Nice
Tuesday, July 1, 2008 at 9:16PM Mrs. G. 
It was the winter of 1986, and about 11:15 pm when Mrs. G. and her college roommate, Kay, spontaneously decided to drive from their dorm in Eugene, Oregon to Kay’s parents’ house in Portland to do laundry and raid the family fridge. Mrs. G. had just finished a Saturday night performance of the play Talking With and was still in her make-up and costume--she played the part of a deranged baton twirler--so she was wearing a sequined body suit and white go-go boots. If she remembers correctly, Kay was wearing striped cotton pajamas. She is remembering correctly, because Kay frequently wore pajamas out in public. If she wanted to spruce up or had an important job interview, Kay put on sweats. Mrs. G. has always hung with a comfort conscious crowd.
She and Kay cut quite a figure as they climbed into Mrs. G’s VW bug with their family sized bag of corn nuts, Big Gulp Dr. Peppers and favorite Madonna and Jon Bon Jovi cassette tapes. Many of you have expressed disbelief that Mrs. G. wasn’t part of the popular crowd in her younger days--she hopes you will no longer question her veracity regarding this subject. Let her reiterate the following: she and her friend were spending prime Saturday night, drinking- and-dancing-and-making-out hours driving to Portland dressed in a sequin bodysuit and pajamas eating corn nuts...to do laundry and eat all the free Pizza Bites and Klondike bars they could handle. Studio 54 Mrs. G. was not.
They were about 20 minutes outside of Eugene when the VW started to shimmy and sputter. Mrs. G. was able to pull over to the shoulder before the engine died. It was almost midnight, and they were on the side of the freeway. Nice.
They hopped out of the car and started wildly waving a flashlight, because they didn't have any flares. Mrs. G. had taken hers out of the glove box to make room for lip gloss and an Ayn Rand novel--Mrs. G. was going through a brief and obnoxious collegiate phase of embracing uncut, extra strength self-involvement individualism and categorically rejecting socialism, altruism, and religion. Yes, deep times. Finally, a set of headlights lit up the disco-ball sequins on Mrs. G’s bodysuit and pulled up behind their car. It was a Caucasian male between the ages of 18 and 32 in a large pick white pick up truck with enormous fog lights.
Note: "Serial killers are composed of all types and forms of people. They can be males or females, young or old, single killers or pairs of killers, and of any ethnic background. A serial killer can be from any walk of life. The typical profile of a serial killer is a Caucasian male between the ages of 18 and 32..." from Portrait of a Serial Killer.
I think there’s a truck stop at the next exit, Kay said. The guy nodded but kept his eyes on the road. The three of them rode in silence.
It didn’t take long for Mrs. G. to feel a rabbit run over her grave. She was getting creeped out, and her friend Kay was picking up her vibe. They squeezed as close to the passenger's side door as possible without being obvious or unnecessarily rude. Mrs. G. took Kay's hand in hers, naively thinking that if the guy thought they were a lesbian couple he might find them less desirable--thus making him the only Caucasian male between the ages of 18 and 32 turned off by lesbian couples. Snort.
Boo!
Mrs. G. and Kay screamed. The guy laughed.
You girls really shouldn't be taking rides from strangers in the middle of the night.
Mrs. G. prepared to die or, at the very least, spend the next five years sharing a coffin with her friend Kay beneath this freak’s bed, only let out on Sundays for torture and a shower.
But then the guy pulled into the well lit safety of the truck stop and let them live. Serial killer or not, he was a little twisted. When he drove away, Kay called her dad, and he came and picked them up.
They didn’t tell him how they got to the truck stop. He didn't ask them about the sequined body suit and the pajamas. The whole way to Portland, they all just minded their own business and were happy to be alive. Nice.
Reader, what is one of the stupidest things you never died from?
Back in the Day
Reader Comments (105)
Who else could make me laugh so hard (about the only male between 18 and 32 who was turned off by lesbians) while I was on the edge of my seat, scared silly. Obviously I knew you lived, but you still had me going.
My dad thought the dumbest thing I ever did was drive 1000 miles to meet a guy I met on the INTERNET! He soon conceded it wasn't so stupid.
Before that, in college, I spent the weekend with a guy 3 hours from my college, hiding from the guy I was supposed to meet. Both things were stupid. Exceedingly stupid. But probably not likely to get me killed, though the first guy found us and tried to kill the second guy. I guess it was pretty stupid. (Someone was passing through that city and dropped me off, so I had no escape until said person came back through town.)
I really think that there is some protective quality in stupidity at that age... When I was in college (a few years before you), we hitchhiked ALL THE TIME and survived. My worst experience was when my roommates left me in town, thinking I was going to spend the night there and I had to get back home alone. Home was up in the mountains, and bus service had ended. With no other options, I stuck out my thumb and was picked up by a middle-aged man. He seemed nice enough, but I soon realized he'd been drinking and his hand kept landing on my leg, even though I pushed it off repeatedly. I started to panic as he suggested we stop along the way, but then I realized that I KNEW him. He was SANTA CLAUS--at the small Santa's Village amusement park where I'd worked for a few weeks on vacations. Once I started babbling about recognizing him and talking about "work" his hands remained firmly on the steering wheel and he dropped me off without any problems. Whew!
Short and sweet...BLUE VW, too much alcohol at age 19, a hill, flipping twice and thanked God I came out of it alive! Gosh, I loved that car!
Hopped over from Sarah's...wonderful story!!
Oh-oh-oh... I think I haven't been worrying enough. My daughter just started reading Ayn Rand...
I just shrieked with laughter and woke my husband up, thanks to you. He's mildly miffed. I'm weeping (tears of laughter).