[ main ]
[ info ]
[ contact ]
[ links ]
/////////////////////
[ music ]
[ art ]
[ writing ]
[ movies ]

The phone rang. It wasn't the sort of ring you expected a normal, fully functional phone to ring; instead, it rang giddily, like it just couldn't wait to be picked up. Unfortunately, since it was six in the morning, I hated that ring with a burning passion.

Rolling over, I picked it up and placed the mouthpiece firmly upside-down.

"Hello?" I said bitterly into the receiving end of the phone.

"Matt? You're going to have to speak up, dear," came a voice that I instantly recognized as my mother's. I flipped the phone around so that it was right-side up. "Hello? You still there?"

"Yeah, I am, ma. What are you doing calling at six in the morning?"

"Well, there's a little problem. You know Mr. Markus and his daughter?"

I did. They used to live next door when I was a kid. "Yeah," I said wearily, afraid there was a car accident - or something of the nature, not like I arranged the accident proper.

"Well, we were going to go to Mexico with them this afternoon, but little Marie's in sick with a dreadful cold, just dreadful, so he and she won't be coming with us. It's an awful pity, a real awful pity."

"Yeah, that's too bad for them. So why're you calling to tell me this?"

"Well, I thought that since I already have the tickets, you could find a friend willing to go and we could put you both in the Markus's room."

Wow. A thousand happy bells went off in my head simultaneously, and my positive answer must have rang in my poor mother's ear for hours to come as I hung up. Obviously, there was only one person I could bring to Mexico - the drunkest, loudest, most chauvinistic guy I know. Mike Tellier, my mentor and loudest friend - I met him in the senior year of high school where he taught me to make a beer bong and a dozen other, much more intoxicating contraptions. He was about as happy as I was to get a phone call at six AM, and I had to hold the receiver a good foot away from my ears for the first few seconds of the conversation.

"What the fuck do you want?" drawled Mike, yelling at the top of his lungs over his Felix the Cat telephone. I could hear a quiet 'shut up, Mike' from nearby him, and assumed that it was the female he had unceremoniously boned the previous night.

"Uh, hey, buddy. It's Matt. Wanna go to Mexico?"

A rustling of sheets. "What? Who? When?"

"Today. At noon. Well, we have to be at the airport at noon."

"Fuck yeah, baby!" he yelled, muffled - I assumed he had covered his mouthpiece with his palm to 'mute' out his words. "I'm going to Mexico, man!" "Can I come?" "Hell, no, go home." "Fine." He removed his hand from the mouthpiece. "So, uh, how does this work?"

"How about I pick you up at eleven, and we can go check our bags and do lunch?"

"Sounds good. See you then."

By now, a number of questions might be floating benightedly through your brains. Or maybe nothing's floating through your brain, as you are obviously stoned to have found and read this - but one of the things that might be floating through your brain if you weren't stoned would be 'Doesn't Matt have a girlfriend? Why isn't he bringing her?'. The answer to that, and indeed every other question you might bother to ask, is this: it was six in the fucking morning, and I just called the first person that came to mind. Of course, as soon as I set down the phone from talking with Mike, the realization that I was surely going to regret my choice in very little time slapped me like a bag of lemons.

I sighed, bought some flowers, and walked towards my girlfriend's place. She has a nice little house just down the road from me, a house that I visit at every possible opportunity - the doorbell chimes a nice little tune that I can never recognize, but that I always enjoy thoroughly. Just for effect, I pushed it twice. Nicole answered in her pajamas, and I presented to her the flowers.

"Surprise!" I exclaimed. "I bought you flowers!"

A smile lit up her face like a yellow light-bulb. "That's sweet of you, dear. Let me put those in w-wait a minute. What did you do this time?"

"I'm going to Mexico for a week unannounced and I forgot to invite you."

"Uh, okay. Call me?"

"I'll try."

We hugged, and I leapt into my car and drove to Mike's house. He came hobbling out of his front door in boxer shorts, pulling up a pair of Dockers and holding a big duffel bag on one shoulder. It was the single most hilarious thing I had ever seen in my life. I honked my horn totally unnecessarily.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, you bastard," he yelled loud enough for the neighboring elder to poke her head out of her window and shake it vigorously. He flipped her off and jumped into my passenger seat, grinning the grin of a winner. "Ready to rock and roll?"

