Two German Gals with a Weasel and American Clif Bars: Part 3

April 20+9.

Fresh from a super-saiyan nap, I was ready to hit the town while my two German friends were camping, meaning that this weasel was going to visit one of the many bars on his list. Rising above all other options was Ground Kontrol: an arcade that just so happens to let you play drunk. Dangerous in Korea, but not so in Portland!

Anyway, I was also feeling refreshed thanks to the introverted r&r I had taken when the ladies left for the woods. It had to have been around five or six in the pm when I climbed the stairs towards the kitchen. I was in there for maybe thirty seconds when, looking left automatically at the opening of a door, I spotted Leoni exiting the little hallway that led to her room.

“What in the fuck…?” I said, laughing. Let me remind you that she and Anna were not due back until tomorrow evening – something I was happy about like the true weasel friend I am.

“It was too cold!” she said, rubbing her cheeks and smiling.

“And where’s Anna?” I asked.

“In the room.”

“So you guys couldn’t hack it, huh? Dios mio,” I said, followed by, “I knew you weren’t pros. But at least I won’t be lonely now!”

Internally I was cursing them to Hades. Yes, we were friends, but I was desperate to hit on fat video game-loving nerds with Tokyo Tea on their breaths. And now that wasn’t going to happen since – unlike Germany – the drinking age in Amurica isn’t sixteen. Sheesh.

Anyway, Anna soon popped her head out too, dressed in dark jeans and a white tank-top. The waterfall of chestnut on her head was fresh from the shower, and her face looked as smooth as a stone polished by salt and waves. It was easier to calm down about my ruined plans after that.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, paying close attention to their faces.

They looked at each other a few seconds, and then Leo answered with a languid “We are going to make some food and then later maybe we get some Trader Joe’s wine again?”

Well, it ain’t Tokyo Tea, I thought, but better than being sober on a Friday night.

“All right, then, ” I said. “I’m going to get some reading done downstairs, and then we can meet up in what – an hour?”

“Okay,” she said, so tired and droopy. Meanwhile Anna was glued to her phone, still looking “in it” for all of you Garden State fans. This was consistent for her, and my mind continued to toy with me about whether or not she was bored or annoyed within the company of a weasel – even though I knew better thanks to our talks.

Anywho, downstairs I entered the dorm and was greeted by warm, thick air that smelled familiar, and by familiar I mean it smelled like my 8th grade locker room – only magnified by the unctuous bungholes of adult weasels. Immediately I became mindful of keeping my mouth air-locked while unlocking my locker and grabbing my book.

Back in the common room I sucked in fresh air and set Murakami’s massive masterpiece on the comfy teal (or mermaid blue-green?!) chair, then headed upstairs. At the front desk I spotted Little Bird and another woman whom I hadn’t had the chance to annoy yet. How wonderful! Not only was there an opportunity to chirp love notes at Little Bird, but also a chance to create ruckus like a highly caffeinated woodpecker.

And I wasted no time folks.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said to Little Bird, who finally looked somewhat happy to see me. She was wearing tiny blue jean shorts again, along with an airy navy-blue cardigan over a black tank-top (or was it red? Pink even? Son of a bitch).

“Look,” I began, picking my words carefully, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my room smells like an 8th grade locker room – and I just don’t want you to think it’s because of me, all right!”

Both giggled, and I knew that they knew of the pee-yew suffused. And the other woman, once she smiled, reminded me of one of those All-American girl next door types straight outta the South (only not a racist cunt. Or fat.). She looked like an early-thirty-something actress from a southern drama I actually enjoyed – can’t remember which one though, sorry. Ooh, wait… nope, sorry again. Anyway, I looked at her and thought – Hmm… that’s a woman right there. Bitch wreaks of loyalty and a good soul. I know I’m right. I’ve got the gift, brah. 

“Hi – I’m Eddy, by the way,” I said, waving. “I’m the one who’s gonna own this place one day.”

“Ah, okay,” she said, glancing at Little Bird. I sensed that they had already spoken about me, and now Southern Bird was ready to make sure this weasel wasn’t about to sneak off with some eggs.

