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I know I should be writing something this month about the war in Kosovo
(I'm totally opposed — there has got to be a better way to stop ethnic cleansing than dropping bombs on innocent people), but frankly the whole thing has got me down. I just don't feel up to writing about current events. Besides, something troubling happened to me last week and I knew I had to get it down on paper — or in pixels, or whatever — while the
events of that fateful night are still branded into my skull.
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By
Tyler Valdez
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Remember my friend, my best friend, Maude Hughes? You know, the one who goes to my high school and got me the job at Red Lobster last summer? Well, there's this guy at school — let's call him Michael — and let's just say Maude wouldn't mind bearing his child. Me, I can't see it. Sure, he's good-looking, if you like your men big, tall, and bound-for-the-military. The worst part about it is, even though Maude is a red-headed bombshell, he doesn't seem interested in her. I'm sure you can guess what happens next. That's right: Maude decides that Michael's friend — let's call him Ralph (pronounced "Rafe") — has a thing for me, and that we need to double-date. Without even asking me, she sets the whole thing up.
It took a little convincing from Maude to get me to agree to this. First of all, Ralph? Boring. The kind of guy who probably knows a lot of sports statistics. I told Maude it would be like going out on a date with a shoe-box full of baseball cards. But she said to me, "T-Val, what have you got to lose? Do you really want to spend another Saturday night watching videos of black-and-white movies in your living room?" Ouch! "Plus," she added, "the guys will pay for everything, and I've got a bottle of vodka I've been saving for a special occasion." I got her to promise that all we would do was go out to the movies and then come right back home, and then I said OK.
My dad dropped me off in front of Maude's a little before 7 o'clock that Saturday night. (As usual, he was off like a shot before her parents had a chance to flag him down and invite him in for a "pit stop.") Mr. Hughes answered the door, and made a big deal out of how nice I supposedly looked. He pretended that he didn't even recognize me — of course, as soon as he opened his mouth I realized he'd had a couple of drinks, so maybe he really didn't. When Maude came downstairs, though, he changed his tune; he hassled her about her dress and told her he'd be waiting up until she got home. Meanwhile, two of her younger brothers came in the room and started whistling at us and acting like they were mack daddies. Ten minutes later, we were in the cemetery up the street from her house, mixing the vodka into a two-liter bottle of Diet Slice. I decided that the only way I could make it through the evening was if, for once, I got as loosened up as Maude. I felt kind of stupid all dressed up and getting loaded in a graveyard, but — the world being the way it is in these dark days of Kosovo — life is short, you know?
We got on the subway and headed to Harvard Square (which is in Cambridge, across the river from Boston) to meet our dates. By the time we changed trains at Downtown Crossing, Maude and I were pretty much laughing at anything and everything. I didn't even care that much when we met the guys and they informed us that they had bought tickets to see The Matrix, a movie I would never have seen in a million years under normal circumstances. Of course the first thing Maude told them was that we were totally buzzed, so Ralph and Michael admitted they were, too. Maybe that's why they were so loud in the theater. The only way Maude could shut Michael up was by practically climbing into his lap, but luckily Ralph kept his hands to himself.
After the movie, out on the sidewalk, Maude turned to me and said, "So where do you want to go for dinner? Michael and I were thinking..." I couldn't believe it! But what could I say? So we ended up going to this over-priced stir-fry palace where you have to stand around watching some goofy guy prepare the bamboo shoots and hot sauce you've carefully selected from a mountain of chopped-up vegetables and meat. Maude dragged me to the bathroom, where she pulled out what was left of our "Graveyard Gimlet" and proceeded to chug-a-lug. I tried to let her know that I didn't appreciate her switcheroo after the movie, but she was all "Tyler, you're getting a free meal and a ride home in Ralph's Cherokee — where's the problem?"
Speaking of Cherokees, the first thing Michael brought up when we got back to our mounds of seared sprouts and pea-pods was how "awesome" the Apache helicopters in Kosovo are. At that point, I just zoned out. The next thing I knew, the check was on the table, Maude was hanging on Michael's arm like she couldn't walk, and Ralph was helping me on with my leather jacket. The "NO FEAR" sticker in the jeep's back window was not a good sign, but at that point I just wanted to get home. I think Ralph did, too — he was getting all impatient with Michael and Maude for stopping every five steps to make out, and when we got on the road, he seemed annoyed at all the giggling and stuff going on in the back seat.
Ralph had the radio turned way up. I'm not sure how many minutes
passed before I realized things in the car were a little too quiet. I
didn't want to stare, so I just kind of turned sideways in my seat to find
out what was going on in back. I noticed Maude wasn't really
moving, and she definitely wasn't giggling anymore. Michael, however,
was moving plenty. Not that his pants were down or anything, but
whatever he was doing, I don't think Maude was in on the fun. She
clearly had no idea he was doing anything at all. I tried to break it up
by asking Maude if she wanted to be dropped off first, but she couldn't
answer me, and Michael ignored my question.
I was getting really freaked out, and I knew I had to do something. At the same time, I was mad at Maude for putting me in this position. I was fuming. As bad as Maude can be, I knew she would never have let herself get into this predicament if she hadn't expected old dependable me to pull her butt out of the fire. Part of me actually wanted to say, forget it, just drop me off, but the other part of me took over. In a loud voice — loud enough so that Ralph would know exactly what I meant — I asked Maude if she was OK. Ralph turned the radio off, looked behind him at Michael and Maude, and said, "Mike, dude, what's up?" OK, those weren't exactly the most heroic words I've ever heard, but they did the trick. Good thing, too, because I was getting ready to start wailing on Michael with the empty two-liter Slice bottle — not that he would've felt anything, but at least it would've gotten his attention.
Ten uncomfortable minutes later, Ralph dropped us off at Maude's house. Michael was stewing in the back seat, but Ralph was really apologetic, and seemed worried about Maude. He helped me get her inside, and whispered that he would drive me home, but there was no way I was getting back in the jeep. I told Ralph just to go home, which he did, after telling me to call him tomorrow to let him know if Maude was OK. Somehow I got Maude past her father (asleep in his easy chair in front of the History Channel) and into her room. I left her face-down on her bed and walked the six blocks home.
The next morning, Maude came over bright and early, acting all embarrassed and apologetic but looking just fine. I described to her in gory detail everything she'd missed. I could tell she was humiliated, but within minutes she was making jokes about the whole thing, and it was even starting to seem funny to me, so I just dropped it. I told Maude that I would never, ever, EVER double-date with her again, though. Maude said, "That's fine with me, because you were a bitch all night, anyway!" She might be right, at that. I did ignore Ralph the whole time, especially at the self-service wok joint, and he turned out to be a pretty nice guy. As a matter of fact, he didn't even mention sports one time. Maybe I should give him a second chance. I'd ask Maude if I should, but what would be the point of that?
—Tyler V.
Tyler Valdez is Maude Hughes' best friend. This was the twelfth edition of her Mad Crib. Catch up on what you've missed in Tyler's archive.
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