Texted - 2

Part 1 can be found here: "Texted" 

Hunter
    Surprisingly, my house is empty when I arrive there. I inherited the home when my mom was forced into a retirement home against her will. I’m genuinely sad that this is the case, but it is in hell of a sweet deal for me. I mean, how many 25 year olds have a nice, entirely paid off house to call their own? I live in the basement and rent out the first floor to my brother, Shoe, and Zippo. It may seem a little mean charging my brother rent to live in my house, but it was his idea. He wanted the responsibility, and who am I to argue. The downside is, I use up a large portion of paycheck on the place, and most of the rest goes to my college fund. I really do need to get a car, too. My 16 year old Suburban A.K.A. Land Yacht is just not working with gas over 3 dollars a gallon. You know that suburban’s used to have 41 gallon tanks? This is a fact.
    The downside to all of this is, with my paycheck burned, the house is still decorated in the style of my mother, a la old lady. Sure, I can bullshit antiques with the best of them, and I have often fantasized about giving my house to a movie company, just so an action shot could be filmed here and break each and every one of the 200,000 pieces of glassware in the house, bu its not exactly the best place to bring a new female friend to.
    Not that I actually have any female friends to bring home, but that’s another story. And if you haven’t noticed yet, that is a particularly sore subject for me, and one we will now avoid so as to save us both from any harm that could come, small as that chance is.
    Nothing good in the mail, so I head downstairs to check the soda count and change. As always, Gauss is right there to meet me with his big gaping grin. Gauss is my Greyhound, all one hundred and ten pounds of him. He’s not fat, just enormous. A little over 6 months ago I took a trip with my older sister out to Abilene, Kansas to visit the Greyhound track there. She was intent on saving one of the dogs but wanted some moral support, so I tagged along. As we walked through the kennels, dog after dog would glance up, then go back to sleep as we moved on. I’m not quite sure what she was looking for, but she didn’t find it. I, however, was touched when the trainer, upon being prompted, told us that Mario Rube was going to be put down because he wasn’t making any money. When you looked at Mario, you thought he was a horse. Easily over 4 foot tall, he is massive. I had a hard time believing the dog couldn’t run, given his obvious athleticism and size. Christ, this dog should be a world champion racer. The trainer said he just wasn’t competitive. Sure, he would lope around the track and finish in the middle of the pack every time, but that didn’t make money. 
    So, Mario was going to be put to sleep. This I simply could not stand for. Mario was renamed Gauss after my favorite mathematician, and he rode back to Manhattan in my suburban with his head out the window while I sang along to Ted Leo and the Pharmacists.
    Hopefully you aren’t scared of big dogs. He’s really very docile, and almost never barks. He also doesn’t have the attitude problem that most small dogs have. My mom used to have this miniature Daschund, right? That little thing was a terror. It thought it was the 110 pounder, and had a bark to back it up. Fortunately the little brat had really bad teeth and needed dentures by age 10. Since doggie dentures are an extreme rarity, the little 8 pound dog lived the rest of her life trying to gum everyones ankles while begging for food constantly. Thank god Gauss is civilized.     
    While most of the house is, as we have discussed, old lady, the basement is decidedly not. What little money I have been able to scrounge away has been fed into this room, making it a near perfect party room. In one corner, we have our big screen television, albeit an old projection one. Still a killer movie viewer, though. Scattered throughout and carefully placed to look like they were just thrown there are the areas best auction chairs. By auction chairs I mean the most comfortable, cushy chairs  that can be found cheaply. Th one good purchase my mom made, namely a huge sleeper sofa, is situated in the middle of the room. 2 desktop computers, one for actual work and one entirely for media and music, adorn 2 of the remaining 3 corners while a poker table sits in the 4th. And my prid and joy hides neatly behind the bi tv. A 340 watt 5.1 digital surround sound system with speakers built into the walls and floor, the latter of which was a very difficult feat indeed. Totally worth it, though. They have never failed to disappoint. 
