As she spoke, a million neurotic and chaotic mini-questions flitted around my cerebral cortex, attaching themselves like spear hooks to my synapses and generating innumerable thoughts on the fragility of the human soul. It would happen to anyone in my situation. How did it come to this? Was there a moment when things could have changed? How can I continue living knowing what’s about to happen?
I knew the statement was coming, of course. Even a blind moron who just staggered drunkenly from the cave he entered back when Amelia Earhart said, “No, if a man doesn’t need to stop for directions, neither do I,” could have seen that particular sentence coming from light years away.
But for Jen to call Nescher little? I mean, c’mon, that’s just kicking a man when he’s down. Or in our case, tickling a guy when he’s man-crushing another dude’s ankles while his own kick wildly in spastic dance moves reminiscent of a Riverdance show Pyshcer once casually mentioned.
He may have been trying to explain a rain dance at the time. I’m not really sure. I don’t usually listen when he talks, anyway.
“Are we really going to tell jokes at a time like this?” I asked, my hands struggling to maintain their grip on the rotting cluster of exposed and gnarled roots originating from a thorny bush a few feet away. I didn’t need Nescher’s extra weight pulling me down toward the jagged orchestra of massive rocks being besieged by pounding waves below to remember that I was hanging over…well, a shit-ton of nothing.
“It’s always time to tell jokes,” Jen answered. That smarmy, shit-eating grin of hers did little to instill any degree of confidence. “Besides,” she added, “I’m not the one in trouble.”
At least, I think that’s what she said. It was hard to hear over Nescher's whiny pleas for his mommy and some rope. I mean really, dude. All he had to do was hang on; I was the one supporting his ass.
“Dammit, Horton!” I screamed. I wanted to add more, but the roots serving as my salvation loosened, choosing to just say, “Fuck it all!” and spew forth from the ground in a murder-suicide catapult to the scenic death machine several hundred feet below.
Or it could have been the wind kicking up dust. Again, between Jen’s “this is kinda fun to watch” smirk and Nescher’s bellyaching about being too fat and too talented to die like this (whatever the hell that meant) things were a little…tense. Sure, tense is a good word.
The wind died down, and things returned to normal. Ha! Normal. How grotesque that word becomes in the company of these two. It was only six years ago that the three of us went through what has affectionately become known as the Hanging Crapper of Death, or The Day Nescher & Shawn Almost Killed Jen In A Porta-John While Drunk Off Tequila & Cheese Fries. The first is easier to say, but the second is way more accurate.
They say time heals all wounds. I’ve found that six years, three changes of location, two changes of name and identity, more therapy than Charles Manson would need, and copious amounts of whatever liquid with even a mild alcohol content is available actually speeds up the process considerably.
I’m not a patient man, but I do love things with alcohol, so it’s win-win.
It was Jen’s idea to meet up again after all that time apart. Stupid ideas like this always start with Jen. Prior to the ill-fated road trip to a closet-shaped stink hole with a two-drink minimum in Biker Nirvana, Arkansas, Nescher and I had lost count of the number of times that mighty suburbanite got the two of us into…well, shit like this.
Par for the course, it seems.
Even suspended over a cliff face, with Nescher clutching my ankles like he was protecting the world’s last box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars from an approaching zombie horde (who, yes, don’t really eat Little Debbie snack cakes, but try telling Nescher that) and squealing like a bloated prom date – with her Fantastic Sam’s page boy and a dress hastily stapled and hot-glued from old parlor-room window coverings and a Piggly Wiggly reusable shopping bag – who’s about to get her photo taken with the dumbass cute guy who has definitely learned never to take bets involving spoiled milk, Alka Seltzer and two shots of Jager…yes, even during all of that, I was already composing my next letter of introduction to my latest in a series of psycho-analysts.
Hey, when you’re friends with Jen Horton and Nescher Pyscher, it pays to plan ahead on some things.
“Just find us some rope, woman! Now!” Jen giggled once, then twice, at our little predicament, then bobbled off to – and I’m totally just guessing here – find a way to rescue us. As she left, snippets of dialog from one of those lame sparkly-gay-vampire-meets-ugly-emo-chick-and-both-pretend-to-be-in-love-while-equally-gay-werewolf-smells-his-own-farts-and-calls-it-acting movies carried on the wind in Jen’s voice.
“Nesch, buddy,” I said, trying to show calm support to the dude bonded to my pasty-white shins like love juice on a set of Motel 8 king sheets, “It’s gonna be okay. Jen’s gonna get us out of here. Trust me.” I damn near choked on the laugh bubbling up from my diaphragm.
“Bullshit! She’s gonna let us die!” he yelled back. The last word came out in about thirty syllables – all vowels, like Vanna White’s vocabulary. I couldn’t argue with his logic; I mean, I was thinking the same thing myself. But part of me realized that sober Jen – and here the word “sober” is a very relative thing – was much more clear-headed than tequila-fied Jen. And since Nesch was the one carrying the two bottles in his backpack (additional weight I could’ve done without, thankyouverymuch…) I had to assume she was getting help and not finding the perfect spot to set up the video camera.
Still, it’s Jen. Two birds, one stone. (I’ve said it before: It pays to know your friends.)
