Page 52 of Perfect Date
“Charlie are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” I yell and I know it’s not helping matters but I’m literally covered in excrement. Other people’s…Oh. My. God. Being calm is not even remotely possible.
“I’m going to get you out of there. Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay, hang tight.”
I hear voices outside, trying to figure out the best way to try to get me out.
“Charlie, we need to upend this, so we can get you out. Can you try and brace yourself the best you can?”
“Okay,” I say doubtfully. Slipping and sliding, I hang on to the toilet paper dispenser, the only thing I can see, and prepare myself for them to roll it around.
When they do, fluid sloshes under my feet, some covering me yet again, and I can’t help it, I scream.
“Charlie,” Justin sounds fearful, “talk to me. Are you hurt?”
I can’t respond, and after a few of what I’m guessing are yanks, the door opens and Justin’s head pokes inside.
When he gets a look at me, I’m expecting him to shudder in revulsion, but instead, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh.
I think I’ll kill him if he does.
The look on my face must convey my conflicting feelings because any humor completely disappears.
“Take my hand,” he instructs, “I want to help you out.”
“I don’t want to touch you. I’ll get… shit all over you,” I moan and there’s that smirk again, but he stifles it.
“All I care about is helping you.”
I take his hand, and he helps me get out of the port-a-potty, the floor of which is fluid filled and slippery “How did this happen?” I ask not truly expecting an answer.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. So, so, sorry. Here’s my card,” someone tries to shove something at me, but realizes it’s the last thing I can do right now, so they hand it to Justin. “Please let me take care of your dry cleaning. Or any care you need from this. It’s my kids’ fault and trust me, they’ll be grounded for a month. I told them not to go near all the people on that damn quad,” he says.
I don’t say anything, because what can I possibly say?
After the baby car guy, the clown, and the bird guy, I really didn’t think any dates could be much worse.
And as I sit in the bed of Justin’s truck as he drives me home, clothes plastered to my skin and hair sticking to my face, and wondering how I will ever remove this filth and stench and what appears to be a blue dye, I shudder yet again and realize, I was so, so, so wrong.
13
I’ve been ignoring the persistent knocking at my door for at least ten minutes. I know who’s at the door. I know because when Kimberly texted me as per usual to see how my date went, I told her I’m never getting out of bed, showing my face, or functioning as an adult ever again. She asked for details, which anyone would after a statement like that, but I put my phone on silence.
I’m humiliated.
You know, I think I’d just like to go back to a simpler time. A time when the biggest stress in life was trying to decide if I wanted the folder with a dog on it or one with a llama for science class.
No, maybe before that. Maybe to when I was trying to choose if I wanted to use my Sienna Orange crayon or Cerulean to color in my coloring book.
Oh man.
Images flash in my mind again.
Crap.
