A below post references the events that transpired at my house last week. As the resolution of the event in question apparently occurred over the weekend, I am now free to share this story. I tell you now: You probably won't believe it. I hardly believe it, and I've had conversations (and fights) with cinnamon buns.
One of the people with whom I live works at a bar in College Park as a barback, and has done so for a year or two now (we'll call him "Joe"). He finally got around to wanting to train to be a bartender, and as such has spent the last couple months attending classes to that effect. For those of you who think bartending is fun, consider that the test basically consists of memorizing the composition and ratios for over one hundred and fifty drinks - with between three and seven different ingredients per. It's crazy.
So, I was sitting in our living room, quizzing him and drinking with him (he claims that, since he learned most of what he knows while at the bar - and hence, a bit tipsy - he will remember things better if he has a couple. Since he got like 49/50 right post-inebriation, I guess I have to believe him) when the door swings open, and one of our other housemates (we'll call him "Mike") comes storming in, and rages about "that fucking bitch" on the way to his room. This is, in a house where we once tried to weight-train a turtle, is not out of the ordinary enough to really warrent comment, so we just continued as if nothing happened. About five minutes later, Mike comes back out and apologizes for the outburst, and explains - he just got back from the results of a screening. He got an STD. From his girlfriend. And the timeframe means, in no uncertain terms, that she got it from someone who is not him since they began their exclusive relationship. Oops.
We sat around, sipping our beverages, having a genteel discussion about the various names that one might apply to the promiscuous little strumpet. At this point, things get a litle hazy in my memory, due in large part to the alcohol. I do remember that, maybe thirty minutes after the initial entrance, a car pulled up in the driveway (actually, the front yard) and Mike took off towards the back of the house. This was confusing as things were moving considerably more fast than my mind was able to process them, but before I could make too much of the exit, there came a knocking at the door. I opened said door, and much to my suprise, it was none other than the aforementioned girl. She looked somewhat dismayed. The sequence of events that made sense to me was one where Mike had called her and yelled at her, and she, of her own accord, came to apologize or reconcile and that Mike, recognizing her car, ran away to avoid seeing her. This seemed more conflict averse than I gave him credit for, so we invited the girl ("Angela") to relax in our living room while I went to "see if Mike was home." I walked to the back porch, where I assumed he would be hiding out, to find out what the deal was.
This is where the story gets strange.
While rummaging about the back porch and checking the pantry and kitchen, from the front of the house I hear a female voice screaming, "What... what the fuck?!?!?" So I go through the back and around the side of the house to the front yard, where the events became suddenly very evident. Mike was standing on the roof of the house yelling down to Angela, who was pointing furiously at her Miata. Specifically at her newly "installed" sunroof. Apparently, Mike had seen fit to put a cinderblock through the top of her car.
She was absolutely flipping her shit. It didn't help that Joe and I were both buckled over laughing. She suddenly gets into how she's going to sue him and how the car isn't even hers and how he's going to jail (?!?!) and everything else under the sun. But the best part was his response. He didn't call her names, he didn't tell her off, his only comment was, "Oh, Oh, I'm sorry, I was trying to not get VD, and I guess I just dropped a brick on your car. My bad."
She finally just started sobbing, got in her car, and drove away with a big grey block.
My favorite part of the whole thing was that there was no clever plan, no big revenge. He didn't try to find pictures of her in compromising situations and publish them... he just did the most natural and unabashedly blunt thing possible. He dropped a brick on her car.
Since, they've talked, he's agreed to not make her pay for the cost of drug treatment and she's agreed to pretend it fell on her car in some other way, or something. I didn't really pay attention, except that I'm apparently supposed to not tell the insurance adjuster what actually happened. But I swear, this was the funniest thing ever.
cranked out at 12:38 AM | |
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