    I grab a quick shower and throw on a t-shirt and pajama pants in time for the entourage to arrive. When I was younger I could never figure out why my father would come home, immediately change into swim trunks, and head outside until the sun set. Now that I am older and in the absence of a pool, I live on pajama pants and completely understand. Maybe it’s a right of growing up, having the, “Dad, I totally understand the underwear and wife beater” conversation. That reminds me, I really should call my dad. Later, though. I bet the brats are almost …
    “Swivel!” Zippo exclaims as he runs down the stairs two at a time.This is my nickname in a life of nicknames. My one big treat to myself was a huge cushy Lay-Z-Boy which I let no one else sit in. I follow people and parties around from my chair vantage, a la Chandler and Joey. Hence the nickname.
    Hey, Z. Where’s?”
    “Cooking.”
    “Pizza?”
    “And queso.”
    “How’s?”
    “Sad.”
    “Yeah.” He drops his coat on the table at the base of the stairs, our discussion of the day complete. 10 words total, and we don’t need to say anything else. Sparky and Aqualita are making sure food is ready. Another of her superpowers is making the best queso anywhere. She’s Wonderwoman in the flesh, swear to God. Zippo’s longtime girlfriend recently left to go to college in Ohio and has not adjusted well. She has lived in Kansas her whole life, so that is pretty understandable. Shoe is on his way but will be a little late. In case you missed that discussion, it was between “queso” and “How’s?”  Look really carefully and you’ll see it. Up a little bit. Now right. Stop, too far! Right there. See? Told you. That whole thing about guys not communicating is bullshit, women are just on a level so advanced and complex that they have not figured out the translation to simple. Eventually something will have to give, but only when the ability to reproduce ceases, which clearly hasn’t happened yet. I honestly don’t understand how the population of the state of Kansas is falling when there is a pregnant woman or a baby or triplets around every corner here in Manhattan. There must be an enormous number of old people biting it out west or something.
    Zippo settles into a beanbag on the floor and starts up the X-Box. I swivel around to watch the opening animations and hum along with the Halo theme before accepting a Pepsi from Aqualita, who has materialized out of nowhere. The queso is on the coffee table, as usual, and Sparky soon joins us with a couple of Digiorno’s before taking up his controller. He and Aqualita take positions on the couch, and the games begin.
    She and I usually run commentary on the matches as neither of us can play. At least not very well, and definitely not at the level of Sparky and Zippo. They aren’t video game nerds, per se, but they do enjoy Halo perhaps a tad too much. Regardless, they are good. Really good. Shoe shows up not long after and joins in the mayhem. He is generally a mediocre player, but I am told that he is second to none at shotty snipers, whatever that means. I assume it’s a dance.
    Tonight proves to be an especially entertaining evening to commentate, as the three are pitted against such pros as “spacePICKLE” and “AnalAssasin”. The phrases ”Anal snipeage” and “Pickle beatdown” are simply too difficult to work into everyday life and are much funnier when put in context of a pixelated dream world.
    “Ha ha, your anus just got assasinated.” Also pretty good, props to Zippo.
    “At least I didn't blown up by a vegetable.” Weak retort, Shoe. Incoming pickle beatdown.
    “Doesn't count. I got double teamed by spacePICKLE and spacePOTATO.”
    “Anal destruction at the genitalia of vegetables. I'll take the assassin, thanks.” Redeemed, Shoe.
    Zippo has no quick retort to this, which is for the best as a new game has started and they are reimmersed. After about an hour, Aqualita gets up to get some water, leaving me to commentate solo. Thankfully, the game ends a short time after, upon which a bathroom break is called.  I tune out the “I’m such a badass video gamer, did you see me kill that guy?” talk and zone out for a bit. I am more tired than I thought, damn. I must b getting old. Maybe I should call it an early evening. The last thing I need is to be zoned out at work with Blondie constantly yammering at me. Fuck, I hope Jake counted the 20 from yesterday that fell under the register so that the two days will balance properly.
    “Surprise!”   
    “What?” Is it someone’s birthday?
    “For you, brother of mine.” But it’s... oh shit, is it my birthday?
    “Happy 25th, good sir.” Oh god damn, it is. “Thanks Zippo.”
