The Art of Getting Laid

Rule Eleven: Beeeee Yourself!!

Rule Eleven: Beeeee Yourself!!

 “No, don’t—“

The grinding of the gears was so loud the car actually shuddered frightfully before switching to third.

Liz cringed and looked at me through half slit eyes, as if expecting me to wallop her. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” She looked like a bedraggled puppy. The kind that accidently slips into its own water bowl and pees on the floor at the same time.

I massaged my forehead, trying to erase the booming headache that was forming. “It’s fine. Put it in neutral and roll up to the stop sign.”

Liz nervously followed my commands; she came to a complete stop and then looked up at me desperately. “Now what do I do?” The engine immediately died and the person behind us gave a long winded honk.

“Put it in park. Put on the parking brake and get out of the car. I’m driving.”

“No! I want to do this.”

“Five minutes ago you were going to trade your questionable virginity for a chance to sit in the passenger seat. What changed?”

“My willingness to learn? I have such an excellent teacher.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” 

The car behind us honked again, and I stuck my hand out the open window and flipped him the bird. The driver turned into the opposite lane and illegally swung past us, yelling something that sounded suspiciously like “fucking assholes.”

“You are a sourpuss aren’t you?” The fear of driving was gone from her eyes and replaced by something imminently more scary; amusement.

I glared at her. “Switch. Now.”

“Fine, but when we get the mall, you are so buying me a pretzel.” She slammed the door loudly when she got out and it rattled the side mirrors.

“Good luck Chuck.” Liz clapped me heartily on the shoulder when I passed her to claim the driver’s seat. And then blew me a kiss. How her comment and action went together is completely beyond the scope of my acumen.

I ducked low getting into the car, to avoid hitting my head against the door framing. It was an awkward car to get into. Liz was blabbering on about something not important, it sounded vaguely like a movie outline or maybe she was talking about talking animals and wizards because she had snorted crack when I wasn’t looking. “Liz, would you do me a huge favor and just shut up for a bit.”

I looked straight ahead to avoid her accusing eyes and her chosen reaction was to turn on the radio and crank up “Don’t Fear the Reaper”. This consequently just brought images of Will Ferrell in a too small shirt smacking loudly on a cowbell and didn’t help my head at all.

We merged onto the highway, heading towards the Centerfield Mall. Our town had a strip mall and an open air cinema, but nothing that would be appropriate for the cold breeze blowing southward. Though the baseball season came unwaveringly with springtime, there were always the occasional wintry storms.

“So,” the song was winding down to an end and the steady speed of seventy five was easing the grip of tension in my hands. “Sorry about that.”

Liz didn’t say a word for a moment and then. “PMSing, it’s okay, I completely understand.”

I turned the dial on the radio and spared a quick glance her way. “We good?”

She had her arms tight around her abdomen and her jaw was jutted out, distinctly showing dislike. But finally, after passing another mile marker, she closed her eyes and relaxed her rigid body posture. “Yeah, yeah. We’re fine, just please stop being a girl. I’m getting really sick of it. There is only room in this car for one estrogen filled,” she stopped and seemingly couldn’t come up with a better word than “person.”