When I got the call from Nescher saying he and Jen wanted to meet up again, I was hesitant. I wasn’t thinking about the last time, I just really didn’t want to have to kill a friend because she did something stupid again. And since she can’t help herself, it was pretty much a gimme.
But I needed to get away, and I knew it would be good to see them again. They had even chosen the perfect place: Hawaii. Who could resist?
The first three days had been paradise on earth. Sandy beaches, warm sun, cold drinks, good times. Even the significant others – Mr. Jen (nay, Jerry) and Christine, those beautiful souls destined for sainthood – marveled at how well things were going.
Then someone opened her mouth.
“We should go on a hike tomorrow, just the three of us!” Nesch and I traded horrified looks. And yes, we’re both…um…slightly out of shape. But I have lived for more than 20 years in the bum-fuck-Egypt land of Colorado, so I’m at least used to hiking, even if it takes me a while. Nescher? Well, I know he can hike his pants up.
“Sounds great,” I said. Nesch gave me the evil-eye. I ignored it. Sue me, I wanted him to take a hike. Is that wrong?
“I know the best trail,” Jen assured us. “This guy I was insulting last month while I was pissed on beer and shots told me to go fuck myself then jump off this great cliff overlooking the ocean!”
“And you want us to go watch you do it?” Nescher asked. The idea certainly had merit.
“No, dorkus. While I was looking up more insults to go back and smack-talk that asshole, I found a website with all the great trails in Hawaii. I asked the bartender here while he was tossing me shots last night and I convinced him he’s an ass addict which one he’d do, and he picked this one.”
It’s best if you don’t try to connect the dots, kids. The picture it forms isn’t pretty. Hell, it’s not even so-ugly-I-have-to-look bad. Really, it’s just the stuff of nightmares. Move on. Save yourselves.
The three of us agreed to give their spouses a break and just take off by ourselves. Bad Idea #1. We met up at o’dark thirty and let Jen drive us (Bad Ideas #2 & 3) to the trailhead. The sun was just coming up over the ocean’s horizon line, and the view was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Three writers, standing and staring agape at the sheer beauty before us? Even we had a hard time coming up with the right words…although Jen tried to bait us into another write-off on the spot.
Bad Idea #4.
Once on the trail, we eased into the familiar and comforting cocktail we’ve enjoyed our entire relationship: take equal parts trash talk, idea sharing and constructive criticism, throw in a healthy dose of one-upmanship, and serve over a frosted mug.
Not in, cuz that would be silly. On. Y’know, like getting your ass handed to you by a small Asian woman while trapped ON an elevator is much funnier than while trapped IN one.
Like I said, it pays to know your friends.
We enjoyed a packed lunch on a series of boulders protruding from a cliff overlooking an endless blue canvas. We laughed, we laughed some more, and we laughed again. Time passed slowly, easily. Nescher regaled us with tales from his book tours, while Jen enthusiastically told us about the traveling she and Mr. Jen were enjoying.
Me? I’m pretty sure there was a chuckle when I told that knock-knock joke.
Or maybe Jen just farted. Too close to call.
Hey, it’s been a slow six years...
“OK, boys, picture time!” Jen shouted suddenly. We were in high spirits, and spent an hour acting out different poses. Then Jen got an idea. (Bad Idea #5) “Alright, ‘Oser, I want you to pick Nescher up and hold him like a baby. And Nescher, I want you to suck your thumb and try to pull out Harper’s nose hairs.”
Yeah, we listened. Are we stupid? Hi, my name’s Shawn Harper. This is my buddy, Nescher Pyscher. We’re friends with Jen Horton.
‘Nuff said?
What came next was a little hazy, but I know it involved Nescher belching in my ear like a dying moose imitating a fog horn, 200+ pounds of shaved man-baby giggling from said belch, lost footing on wind-smoothed rock, a game of Twister with Nescher on an inclined surface, and enough loose rock and dirt in my shorts to let me know just what Jen goes through on a typical Wednesday night.
Regardless of what happened, the end result was the same: Decayed roots, choke-the-shit-out-my-ex-wife death grip, eventual amputation of my feet from loss of circulation, stubble-headed man-bear leaving a permanent impression of the balls of my feet on his perky man-boobs, and nothing between us and a school of tuna wondering how the fuck we expect to catch one of them this way but a Tom Petty song and the fleeting image of a Gremlin exploding in the microwave.
“Just hang on, bud,” I said calmly. “She’ll be back any minute, and this’ll be just another thing we laugh about someday.”
If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he believed it, either.
Now, as the sun slowly sinks somewhere behind that thorny bush that’s been nothing but supportive throughout this whole silly affair, as a full moon creeps heavenward on its nightly sojourn across the stratosphere, Nescher’s cries have dropped to a whispered blubbering. His legs have stopped kicking, and I can’t tell if his he’s chanting the Lord’s Prayer or a bayou witch lady’s voodoo incantation of ghostly revenge. I don’t think he’s religious, so it’s probably the prayer.
A cool breeze floats through the coming night, and I know somewhere on that breeze will soon come the mangled speeches of tortured love repeated fondly in honor of some shitty movie. I know that our good and loved friend Jen will be here any moment. I know she’s out there searching desperately, and not in some skanky dock-side bar going twenty rounds with her lover Jose…
…Oh, who am I kidding? It pays to know your friends.
I just hope Nescher breaks my damn fall.
