Things carried on with Isadora in essentially the same manner after that minor indiscretion. Well, I’m not sure how minor it really was: Time and treachery have taught me that cheating is serious business, but at that point, I just figured it would be easier on all parties involved if I considered it minor. It would come to pass that I would view my offenses as falling into two categories: major offenses, which involved handcuffs, and minor ones, which didn’t.
Speaking of which, I suppose it’s about time we get around to discussing handcuffs, Dionysus. It’s one of my least favorite subjects, to be sure, but they would become a recurring theme in our relationship, wouldn’t they?
And, funnily enough, that first major offense was also a minor offense of sorts.
Most of the time I viewed myself as an actor, and all the scenarios I got myself into were merely minor tragedies being staged just for me, if only so I could show off my artistic acumen. Of course this was delusion and grandstanding in the first degree, however many occurrences in my young life lent themselves far too easily to reinforcing this line of unreasoning. I’ve starred in a lot of comedies of errors, Dionysus, but the one I am about to relate was so exceptionally absurd, so rife with coincidental blunderings that I still question whether it really happened, even though I have the police reports and booking papers to prove it.
The Setting: Just another typical afternoon at the skate park.
The Cast: The usual band of teenaged miscreants and truant roustabouts.
Enter Banana Man.
“Guys! I found this credit card at the gas station. Some rich idiot must have forgotten it after filling up his SUV and it totally works. Let’s go pay Saint Anthony a visit and stock up on booze since my parents are going out of town again.”
Stolen credit cards? Procuring alcohol illegally? More partying? I thought these were all famous ideas, Dionysus.
So Banana Man and I went down to Saint Anthony’s. He was driving the Banana Van and I was driving the Comet Bus. We went in that store and went to town. We had never attempted to buy so much alcohol at one time before. Typically, we would go in individually and get a couple forties each or some Sparks or a bottle of the hard stuff. But we were intoxicated with our own hubris, Dionysus, a couple of eighteen year olds with armfuls full of bottles and somebody else’s cash. It was perfect.
To this day, I have never been involved in another booze run that rivals this one in terms of magnitude and sketchiness. It was beautiful. We grabbed everything in sight: fifths and quarts and bottles and cans and lady drinks (for the ladies, love). Saint Anthony looked a little surprised but, being the saintly soul that he was, just rang it all up for us. The damage was 350 smackers. Some rich suburbanite was going to be real pissed when he checked his bank statement, Dionysus.
Or not. Because, as it turns out, whoever had lost the credit card had already cancelled it. In typical fashion, we weren’t concerned about the possibility of being caught for trying to use this credit card that had already been reported stolen. No, we were far more concerned about getting all of the booze which we had picked out. Which we did, Dionysus: Banana Man had enough for the bill somehow (my meager comic shop wages didn’t allow for such extravagances).
We were well satisfied with ourselves and looking forward to all of the revelry we would have with this alcoholic haul. But then Banana Man remembered something.
“I can’t keep this in my van. My parents don’t leave until tomorrow, and if they see the booze, they won’t leave me alone with the house.”
Oh, but I was a solutions man, Dionysus, and a real good friend to boot.
“Just put it in the back of my truck.”
Brilliantly played, my teenaged counterpart! Certainly, nobody would ever see it back there!
And off I went with a bar in the back of my truck to pick up my fifteen (nearly sixteen, ok?) year old girlfriend for some romantic quality time in her beautiful beachfront community. And of course I cracked a couple of the hundred or so Sparks we had just procured en route; I had absolutely no patience for patience, Dionysus.
Here’s the deal: When you’re a teenager and you have a girlfriend and you’ve both just discovered what sexual creatures you are, you have to find a place to carry out your carnal acts. Because the lamentable fact is that parents of teenagers, especially teenage girls, don’t really want said teenagers fornicating in their homes. Which is totally fucked, Dionysus.
So Isadora and I were in the habit of checking into the Comet Bus Honeymoon Suite. It wasn’t so bad, really; logistically it could be a bit tricky because of confined spaces and limited, uh, movement, but we made do. Oh, how we made do.
On this particular night, we were parked on a street adjacent to my favorite beach. There was a park on the side we were parked on and houses on the other, although it was nighttime so we were protected by a cover of darkness (or so we thought).
I won’t go into any sordid details, Dionysus. It wasn’t sordid as far as I was concerned anyways: We were young and in love and doing what natural laws compelled us to.
We must have been going at it pretty hard though, because the windows were fogged up to the point where I could not see out and, it stood to reason, nobody else could see in.
It was the heat of passion, the height of sensuality. We moved as one, etc. It was a transcendental, spiritual experience. So much so, in fact, that I could see angels radiating celestial light through my driver side window.
Except it wasn’t angels and that celestial light was coming from a Magnum flashlight.
At long last, the cops appear! Cue “March of The Gladiators” as those bumbling, misstepping storm troopers that I was always five steps ahead of enter stage right! Here they come, knocking at the door of my wedding carriage on wheels, and the bride and groom, simply put, aren’t dressed for company.
I find it curious how quickly brash nonchalance can turn to sheer panic. I’ve experienced this phenomenon on a number of occasions, but perhaps none as pronounced and all-encompassing as this. It was a very effective way of getting rid of a hard-on, Dionysus.
But it’s growing late now, and I’m afraid I will have to continue with this comedy of errors tomorrow. This might take the traditional three acts, love.
</3 Sir Rateval Hurtlinge
P.S. What's the statute of limitations on attempted credit card fraud? I'm asking for a friend, naturally.