    Cards and a little gift bag are passed my direction, and everyone takes a shot in my honor, after which Aqualita pushes something into my hands that is mysterious, definitely alchoholic, and tastes amazing. I open and read the cards then join in he party that has materialized around us. Weren’t there only 5 of us here a bit ago? Who are all these people?
    “Dude, open your present!” Sparky yells at me. Sure thing, bro. Be glad to.
    I pull the bag into my lap and sift through the paper until I encounter something small and rectangular. With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I remove my hand to reveal a cell phone, pristine and primed to suck my life away.
    “You really shouldn’t have.” Any amusement at my misuse of the line is lost on myself. I hope he kept the receipt.
    “It’s time you got with the rest of the world, man. Everything is passing you by, you don’t go out because you never get the memo, and we are all worried that you will end up 40 and single before you realize what you’ve missed.” Thank you, Sparky. Stupid as I am, I do hope that I don’t need you to teach me the ways of the world.
    But this is, after all, a party. My party. No sense in ruining it over something silly like this. See that, Sparky? It’s called maturity. You really should learn some of it. “Yeah, you are probably right. Thanks, all of you.” Shitheads.
    “You know I always got your back.” And the party is on. No party is complete without music, dancing, and strangers. When I do get to a party, I make it a point to leave without a stranger left in th house. I slowly make the rounds and make new acquaintances, taking the drinking rounds at a slightly faster pace. Within a couple hours I am nicely drunk and very hungry.
    “Vic’s!” I cal out over the din. The call is soon reciprocated, the sober people are tasked with transport, and the party heads out en masse to the best place to find yourself hungover.
    “Wait! Don’t forget your phone!” Aqualita reminds me. Had I been sober, I probably would have been angry. But I am very far from sober, so I instead take the little square and move to stick it in my pocket.
    Until I notice that it is blinking. There must be an unwritten law of the universe that states, “A blinking object must be messed with until it stops blinking.” God forbid men get smart and put little blinkers in their pants zippers. On second thought, women could get all the foreplay they want with strategically placed blinkers. This idea may have potential…
    I punch a button at random and the screen lights up, informing me that I have a new text message from an unknown number. No shit? An unknown number? I don’t understand how I’ve had this thing nearly two hours and don’t know every phone number in the world yet. Clearly my mistake. I awkwardly hit the “read” button and find myself immediately puzzled.
    **Congrats on ur new phone! Texting is enabled!**
    Thank you, phone company. Amazingly enough, I actually can read my contract and users agreement, and I was aware of this feature. I do appreciate you charging me a dime for this pointless shit, though. Actually, I never read either of those things, but what phone wouldn't come equipped with text messaging today? I am too drunk to worry about this right now. “Vic’s!” I proclaim, and the party begins the transition from house to hole-in-the-wall.

Amber
    “Okay. 10, 6, or 2?”
    You can do so much better than this, Sam. “2, definitely.” Does she really think that 6 is gay? Honestly, his shoes don't even match his belt. And a Hockey jersey?  “What gay man enjoys hockey?”
    “What? And please tell me you are joking about 2.”
    “Of course I was joking!” I so wasn't joking. “And I'm sorry, I'm trying to work on my brain mouth coordination.”
    “Brain mouth coordination? You mean the way you blurt any old thing that comes to mind?” Sam, you truly are a woman without minced words.
    “Yeah, that. This morning, some random guy in front of me spilled some milk on himself and cried out 'Damn you milk!' in the sticky bun line.”
    “You didn't...” Sam cringes with her eyes but laughs at me with her mouth. If I were gay, I'd jump her over that look. Fortunately, I am not gay. I did kiss a girl once, but it was totally on a dare in high school. “That, however, is not enough to make me gay.”
    “Whoa, alrighty there Amber. TMI chica.”
    “See?!” This has got to stop. “Anyway, I rudely informed this random cute guy in front of me that every cow could not have personally wronged him.”
    “And you meant to think that.”
