I Did It For Love

At the risk of leading you to navigate away from this post, dear reader, I'm going to tell you the end of this story: he jumps off a boat. Now that you know the ending, perhaps you'd like to hear how this story begins, or at least what idiot jumped off which boat and why.**

When Jessica Goes Aboard, Anything Goes.

After my first day in my new internship at Skybox, I raced home from Anaheim (congratulating myself on making excellent time) to get dressed for my third and final Student Worker formal. I knew that I would be cutting it close, nearly sober when getting on the bus to head to the boat(see? The pieces are coming together!) but I squeezed myself into a dress, tangled my hair in a knot, and slapped on some serious eyeshadow in record time and hoped for the best. It wasn't until I saw her stumble on the sidewalk that I knew I was in for a treat.


The Cryer
I won't tell you her name for legal purposes, but it rhymes with Shmegan. Shmegan is a chronic cryer, generally for no particular reason other than she's tired, drunk, and someone is looking at her. Our first encounter was when she ran out of the Student Worker dance screaming, crying, and waving her arms to hit any obstructions out of her way as she sprinted across campus because a girl in the bathroom told her that her parents probably don't love her. From that point on, I decided a party without her was an opportunity for hilarity missed. As a girlfriend of the Idiot, she is guaranteed at every Student Worker event; this particular night, I fed her a few beers and waited, chin resting in my hands, eyes bright with anticipation. She stumbled on the sidewalk while shouting "YOU CAN BE MY DATE _______, I GUESS I DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND." This was said several times, hoping to find any ears which would pay her the attention she so strongly demanded.

The Idiot

He is a fellow Student Worker, and a fan of raves. I like the kid; the fact that he's dumber than a box of rocks doesn't mean I don't enjoy groaning at him with alarming frequency. He's a harmless idiot, muscled and tanned and privileged in all the right proportions. He is in love with The Cryer. And she's in love with him. And so our story begins.

At Least Let "Party in the USA" Conclude!

The boat was unexceptional and wonderful in its intimacy and confusing "Tiki" theme. The enormous accomplishment of 5 girls crammed in a bathroom no bigger than a single stall, not only peeing together, but comforting drunk tears, drinking warm beers out of dented cans, and wallowing in collective low self esteem paled in comparison to what was to come. The dance floor, packed with youths grinding against each other, ebbed and flowed with the tide, and the lounge upstairs envied its liveliness, as its only company was The Cryer. There she sat, curled up with her knees to her chin as she stared wistfully out the window, sobbing and checking over her shoulder to make sure someone was watching her. With little interest shown, her sobs grew more desperate, more violent, and more contrived. Noticeably absent was The Idiot.

I was putting my hands up, they were playing my song, and the butterflies were flying away when the music stopped and the lights went out; the boat started to circle sharply and, upon looking out the window, several life rafts could be seen bobbing in the water, empty and useless. The flickering lights from the Sheriff boat told us something was serious, and Miley's comforting voice had been choked off, leading us to panic all the more. There, in the water, was the Idiot, being pulled forcefully from it, clutching two bright glowsticks which he had held on to with an Olympian determination. The Cryer, gleeful at the opportunity to be The Concerned Girlfriend, cried louder while occasionally moaning The Idiot's name.

Once safely on the boat, the formal was over in just under an hour and we were heading back to shore; Party in the USA remained paused in its second chorus. The Idiot was cuffed and released, avoiding jail time with a $1000 fine, and as he stood, pathetically dripping from the clothes which clung to his childlike body, The Cryer ran to him. She sobbed, her large eyes clouded with tears and unfurling plastic eyelashes, as she struggled to decide whether she was angry or relieved. At this scene, I fell from my seat to the floor with laughter; I have the bruises to prove it.

The story will live in infamy: our shortest formal in history, a narrow escape from jail, two buffoons tailor-made for one another, sobbing and dripping in each others' arms as they shared this harrowing near-death experience. Later, when asked why he jumped off the boat, The Idiot sincerely responded, "I did it for love." Yes, he would even do that.

Someday, they will likely die in an accidental suicide pact. Until then, I will continue to enjoy their love for my own selfish entertainment.

** I originally wrote this post a few months ago, right after the actual event. I took it down out of consideration for the two morons in question, neither of which has read it, seeing as how we go to the same school and all. But I'm moving far far away in about 48 hours and it seems a real shame to deprive the world of this beautiful story of true love and stupidity.

Clocking Out

It was 4:13pm on a cloudy, useless day when the Girl Scouts appeared. They shuffled their untied shoes along the sidewalk, kicking the concrete with a dull absentmindedness and occasionally syncing their steps like an undisciplined platoon. The soft footsteps and sporadic shrieks distracted the secretary from her climactic game of minesweeper and recalled the silence of the office against the increasing sound of their shoes, averaging a child's size 5. She minimized her game to show a spreadsheet which contained nothing in particular; she had created it hours before to organize her monthly bills but quickly lost interest and saved it to resemble work should anyone look over her shoulder.
At the first thump on the glass door, the secretary shifted in her seat and took a great interest in the spreadsheet. The troops gathered around one another, quietly casing the building, as if they could sense which doors would reveal sensitive fathers with an extra $4, or soft-middled women easily convinced to splurge on a box of Tag-A-Longs. The secretary continued to concentrate on the sum formulas needed to calculate how much she would need to spend on dry cleaning this month, if she decided to dry clean any of her three pairs of slacks.

It was 4:19pm when the sticky little finger, soft and persistent, leaned on the buzzer to be let in the building; the secretary could no longer ignore the war-painted hellions as their noses breathed snowy circles of fog on the pristine glass. One of them wore a yellow sash with a sprinkling of badges which shamed the rest; her name-tag boldly declared that she was Kaylee, ranking officer. Sgt. Kaylee leaned on the buzzer again, a direct affront to the secretary whose hesitation so offended her. Devoid of any other ammunition, the secretary put up one finger begging just a moment and please excuse her she didn't see you standing there and its her first day this darned buzzer is just so complicated and aren't you sweet in your uniforms. Kaylee raised her eyebrow and leaned on the buzzer once more, holding it several beats too long in an effort to annoy the secretary out of her foxhole. A small girl with frayed pigtails stuck her finger in her nose, unashamed.

It was 4:26 when Kaylee seemed to accept defeat with a sour look and cocked hip; she signaled the platoon to move out without breaking eye contact with the defiant secretary. The afternoon would be passed in silence, and she was most pleased; that is, until a hand reached over her shoulder and pressed the "unlock" function which signaled a soft click in the door.
"Well, what do we have here?" asked Stanley from Accounting. "Are we selling cookies?"
He leaned over Kaylee, bending from the hips with surprising dexterity while simultaneously reaching for his wallet. "How about a box of Thin Mints?"
Kaylee flashed her missing teeth and her freckles seemed to darken under the harsh florescent lights of the office. The little feet trampled down the halls as doors opened to receive them, a new squeal of delight or exclamation of adoration echoing out of each one.

It was 5:16 when the secretary ushered the last of them out the door, a box of Samoas tucked in her purse.