategically placed the trophies in the center of the kitchen island, surrounded by the gold medal and blue ribbons. True to Jen and Joe form, no one was leaving my house after sex without a parting gift: a tradition passed on to us by one too many break-ups from my checkered past, and the random tokens of their strange affections. But aside from my sense of humor about the whole fiasco, I was compassionate enough to consider that the poor girl upstairs would likely need to replenish her electrolytes and nourish her body after a wild predawn romp with the king of sadistic sex moves such as the
donkey punch
and the
one-eyed dolphin
. Although something tells me he merely kids about using those techniques, it’s hard to put anything past a guy like Joe. So, the refreshments would be there, just in case.

As the house filled with the aroma of delicious cinnamon and the kitchen started to resemble a surprise party throwing up all over itself, Michele and I hatched a plan.

“Just text him and see if you can get them to come downstairs.” Michele suggested. “I want to be here when she does the walk of shame. I have to see who those heels belong to so we can give him shit later.”

We toyed with the different ideas of who the girl probably was and how Joe might have been able to convince her to sleep with him. After countless scenarios, we settled on the fact that she was probably a stripper from one of the clubs he frequented. And although we didn't believe he actually paid her to come home with him, her visit was probably a result of the many, many dollars he dished out on her behalf the night before. It was most likely due to those dollars that Joe was even able to converse with her in the first place. So we had that to hold over his head and tease him about, at the very least.

Hey, there's breakfast down here if you're hungry
, I texted him.

He responded a few moments later.
Sure, I'll be down in a few.

We could only hope, as we sat there with our fingers crossed, that he would come trolling down the stairs with the girl in tow. It would still be a great party either way, though it would be that much better if we could celebrate with the both of them. The intent was always to just embarrass Joe, and I suppose in hindsight, I never really considered that we may scare the poor stripper off; never to return, and ruin any chance of a continuance for their courtship. Perhaps it never crossed my mind, or maybe I just knew deep in my heart that Joe was more of a one-night-stand kinda guy. To be honest, I didn't know the girl, so she never really was any concern of mine. But for Joe's sake, and the sake of saving him from another year-long dry spell, I hoped to God she had a good sense of humor.

When we heard the door open upstairs, Michele and I took our places behind the kitchen island. The suspense was killing us as we squatted low, hidden from sight. I could tell by the sound of the footsteps on the stairs that the stripper was with him. We waited patiently until they rounded the corner at the base of the stairs and...

“SURPRISE!!!” we shouted, accompanied by twirling our noisemakers and blowing in our kazoos. Michele pressed play on the portable stereo on the counter and “Eye of the Tiger” blared from its speakers.

“Risin' up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances…”

Poor Joe. He just stood there in the living room marveling at the tacky decorations and wishing the music would stop. His eyes widened as he read the banners, realizing that his secret was no longer a secret. JOEY GOT LAID! His embarrassment was quickly disguised by his ego's need to overcompensate and make fun of himself. I imagine he waged an internal battle of whether to laugh or cry at that point, and went with the more lighthearted of the two.