    “Yeah. It ruined my whole day. Well, that's not true. They didn't have any sticky buns this morning, which is what really ruined my day and caused my silver lining cloud to pour metaphorical milk all over me. I've just been blaming random cute guy.”
    “Metaphorical milk. Now there is a phrase you just don't hear every day. So, how cute was this guy, exactly?” I know where this is going, and it must be stopped.
    “No. Don't even go there.”
    “Why not? You are way too picky about your boys. Let me let you in on a little secret here, Amber.” She leans in close, sending the “Conspire with me!” signal which I cannot ignore. I lean in over my coffee, too, eyes bright and wide, waiting expectantly for the speech I know all too well. Any moment now, here it comes...
    “There is no such thing as a perfect guy. Doesn't exist. There once was a perfect guy, but God was still mad at Eve and dropped a meteor on his head. Funnily enough, he was Australian and driving on a highway at the time.” She leans back, conspiracy over, the lesson for the evening clearly taught and learned.
    Or not. “Sam, I don't think there is some perfect Prince Charming out there. I just refuse to go bananas over every quasi cute walking penis that I see.”
    “Mmmm, walking penis.” she squints her eyes and drifts from side to side. I throw a balled up straw wrapper at her and continue on.
    “Anyway, he was clumsy, crazy, and uhh..  some other C word that I forget now.” What was he, darn it. It was really clever and I am still proud of it.
    “Chivalrous?”
      “The man condemned cows, of course he wasn't a knight. He'd probably kill all the horses if he could, too, and for no reason.” 
    “It's probably a good thing that there were no Hindu people around when he spat that gem out. He would have been caned or something.”
    “Sam, I don't think Hindu's cane people, and he didn't just outright say 'Death to all cows!' I more or less put those words in his mouth.
    “What did he say, then?”
    “'Damn you, milk!'”
    “Oh. Close enough.” Sam turns in her chair, coffee cup complete with straw in hand, and flags down a waitress. One of the best things about Vic's is that the wait staff completely ignores you until you signal that you want something. This is good in two ways. One, the wait staff doesn't feel shat on all day long because they don't really have to wait on you. They also don't expect tips for their service, and it shows. Secondly, you can be as rude as you want to your server and not get in trouble for it. Just be ready to receive the same treatment in return. For Sam, who is a waitress herself, this means she is extra sugary sweet to our servers and gets the same in return from them. Hell, on particularly slow nights we've had one or more of the Vic's staff sit down with us and go on like we we're old friends. And yes, Sam drinks her coffee through a straw. Please don't point this out to her or try and correct it. It's futile, I've tried twenty three times to date without an ounce of success.
    A glimmer of that silver lining is returning in the form of Jesus Magic. She is our favorite waitress at Vic's, and not just because of her name. She actually pays attention to people she knows and has a lightning quick wit, something Sam usually finds herself on the receiving end of.
    “Hey Jesus! How's life?” I love asking her that.
    “No complaints, sweetie. Shoes walking off the shelves yet?”
    “Not yet. Maybe tomorrow, though. Or maybe elves will come in the night and move them all around or steal them.” That'd be pretty neat. I'm sure mall security would fawn over a report of elven shoe thieves.
    “According to the nursery rhyme, elves fix shoes dear, not steal them. More coffee?”
    “Yes please!” Sam squeals as she holds her cup, straw and all, up to Jesus. I can't decide if this reminds me more of a bad version of Oliver Twist or of a lost chapter of the Bible. Probably the former since Jesus Christ was a guy and Jesus Magic is a girl. Now God, that's arguable.
    “Ugh, take your straw. Weirdo.” Sam pouts but removes her straw. Jesus floats away to get us refills and bring our eggs and bacon with a side of hash browns. She knows we always get this and doesn't bother asking anymore. She just brings it. She really does float, too. Okay, she is walking, but there is a fluid grace about her that makes her appear to just float to and fro. One too many years as a waitress, maybe. Whatever the reason, she is aptly named. “I wonder if she can walk on water.”
    “Brain mouth coordination, hun. Work on it.”
    “I did it again, ugh! Honestly, how can I fix this? I can't just go through life blurting out every little thing that comes to mind.”
