A few weeks ago, my dad called and asked what I was doing that night.
�I�m putting on my roller skates, and Beaker is upstairs asking our neighbor if he can borrow her bike, so he can drag me around the neighborhood.�
Then I stopped, realizing I�m 26 years old, he�s 30, and this is how we spend a typical Thursday night.
(And then I got dragged around the neighborhood. It was immature, sure, but it was fun, too.)
He took me to the monthly Full Moon Fest last weekend. I like going places with boys, because I never have pockets and they always do, so they�re like big, walking purses. My favorite pair of Beaker�s shorts is the best not because of how they look, but because they have large cargo pockets in addition to all the regular ones, so when he wears them, I get a WHOLE POCKET for my shit.
I can tell that he really loves it, and gives him a special feeling, when I ask him to carry tampons.
Anyway, I asked him to carry my ID, debit card, smokes and some cash. He forgot to put the items in his pocket. This normally wouldn�t have been a big deal, but the Fest is the one place I still get carded anymore� they slap a bracelet on you as you drive into the parking lot. So we decided to park up the road a ways, at a gas station, and sneak in on foot.
Which worked.
Beaker was pretty tired at the party. Normally, I�d say, �Oh, you�re sleepy? Not having fun? Let�s go home.� But he told me he wouldn�t start drinking beer until later in the evening for this very reason, then drank one anyway mid-afternoon despite my attempts to wrestle it out of his fist, so he made his own damn bed that I wasn�t ready to go home and let him sleep in just yet.
Finally, I relented, so both tired and me with a slight buzz, we trudged to Beaker�s truck. He went to the drivers� side, and I was standing by the passenger side for a minute, starting to get cranky and wondering why he was taking so long to come around and let me in.
�Psst. Jamie.�
�Yeah?�
He kind of walked to the back of the truck, over the bed, and pointed down.
There was a man sleeping in the back of Beaker�s truck.
Sometimes, when faced with situations like this, I react in a way that I look back on and wonder what my problem was. This was one of those times� with my slight buzz and tiredness, I got it in my head that I didn�t want the sleeping guy to see me. So I kind of crouched by the passenger door and frantically whispered, �What should we do?�
�Wake him up!�
�I don�t want to wake him! Look! I�m hiding.�
Beaker wrinkled his eyebrow.
�Should I just poke him?�
�Maybe if you start up the truck, he�ll wake up and run away before we drive off.�
Beaker decided to run a pre-test to this plan by walking to the back of the truck and loudly fiddling with the back of the truck.
The man slept on. He was wearing one shoe. I continued my crouching.
Finally, Beaker shoved the guy on his arm, and said, �Dude, I have to go now.�
Rip Van Winkle slowly came to, and looked around, confused.
Point of Etiquette, my friends. If you are caught sleeping in the bed of a stranger�s pickup truck, you MIGHT want to consider, oh, I don�t know� GETTING THE HELL OUT OF THERE in a rapid fashion.
It was like, another 20 minutes before this guy finally departed.
In that time, the always-kind Beaker told him about a nearby resort with outdoor hammocks where he could probably catch a few Zs, and gave Rip a pair of old shoes he had in the back.
And then we just drove home. What else are you gonna do?
