I JUST NEEDED A RIDE TO THE ZOO

"Fuck you, Chris! Fuck you! What the fuck am I supposed to do now, you stupid fuck? Who's going to watch Casey? What the fuck are you thinking, you fuck?"

"I don't know. Call your mom, maybe she'll look after her?"

"I don't want to call my mom again! I fucking ask her to help out too fucking much as it is!"

"Well, what do you want me to do? I can't miss another class. If I do, then I fail. Then what? All this for nothing?"

"God damn it! God damn it, I am so fucking sick of this fucking shit-fuck. Fuck you, fuck! Damn it!"

I was sitting in the living room on the couch of a complete stranger, scratching at a stain on my shirt with my index finger and desperately trying to pretend that I couldn’t hear the argument going on between him and his wife.

I was failing.

The dead could hear these two. Beethoven's corpse could hear them, and he's buried in Vienna—which is nowhere near Ohio—which is where we were. Plus, he was deaf before he died. Plus, corpses can’t hear anything.

So how in the hell did I end up in this most awkward of awkward situations?

Let me explain.

You see, when I was in college I was pretty much invisible. I’m not talking about being invisible in a cool sneak-into-the-girl’s-locker-room-and-watch-them-undress sort of way, either. I was invisible in a far less cool weirdo-loser-who-never-talks-to-anyone-and-has-no-friends sort of way.

A week prior, the instructor in one of my drawing courses told us that we’d be spending the next couple of classes at the Columbus Zoo, sketching various animals.

This sucked for a number of reasons:

1. It just plain sucked. Drawing animals at the zoo? Really? This was seriously what I was paying twenty grand a year for? This was supposed to help prepare me for the real world and land me job and secure me affordable insurance? Sketching monkeys?

2. I didn’t own a car—which meant I needed a ride.

For a dude with no friends of which to speak and no prospective friends on the horizon, who also had most of the student body believing he was a serial killer, finding a ride proved a far more difficult task than it really should have been.

Thankfully, when the instructor asked everyone willing to offer rides to those of us without one to raise their hands, the other weirdo in class raised his.

We were stuck together.

My new carpool pal was a tall drink of water—maybe 6’4. He had dark hair, he was skinny, and he wore glasses. He was dorky in a harmless, greasy sort of way, and his name was Chris.

We always come in pairs. We’re just like boobs. Weirdoes, I mean.

No one else in the class was willing to get into a car with Chris, and no one else was going to let me get into a car with them.

We were a perfect fit.

The following week, Chris picked me up outside my apartment around seven in the morning. His car was a piece of junk. The bumper was bent. The paint was peeling. The back window didn’t work anymore, and there were three or four crumpled up McDonalds bags on the floor of the front seat. There were fifteen more scattered throughout the back.

The dude really liked McDonalds.

He was sicker than I originally thought.

"Hey, if it's okay with you, I've gotta stop at my place before we head to the zoo."

I really didn't have any interest in going to Chris’s apartment. Scratch that and revise—I had absolutely no interest whatsoever in going to Chris’s apartment.

             What was I supposed to say, though? “Stop at your apartment? I think not, nerdlinger! You drive straight to the zoo or I’m out of here!” Maybe I should have slapped him on the back of the head or coiled up my fist and popped him right in the ear?

             The guy was doing me a favor and keeping me from failing by agreeing to give me a lift. He didn’t have to. It wasn’t the forties, he wasn’t my servant, and I wasn’t Ms. Daisy.

I said the only thing I could. "Sure. No problem."

       Looking back on it now, I realize I should have punched him in the ear.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at his apartment. The inside was a sty. It was messy like an anus—the sort of messy that could never truly be cleaned—messy like Russell Brand.

Also, it smelled a lot like a twelve-year-old boy’s bedroom—you know, kind of like ejaculate and crusty gym socks. Spread haphazardly across the floor were at least thirty more crumpled up McDonalds bags. On the dining room table there were three more and on the kitchen counters more still.

             Chris pointed me in the direction of his couch and grunted “Give me one second," before heading out of sight and into another room.

Wedged between the cushions beneath me, I found another McDonalds bag.

Was he really eating all this McDonalds?

For a moment, everything was quiet.

On top of his television, I noticed another McDonalds bag. Underneath the bag was a videocassette with a piece of brown piece of tape on the side. Written on the tape in a thick black marker were the words, "KELLY'S GIANT TITS."

Okey dokey.

"Fuck you, Chris! Fuck you!" A thin twenty-something girl came storming into the living room area with her fists clenched. She was pissed. She was really pissed. My new pal, Chris, was right behind her. He had his hands pressed tight against his head. It looked like he was trying to keep his brain from exploding.

"What do you want me to do? I don't have a choice!"

"Fuck you, Chris! Fuck you! What the fuck am I supposed to do now, you stupid fuck? Who's going to watch Casey? What the fuck are you thinking, you fuck?"

"I don't know. Call your mom, maybe she'll look after her?"

"I don't want to call my mom again! I fucking ask her to help out too fucking much as it is!"

"Well, what do you want me to do? I can't miss another class. If I do, then I fail. Then what? All this for nothing?"

"God damn it! God damn it. I am so fucking sick of this fucking shit-fuck. Fuck you, fuck! Damn it!"

The thin girl snagged hold of a crumpled McDonalds bag and whipped it in Chris’s direction. It hit him in the face, bounced off, and ended up wedged in the metal of the crummy chandelier. Before he could react, she grabbed another, reeled back like a major league pitcher, and chucked it at him. This time Chris was ready. This time Chris got his hands up.

The minute his hands were in front of his face though, she charged and kicked him in the shin.

She was smart—despite her McDonalds-clogged arteries.

"AGH!" Chris keeled over, reached for his leg, and stumbled sideways. Trying desperately to keep his balance, he grabbed for a nearby chair, missed, and ended up flat on his face. Satisfied with her attack, the girl immediately marched back into the room from which she came and slammed the door behind her.

I’d seen something I shouldn’t have seen. I was sitting on a couch, next to a crumpled up McDonalds bag that I shouldn't have been sitting on.

I wanted to leave.

I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

I envisioned myself charging at Chris, knocking him over, and running all the way back to my apartment. Once there I’d pull my hair out in clumps, cut open my head, tear out my brain, and throw it in the dishwasher.

Chris hobbled to his feet, stuck his fist in the air, and screamed, "Damn it, Kelly! What’s the matter with you?”

Wait—that was Kelly?

Her boobs weren't that big.