    “Don't think?”
    “Not all of us are as gifted as you are, sweetie.” Jesus, right on cue.
    “That so just cost you your tip.”She tries to make a comeback.
    “That's okay, I found a quarter on my way over here, you're covered.”
    Sam purses her lips and bulges her eyes, but she has lost. As always. One day she will learn that she just cannot compete with Jesus Magic, who just smiles a large, self satisfied smile as she sets our plates down, extra side of bacon for me, hash browns in the middle, and 2 eggs over easy all around. Satisfied with her work, Jesus floats off leaving Sam pitifully struggling for a retort, eyes still bugged out.
    “The correct response was, 'That's not what your pimp told me.'”
    “Damn it! I always forget that one.” Sam slumps in her chair, eying her eggs. Having seen this numerous times before, I know it will be exactly six seconds until she attacks her plate full force. Hopefully she'll forget that I chose 2, and six is clearly not gay, meaning the answer was 10.. That six seconds should be up just about ... now.
    Sure enough, Sam snatches her fork and begins shoveling eggs into her mouth while her free left hand primes the hash browns, meaning adding lots of ketchup. For someone who is totally uncoordinated, she does this flawlessly. Had I not seen it so many times before, I would still be mesmerized. I, however, have bacon with my name on it, and we shan't keep the grease waiting.
    “You thought 2 was gay?” she says around mouthfuls. I swear this girl is part chipmunk. She can cram more into those cheeks than anyone I know.
    “I told you, I wasn't being serious. It's 10, final answer.” I can see why 2 was the wrong answer now, too. Shoes are dirty. His white shoes are dirty. Actually, he's wearing Air Force's, so of course he isn't gay. That was a rookie mistake.
    “I knew you'd get that one. I didn't really have much material to work with tonight.”
    “My turn!” Last slice of bacon disappears, and with it the arrival of 3 cars outside. I'll wait to pick my new gay trio until they are seated. I busy myself with my eggs, which are almost 2 concentric circles. I stack them like pancakes and dig in. Halfway through my second bite, the newly arrived and very large group comes in and starts rearranging tables. The little hint of silver lining that was returning to my day is quickly being clouded over. This party is primarily drunk, and is being loud and annoying. Two things that I am in no mood to put up with tonight.
    I return to my eggs, intent on finishing them as fast as possible then getting the hell out of Dodge. Sam is entranced with the newly arrived walking penises, her plates already cleaned. I've barely got my last forkful of egg through my lips before I start looking for Jesus and our ticket. Maybe if I hurry I can save a glimmer of silver to start tomorrow off with. I'm halfway through the room and a quarter to my feet when I spot him.
    “Milk man!” It's out of my mouth before I can stop it.
    “Swallow first, then use your words. 'Mmff mmn' is not a good pick up line.” I take a gulp of hot coffee and force the scalding mixture down my throat. “The milk man is over there!” I rasp.
    “The randomly cute one?”
    “Yes! We have to get out of here.” I didn't bring a purse, and I only had my keys out. I grab my debit card out of my pocket and pass  it to Sam. “Go pay, then meet me at my place. I have a glimmer of silver and can't lose it.” Cue the Mission: Impossible music. I use what cover I can, chairs and the like, while making a beeline for the door. God, I hope he doesn't see me.
    “Hey, cow girl! Hold up!”
    Oh God damnit. “Keep away from me, you crazy lunatic.”
    His eyes widen in shock, and he wobbles a bit as he stands there, clearly drunk. “But I had this big confession for every cow I had ever injured all written out, and I needed you to sign off on it.”
    “Just stay away from me.” Five feet to the door, go muscles go, take me there. My silver lining, come back, I need you. Ugh, fuck him. “Murderer”
    I trip on the door frame on my way out and end up facing back through the glass. He's standing there, head cocked to the side and eyes slightly squinted. His glasses are crooked, but his hair and beard are perfect. Jeans with a t-shirt, laid back , with a pair of Asics. Nice combo. He really is cute.
    “Murdering bastard.”

