Fast Car

Of course you kibitzers all want to know about the car! Let's just hope my daughter never reads this post.

Okay, it all started with a mushroom. Don't ask me what kind of mushroom it was, because in those days (I was fourteen or fifteen by then) I had no frickin' idea what I was putting in my veins or my mouth. (And you can interpret that last one aaany way you want to, sugars...) Suffice it to say, there were mushrooms; there was booze; there were cigarettes, not-exactly-cigarettes, and considerably worse items of illegal arcana that I shall refrain from describing here, so as not to become even more of a Bad Influence than I already am.

So there I was, comfortably ensconced in Bad Boyfriend Miguel's lap, feelin' fine, when the carpet began to crawl up my legs. It was a very nice carpet as I remember--possibly Persian, and certainly too well-bred to engage in activities such as harassing not-all-that-innocent young girls. With stoned calm, I got to my feet and attempted to brush the impolite carpet off, but it was recalcitrant and reluctant to let go. After some inspired hopping around and maybe even jitterbugging (received with cheers from my then-friends), I finally got the carpet to slide off... only to find that it had left distressingly psychedelic paisley patterns all over my shins.

At this point, absurd as it seems now, my primary concern was: "How will I explain this to my mother when I'm supposed to be rehearsing for the school play?" Everyone knows that you cannot get paisley patterns on your legs at the school auditorium, while it seemed perfectly reasonable to me that you could pick them up (like an embarrassing disease) in the common area of your boyfriend's rented apartment. So this is what I was stressing about when the carpet renewed its amorous advances on my legs.

I panicked and ran; and Bad Boyfriend (who was really not altogether bad in a number of ways) ran after me. I explained that the carpet was chasing me; and he agreed, with grave and equally-stoned comprehension, that this was a matter of serious concern. So we trooped around the house trying to escape the persistent carpet. It was a large house (of which he rented only one room, but was allowed to use areas like the living room, dining room, and kitchen) and, unfortunately, a fully-carpeted one. We could not get away from our menacing adversary--which was what led to Miguel's suggestion that we take the car and flee.

The problem, of course, was that it was not his car; it was his landlord's. Nevertheless, we got into it; Miguel managed to get it started by fiddling with some wires (a skill I had not previously known he possessed); and we drove off into the night, blithely leaving friends, paraphernalia, and carpet behind.

The next day, I woke up at home (Not-That-Bad Boyfriend had apparently gotten me home somehow) to the sound of the phone ringing. Groggily, I picked it up and heard Miguel's rather tense voice: "Babe? Do you remember what we did with the car?"

I furrowed my brow, trying to remember. "Car?" I repeated blankly.

epilogue:
We eventually did figure out where we'd left the car, and the landlord was so happy to get it back unharmed that he did not press charges. He did kick Miguel out, though, which seemed utterly unreasonable to me at the time... So now, all of you who think I'm so bleedin' wise know that it has not come without cost!