"Yep," I said as I stepped on the gas.

*** *** *** *** ***

The airport was boring. We were the first ones there from our tour group, and so we just checked our bags and went to a nearby Kelsey's to eat boring-like. Three hours later, we passed through the security check, and when came my turn the machine decided to beep vigorously.

"Do you have anything in your pockets, sir?" asked the jaded sixtysomething manning the metal detector. She waved it around menacingly, as if she were to spank me with it as soon as I took my eyes off it.

"Uh, no," I said, feeling my pants for protuberances. "Wait. My sunglasses." I took them out, and placed them in the outstretched tray. After being instructed to walk once more through the machine, more happy beeping was sounded, and I sighed as the woman scanned me. When she reached my shoes, still more beeping was heard, and a look of understated suspicion grew on her face.

"We have a possible nine-one-nine," she said into her crackling radio. "Do you have any weapons concealed, sir?"

"N-no," I stammered, terrified that someone had managed to conceal a weapon in my shoe without me noticing.

"Take off your shoes, please." A row of military-looking fellows with rifles had just streamed into the security area, much to the derision of myself and my fellow passengers. I did as told, and handed them to her with a frightened stare. She proceeded to tear them apart.

"What the fuck?" I said angrily. "Those are brand new goddamn shoes!"

"Camn down, sir," she said firmly, moving her hand towards her pistol. "This is only routine."

After it was concluded that it was only the clamps to the shoelaces that were to blame, I was handed a cheque for fifty dollars - not half the cost of my new damn shoes - and told that there was nothing further I could do about it. I boarded the plane in socks with a chuckling Mike in front of me.

The stewardess - oh, sorry, air flight attendant - stepped in front of me before I could seat myself. "Shirt and shoes required, sir," she told me with a perky smile.

"Customs just tore my shoes in half."

"Then," she said, producing a pair of coffee-stained white slippers from a nearby cabinet, "you'll have to wear these for the duration."

Mike's chuckling erupted into full-fledged roaring laughter as I donned the fuzzy white dirty slippers, worn formerly no doubt only by rednecks and Jesus, who hadn't bothered to bring shoes or had them torn up by Customs. At least I had one of the seats with lots of leg room - the emergency exit seats. The same attendant approached me as soon as I sat down.

"Sir, you are sitting in a--"

"Yeah, I know, emergency exit. I feel competent enough to perform my duties, yada yada. Could you just leave me alone? I'm having a very unpleasant experience with your airline today. Mmmnkay?"

"No, sir, I just wanted to tell you that with your current footwear, you don't possess sufficient traction to properly fulfill your duties as emergency exit assistant. I'm required to reseat you."

"But--"

"It's only routine, sir."

I followed her as Mike assumed my great seat, and I took one of the two spare seats in the back - the ones right next to the engine with no windows. I gave my camera to Mike, and told him to take some pictures out of his second-class window if he saw some opportunities.

After a long, loud flight, and three decent photos, I stumbled with aching ears from the airplane and into Mexico. It wasn't anything like I expected it to be - instead of the dirty, broken mess of poverty it was a clean, sterile, modern airport with all the facilities.

"Wow," said Mike, stepping into the lobby. "This is so... the same. Hey, there's a Mickie D's... want something?"

"No thanks. Is there even a Taco Bell or something here to prove that we're not just in Toronto or something?"

"All the prices are higher."

"That would do it."

It was nearing nine o' clock, and with the time change and the early arising we were both really tired. So, after the smooth and quick Mexican customs process, we passed out on the bus to our hotel, and woke up with a start when we got there.

"Holy crap!" I said to my mom, seated behind me. "Is this where we're staying?"

"Yes, dear," she said, sipping at free beer that I didn't know existed. "It's a five star resort, you know."

The lobby stretched out before me like some insane palace - the ceiling must have been at least fifty feet up, and the whole thing was arranged like a giant circle. In the centre of the room was a great stone centerpiece, replete with waterfall and bustling plant life. I was just in awe, and sat down to admire it with Mike as my parents checked us in.

"Wow," he said. "Wow. This is nice. I like it here. Do we have to leave?"

"Yeah. In a week."

"Wow."

We slept like rocks.

next>