Hunter
    What a bitch, even with her amazing multi-colored hair. I could really learn to love that hair, if she wasn't clearly insane. And I don't know if you know this, but I am on the other side of a glass  door with a loud party behind me. Whatever you just said from your side, I couldn't hear it. Not that I want to. Please do the male race a favor and go die in a fire before reproducing. Your blonde friend can live and reproduce, though. Except that she is talking to some guy that I don't know. Was he with my party? I can't remember.
    I am drunk. Not a little drunk, either. Very drunk. Having trouble standing up drunk. I should really sit down, but I don't know where to sit. This chair right here actually looks pretty good, if I can manage to land on it and not fall over.
    A waitress is floating around the tables, taking orders and looking annoyed. I guess I can't blame her, loud obnoxious party and all. And I bet the cook staff is in the back going, “Oh shit! Oh shit! Lots of people!” I order a glass of water and a side of white toast in an attempt to sober up. Once the waitress has moved on, I look around the room and see Aqualita and Sparky doing their thing, getting everyone involved in the party. I watch and admire for a moment as they play off one another. They really are an exceptional couple. I guess I am a bit jealous of them.
    Suddenly, crazie's blonde friend is over me, smiling down with one of those I-know-something-you-don't smiles, which is fine for a moment, but the moment stretches on and on, and she is just standing there staring at me, not saying or doing anything, as if I am some exhibit. If you have something to say, say it then, or get out of my face. As if hearing my thoughts, she moves away from me and leaves, no doubt chasing her friend to spread insanity across  the countryside.
    Something just blinked. I know it did. Where was it? There! On that table. Ugh, it's a cell phone. But I can't just ignore a blinking object, we've already discussed this rule. I stagger to my feet and find myself slightly less drunk than when I sat down, then stumble over to cease the blinkage. I flop into one of the chairs and scoop the phone up to find that someone named Sam  is calling. Clearly some guy has forgotten his phone and is trying to find it. I can't answer it drunk, I'll just make a fool out of myself. Actually, it's not blinking anymore, so it doesn't matter.
    I wonder what it feels like to get a text message. I've never actually gotten one, and everyone else is obsessed  with it, so I guess  I should really experience it. I just hope its not like some addictive drug. Do you get this little rush every time your phone tootles at you? Or is it the blinking rule, only applied to vibrating objects. The last thing I need is a cell phone addiction. And actually, that drunken revelation about vibrating objects just answered a whole basketload of questions.
    I fumble with the lost cell phone until I figure out how to send a text, where I enter in my number before clumsily keying in a message to myself. I then punch the infamous green button and watch as the screen shows a little piece of paper flying away over the words “sending message”. It does this for what seems  to be an inordinately long time before the paper disappears altogether and the words change to “message sent!” as if the phone were excited and proud of itself for completing this menial task.
    I sit for a moment, thinking about signals flying off into space and bouncing around off satellites. I just wanted to send a message literally one foot, how hard can this be? Then my pants vibrate. Even though I know what the message says and who it is from, I am rushing to get my phone out of my pocket and see. Now I understand this texting thing, sort of, and am determined not to become yet another victim.
    **New text message** my phone informs me, which I already knew. I hit the “Read” button and see my “Hey” pop up on the screen. It occurs to me that this was a pretty pointless exercise, but I can't shake the feeling that this message deserves a response.
    **Hi there. I just wanted to see what it was like to get my very first text message, so  I used your phone to send myself one.** May as well be honest right? And it's only 1 text to a phone that I will never see again that belongs to someone I will never meet. What's the point in lying? My message arrives on the unknown phone with a high pitched chirrup. The screen also blinks and informs me that a new text has arrived, to which I hit “Read” to find my response waiting. It's just not the same with someone else's phone, there is no rush of discovery waiting for you. Or maybe it's just because I sent the message and already knew what it said.
    My drunkeness and fun having passed, I get up and carry the phone to the desk, where I hand it to the lady working the register, telling her that it was left behind and that someone would assuredly come looking for it. I return to the party to find plates of food scattered about the tables and my guests in various stages of excusing themselves.
