If storytellers have any power at all it’s in the telling of a story, in the shifting of events and places and times to tie them all together in a continuous thread.
It all started as I waited on the corner in front of the restaraunt, bearing the bad news that Chris and Kerrianne wouldn’t be able to join us after all, but then Brandon arrived bearing even more unwelcome news, that his regimen of performance-enhancing drugs and Franzia had allowed his beard to surpass mine in both scope and ferocity, and I started to think for the first time that I might have to hire a personal coach if I expected to last in this year’s beard-off.
The other diners trembled a bit when we took our seats at the bar, watching in awe as we consumed plate after plate of raw fish with our bare hands, because they knew that this was only the warm up, and the caveman’s natural prey is the cougar, and they could only imagine the carnage that would be unleashed once we headed out into the city to begin the hunt.
“Do you feel like another drink?” I asked, “because I know where we can meet some pretty girls,” and Brandon was game, and so we met up with Sibyl at the Red Star, where the duck ball sliders taste better than they sound, and after a story or two there we thought some cocktails might be in order, and after a short walk –
– we were poring over the menu at the Vault. It was time for another round, and we were feeling a little adventurous. “I think you need to order the ‘Pussy Wagon’ next,” Sibyl said.
“I will, but I think in all fairness you need to get the ‘Agent Orange’.” And just as our waitress came around Jenny walked in, work finally over, and I don’t even remember what she ordered but I’m sure it was just as exotic. We talked about bloggers (naturally), and about going to Santa Fe (of course), and might even have exchanged text messages with a few friends who couldn’t quite make it (scheduling conflicts!). And our waitress came around with more martinis, and I wondered aloud if I shouldn’t slow down a bit. “I haven’t eaten –”
“– anything all day.” I checked my watch. “She said she was going to make it tonight, right?”
“She did yesterday. I sent her a text earlier but haven’t heard back from her yet.”
“Babies. Babies make you late for dinner.” And we almost gave up hope, but Asia walked in right as we were finishing the last bit of the best mac and cheese I’ve ever had in my time on this Earth, and we immediately tried to ply her with a glass of wine, which she declined to drink but instead came up with some stuff for the next internet craze. I’m not even sure how the conversation went to the places it did but someone mentioned goatse, and then we walked to the bar where we’d witnessed it for the first time, and doubled back to the basement pub where we’d stolen all the chopsticks, and cleansed our palates with a game of pinball or six.
If storytellers had any power at all I’d keep writing and writing in circles, bending time and space to my will so that all my friends are in the same place at the same time, and it’s time for cocktails and no one has to worry about getting up in the morning to go to work or catch a flight or shave off their hard-earned beard. I suppose even that might get old after a while, but until then I think I could keep with it for days and days.