So I was working at Starbucks the other night, and it was a late shift so I was getting pretty hungry since I'm usually in bed by ten. There was no one around, so behind the counter it was just me and Jonathon, this super hip overnighter who shaves his head and has really sharp cheekbones and has "Eloi" tattooed on his left bicep and wears tight corduroys and army boots and a t-shirt under his green apron and is super skinny. I was talking about how I was so hungry, but how I couldn't eat anything 'cause eating at night gives me bad dreams.
"Yeah, man," I said. "Like all that digesting and shit, just doesn't sit well. Gives me crazy dreams."
So I thought of the last dream I can remember.
"Well, like, I'm lying in this big bed, and I'm fully clothed, right? But I've got my arms out - and like a Playboy spread or something, lying under each arm like a centerfold are my old ex-girlfriend from ninth grade and her best friend. Which is weird, because they're both really thin but kind of lumpy and they both have ugly faces with big foreheads and my ex has fisheyes and her best friend has kinky hair and a witch nose. So I'm lying there, and they're both all over me like I'm some, I dunno, some King or something, and they're my sex slaves. I dunno, it was weird, I didn't like it."
Jonathon started laughing, but when he laughs, it sounds like a donkey is choking and honking at the same time.
But then I got to thinking, I really did like that dream. It made me feel powerful, potent, sexually dominant. And then I started thinking too much.
"The REALLY weird part about this dream is that I dated this girl on and off since like seventh grade, but in ninth grade she went on this church trip and had sex with this guy in a hotel bathroom."
"Dude, that's fucked up," Jonathon said, leaning back against the counter. I looked out into the cafe, but no one came in. Just a few people sitting at those shitty round tables we have. Stupid college kids, you know? But my story wasn't finished, so I kept going.
"It was really fucked up! The farthest I had gone was to get my hand down her pants, and she hadn't even touched my penis before. Yeah, and I was totally stupid, I thought we were in loved and tried to keep the relationship going, but she dumped me so she could start dating my best friend at the time."
"Yeah. But it doesn't end there. I started going out with this other girl after that, and then ended up cheating on HER with the girl that cheated on ME!"
Then some stupid sorority girl walked up to the counter wearing her white Greek sweatshirt and black leggins and big sunglasses and stupid suede boots. She had a huge weird looking nose and was kind of fat.
"Double venti super twisty vanilla latte-cino." Or some shit like that.
So I wrote it on the cup and passed it to Jonathon, who started making the drink at the espresso bar, and then I took her credit card and swiped it through the computer, running up another six dollar drink on a card that was probably her daddy's.
But it started to make me mad. I was obviously still bothered by this event. You know? Six years later and four addresses and two state lines later, I was still bothered by the fact that my ninth grade girlfriend cheated on me and then dumped me. Was I sad about the commitment issue? Or was I just jealous that she didn't fuck me instead? I guess my dream could be interpreted like that or something. Like I was trying to compensate for something. You know? Like, in the end this bitch AND her best friend REALLY wanted to have sex with me.
The main thing that pissed me off was that I had already graduated from college with a degree in writing, and had met the girl of my dreams and got engaged to her and moved in with her, and I couldn't have been any happier. She wanted to do graduate school at Indiana University, so I followed her there down to Bloomington from Chicago, where I finished my degree. I graduated about a year early too, so meanwhile, this ex from ninth grade (who totally became a loser stoner bitch who always wore horrible tye-dye shirts after we broke up) is probably in her fourth year of community college back in Minnesota, and I've already got a job as a secretary at the University for a dorm, pulling in a real salary. I just work at Starbucks for the free pound of coffee they give me every week.
But the shit hit the fan when I started thinking about college. You see, I went to undergrad for Fiction Writing, because I knew my Bachelor's was going to be useless anyway, and I wanted a degree in something I liked. But I thought back to the very first story that I ever wrote that was good. You know, the first one your teacher picks to read aloud in class? You know what it was about?
It was a fictional account of a fifteen year old kid having sex with this stuck up bitch at her parent's house over the summer while her parents were at work. They were both virgins, and it was about how it was all awkward and jaded and how the kid felt like he was used, but when I wrote it, in my head I pictured Kelly's bedroom at her parent's house, and the girl character was modeled after her, and the guy character, like all my male characters, was modeled after me. And the situation of how it went down was the same as when Kelly came over to the apartment we were living in while our new house was being built and gave me my first blow job in exchange for me eating her out. You know, when I cheated on Megan, the summer before tenth grade. It put me in a real fucked up mood. Six fucking years, and I haven't gotten over my first girlfriend and all the soap opera shit we went through.
Greg, the overnight shift manager came out of the back then, and he's kinda short with dark short hair and glasses, kind of looks like a gay indie rock muppet. He told a story about a dream he keeps having about an ex-boyfriend of his where he steals all of the guy's DVDs, but this boyfriend is from 2001 when DVDs were still pretty rad and cost a lot of money.
I didn't care, but Jonathon honked like a donkey again.
It wasn't until after my shift when I checked my messages on my cell phone that I started to feel better. There was one on there from a cop, and I remembered that when my fiancee was driving me to work, we called the cops on this asshole law student who lives upstairs from us and always makes a lot of noise and always parks his car over the handicapped ramp. Not in the handicapped spot, but OVER THE FUCKING HANDICAPPED RAMP, WHERE IT'S GOT THOSE BLUE DIAGONAL LINES OVER THE SPACE THAT SAY "DON'T FUCKING PARK HERE, ASSHOLE."
The message said, "Uh, hi Jesse, this is Officer, uh, Paul Warren from the Bloomington Police Department. I just wanted you to know that I responded to your call about the parking violation, and uh, it's one of my pet peeves, so you can be sure that he got a ticket. Also, I'd like to know what his apartment number is so I can, uh, hand deliver his ticket next time. Thank you very much, and I hope you have a good evening."
I just started laughing in the back room, and then I pulled on my big black military surplus coat, and pulled my fur lined hood over my head and walked out into the cold, midnight air and drove home so I could crawl in bed with the woman of my dreams, not the bitch that invades them.