    Another half hour of sobering up and the remains of my birthday party are ready to head home. We pile into Shoe's car for the short trip back to my house. Now that I am on the near side of sober, I check the time and intellectually become aware of how much tomorrow is going to suck. Not just a little suck, a lot of suck. A land yacht of suck. With my luck, I'll be hungover, too. And God damnit, Blondie works all day tomorrow. That's just what I need, a headache upon a headache. A headache squared. At least it's Thursday, which means markdown day.
    Every Thursday I receive a list from corporate. On this list are certain items from my store and new prices for these items. It is my job to make sure that every item that has had a price change has said change displayed for any customer to see. All in all, these are very easy days, and the perfect weekday remedy to a bad hangover. Maybe I can just muzzle Blondie tomorrow so she won't talk me into mental oblivion.
    “Fuck!” Shoe's car suddenly skids violently as he stands on his brakes, the back end of his car whipping around. My head slams into his window sending a shower of lights cascading through my head. When I can actually open them again, I can see both front doors open and the seats empty. My door is still closed, the window a neat snowflake pattern. I find that my neck won't cooperate with me, at least not without sending white hot jets of pain through my entire body. Using my hands, I rotate my body to the left and see Zippo's door open and him sitting with his legs outside the car. Shoe's massive frame is a shadow moving around the car, approaching my side. I try to shift away from the door, but my muscles just refuse to work.
    “I'm gonna open your door, Hunter. Just sit still.” Sure thing, chief. I don't really have much of a choice right now. God my neck hurts. The door opens a moment later and Shoe peers inside. Time starts to speed back up as my senses come back to reality. I notice a train whipping past the back of the car, Zippo hefting himself into a standing position, and Sparky leaning on the hood, phone at his ear.
    “What happened?”
    “The gates for the railroad crossing didn't come down.”
    “You mean, we almost just got hit by a train?” I ask him incredulously. My neck aches, but I can talk just fine. This is a positive sign.
    “Other way around, the train almost got hit by us. I always thought it was only idiots and stupid people who did that.”
    I bite back my retort. “Well, Darwinian Law almost just proved who the weakest of our pack is.” Almost bit back my retort. “Did you just not see it?”
    “Did you?” No, I am ashamed to say. It just came out of nowhere.
    “How drunk are you?” I ask him, knowing that the police are on the way. This good night has turned bad in a hurry.
    “Not at all. I didn't have anything to drink all night.” At least that's one good thing in a hail of bad ones.
    The police are there in under 2 minutes, an ambulance close behind. With the other 3 doing a fine job of locomotion, the paramedics descend on me, protests and all. They quickly ascertain that my neck is uninjured, but I may have a concussion from where I left Shoe a nice decoration on his window. I hope he likes snowflakes  They gently ease me from Shoe's car and guide me towards the ambulance, intent on taking me to the hospital.
    “Can you really do anything for a concussion? I would rather just go home.”
    “It's procedure, sir. And we really need to monitor you, at least overnight. Wouldn't hurt to have an x-ray for your neck either.”
    “I have to be at work in 7 hours, I don't have time to go to a hospital and take an x-ray.”
    “I'm sure they will get along without you tomorrow.” Do you hear the words coming out of my mouth?
    Why am I stepping into the ambulance? “I'm the manager, I need to be there for my store to function.” Why am I not turning around and getting out?
The paramedic, who is clearly one rung down the Darwinian food chain from Shoe, sits on the little bench thing inside the ambulance. “All the more reason to make sure you are all right, then.” He motions for me to sit down, which I do automatically. Why do medical personnel have such an influence over us?
    Before the doors can close, Sparky jumps in. “I'm going.” he says simply. The doors close behind him. I can't help thinking about some great robbery that we have just pulled off and are now going to make our getaway right under the cops noses in this ambulance. Sparky looks at me for a long moment as the vehicle gets rolling. Siblings have the ability to read one another's minds, and I know there are a million things he wants to say, but that only one is fitting right now.
    “Congrats on making it to a quarter of a century old."

Don't fret, part 3 will be posted soon.