“Anyway,” I began, “can I get some Lysol or something? Industrial chemicals are in order here.”

“We don’t have those,” tweeted Little Bird. “But I can give you this.”

She handed me some citrus-scented crap. “That’ll do,” I chirped back. “Wish me luck.”

Folks, I sprayed that room until it smelled like an Orange Julius. And I’m pretty sure there was one prick asleep in there too, and I can only imagine -with weasel glee – the poor lad’s face and thoughts upon waking.

“Bless your heart,” I chirped at Little Bird upstairs. Southern Bird was still there too. Intimidated I was not, folks, just more cautious and mindful: reminding myself to focus on being funny but also letting the decent fellow in me slip through every now and then.

“Hey,” I began tweeting Little Bird, trying hard to focus, “when my German friends get booted from this country, I’m going to need, you know, friends ‘n’ stuff. Oh, and I still need an accomplice to help me free the gorillas from the zoo – so let’s grab a drink sometime.” Then I looked at Southern Bird. “You’re invited too,” I blurted.

She composed herself and cawed, “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble making friends,” which kind of pissed me off, to be honest. I mean, she wasn’t wrong… but I understood what she was doing and knew I still had my work cut out for me.

Fade to black.

Now fade in from black.

Despite the dis received from Southern Bird, I still had the German Birds to fill my nest with, well, something. And after a quick Trader Joe’s run, where I picked up two bottles of Benefactor Cellar’s chardonnay, the girls and I were ready to Netflix and chill. I still couldn’t give up on Little Bird, though. “Let’s Netflix and chill one of these nights,” I told her, to which she tweeted, “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that…”

Ha! Like that means anything to a weasel! Case in point: “Invite the weasel to come too!” I said. “It’ll be a test of your relationship.”

Staring at the computer screen, obviously avoiding eye contact with me, she had that did-he-really-just-say-that? face on. Ha! You’d think the poor gal would’ve already been used to my mouth. Sheesh.

“Anyway,” I said while her mouth was still open, “we need an extension cord, please.”

“An extension cord?”

“Yeah. One of those orange ones you see at Home Depot. My laptop’s cord won’t reach the outlet, and we’ve got a whole season of Breaking Bad to watch.”

Both birds looked at me funny, so I decided to explain myself further. “We’re in the other house and have the laptop setup in the middle of the living room – I really like those couches. Anyway, my cord won’t reach and I only have like two hours of battery life left.”

“Um,” began Little Bird, “I’m not sure we have one. I’ll have to search the basement, so give me a sec.”

“Ah, fuck it,” I said, sensing that she didn’t want to fly this mission. “Don’t even worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I know you have other shit to do. Thanks, though – goodnight.”

Our makeshift theater was in a small carpeted living room in the old Victorian behind the main house. There were two blue reclining sofas ready for donation, along with an aging grey couch that looked covered in fabric from one of those archetypal Mexican blankets. Lighting was provided by two lamps with dingy white covers and curvy bodies, as well as the faint fluorescent glow of the kitchen down the hall.

In the middle my 13-inch Zenbook rested on a wooden coffee table, with Leo’s wonderful little macaroni-shaped bluetooth speaker underneath in the area reserved for magazines, its lights glowing and dancing like Tetris shapes.

The only problem was that Anna wasn’t a fan of Breaking Bad. At all. Yeah, I know. Fucking foreigners! Just kidding, folks. Kidding because it was actually Leo’s idea to watch the show. But, sadly, there was little we could do to keep Anna from looking bored and irritated. That is… until the shitty wine was sipped. We had used our smarts and filled a water bottle and coffee mug with the cheap golden nectar, hoping that Little Bird and Southern Bird wouldn’t fly in and caw at us.

“We can totally finish the first two seasons tonight!” I joked, looking back and giving Anna a thumbs up. And eventually she did lighten up some, which was nice since the pawky weasel in me was being buried alive by the Sandman’s sadistic bro…

 

 

 

 

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