frog and the teaches of peaches.

This story is for my college roommate, Chelsea.

Back in college, Tuesday nights were by far the best nights to drink quickly described by the 3 Ts.

-Tacos ($1 each)

-Trivia (all the rage, as I’m coming to learn)

-Two-fers (my favorite part of the night.  one of the more sketchy bars offers two for one drinks from 9pm-1am and there was always lots of dancing–two enthusiastic thumbs up)

One fateful Tuesday night, Chelsea and I were fighting the homework / party teeter totter.  Usually the teeter totter went as follows:

“Chelsea, I have sooo much homework tonight.  I cannot possibly go out.”

“But Chelssss (yes, we both have the same name), come ONNN.  I didn’t get to go out Friday!”

“Wait, yes you did!”

“But we didn’t get to go out TOGETHER..”

After four years of being roommates, Chelsea has learned to say ‘no’ to me because I often talk her into terrible ideas where she’s ended up missing work or class or hooking up with someone who is extremely interesting (a second of foreshadowing).  Anyway, tonight she let me win and that’s very important in the events to come.

Chelsea only agreed to go to the bar for ONE drink.  My goal is to distract her into at least three or four drinks so the night becomes… a party.

It’s not too hard to drink at this bar.  In light of the 3 T’s, our favorite bar–Frog and Peach–has $1 pint night.  Entering in on our second beer, this tall, handsome mutton-chopped gentleman strolls up to Chelsea.  They begin talking about …oh, “I saw you across the room..” “you have entrancing eyes…” bullshit.  I’m more or less drunk, convincing some boy to buy me my regular whiskey and coke and bumming imported cigarettes from this old bloke, Keith, who used to live in London for 100 years or whatever and I just let Chelsea do her goddamned thing so she would forget we were supposed to be leaving.

An hour or so later, mid-cigarette bumming, whiskey drinking, and made-up story telling rant, this boy with one of those… reggae beanies… walks up and asks, “Girl, would you like to smoke?”

“Absolutely, sir, what have you got?”

This boy wasn’t by any means… attractive.  Nor, did I particularly think his stance on herbal remedies was enthralling but Keith was moving in too close and I was definitely seeking a scapegoat… “Oh, Keith, have you met my slightly hobo-looking boyfriend?  Yeah, he plays guitar unnecessarily in public places and we’re in love.”  Boom.  My new hobo boyfriend asks me if I want a drink.  “You better make that a double, kind sir.”

Fast-forward two beers, two whiskey and cokes, and a shot later, Mutton-Chops and Hobo are starting to look really awesome.  They happen to know each other (cool), they’re roommates (what a small fucking world!), and they’re still buying our drinks (I couldn’t have asked for more).  Mutton-Chops and Chelsea, by this time, have been sucking face in the corner while I’ve been sucking up the vomit rising in my throat–a nice combo of mixing drinks and having the Hobo boyfriend kissing my neck telling me I’m beautiful.  It was almost 2 am and in Chelsea’s drunken hospitality offers our place as a retreat for the night.  Chelsea and Mutton-Chops run back to my house.

“Oh, wait a second.  I need to go get my guitar.”  Hobo goes back inside.  Oh, you thought I was kidding about that unnecessary public guitar playing?  No.  I was not.

On the long walk home, Hobo tells me where he’s from, what college he went to, why he moved out to the central valley–all things that if I would have deemed them interesting, I would have remembered.  “Oh, wait, like, it’s kind of like that song…”  Picks up guitar.  Strums.  Searches for a pitch.

“Dude, I’ve got to piss and I’m not waiting around.”

He continues to talk on about the ganja and about… mankind… I literally considered falling asleep in a bush to avoid the annoying drone of hippie talk spewing out of his peace-loving mouth.

“…that’s how I got the job at Mutton-Chop’s house.”

“Excuse me, you work for Mutton-Chops?”

“Well, yeah, kind of.  I clean, I make meals, I garden, I massage, I’m like the butler.”

“Uh, oh, uh, so like… do they pay you?”

“Just in love.  It’s like a communal house.  It’s not even really a house, it’s kind of like a mansion.  Yeah, it’s really cool.  They like to have parties which I’ll like play my guitar at and like, yeah, just everybody loves each other.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“Sometimes on the couch, sometimes next to Mutton Chops.”

Pensive silence.

“Yeah, like, him and I have a REALLY close bond.  Like, his girlfriend, him, and I will share a bed sometimes and it’s like… we’re all in the relationship.”

“HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND.”

“Yeah, well, like, it’s cool.  Because they’re like… polyamorous.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, like, he has sex with, like, whoever.”

“Like just girls?”

“Or sometimes guys.  It’s just like, love, and appreciating someone else’s beauty.”

me = !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Oh my God!  He sleeps with guys!  WHATTT!”

“Yeah, like, it’s not a big deal.”

“No, that is.  Like, his girlfriend puts up with that?!”

“Yeah, like, they’ve got like a really healthy relationship and it’s like, just I care enough for you to experience somebody else.”

“Chelsea is going to fucking kill me.”

(Side note:  The Gays are awesome but in a story to come tomorrow, you’ll understand as to why I react this way)

So, we get back to my house.  It just so happens we are fortunate enough to learn the inner-workings of the hippies.  They both are wearing pajamas under their clothes, they both do not wear deodorant in fear of catching the cancer, and they both brushed their teeth with the same toothbrush that the Hobo has packed for them.  Where it was packed?  I do not know.  Nor did I ask any further questions.

The next morning, Mutton-Chops left.. and also left his Hobo butler-friend for us to drive to a bus stop.  In the car, he played us this song he made up … which sounded very similar-if not identical- to Pete Yorn’s “Young Folks.”  We dropped him off and I looked to Chelsea.

“Please, don’t be mad at me.”

“Be mad at you?  Last night was fun!  Drank a lot more than I was supposed to…”

“Yeah, ok, Mutton-Chops has a girlfriend.  Hobo is his butler and sometimes they sleep next to each other and the Hobo says it’s like they’re in a relationship and they have a communal house where people pay each other in love and they have polyamorous parties where everybody sleeps with everybody and like, everybody is okay with that.”

“Uhm, WHAT”

“Like, Chelsea, I am sorry but you’re the one who invited them over and I was just…

“SO… like…. they sleep with guys… too?”

“Uhm, noooo….not Hobo.  Mutton-Chops does though.”

Silence.

March 18, 2010. Uncategorized.