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"By car," I added.
Not one to take a hint, Ted immediately jumped in and asked me, "What do you mean?"
"We were just walking outside to get a taxi to take us to Laguna, Fred," I said loudly.
So instead of going up to the roof where we were expected, we were escorted outside by Ivory and Rooster, got into a taxi, rode around the block, came back to the hotel, and then ran to the elevators as fast as we could.
Once we were airborne, Ted told me that he thought Poultry still had feelings for me. "You should see if he wants to get back together, and then you'll never have to ride in a helicopter again. You can ride around in his go-cart."
"His name is Rooster."
"He actually seemed like he'd be a nice guy if he wasn't so hammered. I could barely understand a word he said. He kept moving his mouth around in circles."
"Yeah, he must have been tired."
"And by the way, Ms. Handler, he and I turned out to have more in common than you would think."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. For your information it turns out I'm not the only one who missed a day of work when Michael Jackson died."
"I'm sorry?"
"He didn't work the next day either, because he was too upset."
"No, Ted. He didn't work the next day either because he doesn't have a job."
Ted opened up the bag of chips he had managed to have on board.
"Now, let's focus on us. We have a choice for dancing tonight. We can either go to a dance club I found online or just dance in our room if you want. I brought my iPod dock and just downloaded all of Earth, Wind & Fire's greatest hits."
"Let's stay in tonight," I said, envisioning all the twenty and thirty-something stares I would have to endure while Ted slid across the dance floor, crying if a Michael Jackson song came on. "Although you are already warmed up. Maybe we should go out."
"Nah, let's save it," he said in complete seriousness. "We don't want to spoil people."
I looked down at the coastline and at the waves crashing on the shore and said something I never thought I'd say. "I miss Tito."
Chapter Six.Water Olympics
Like any self-respecting brother-and-sister combo, Greg and I decided to eat some mushrooms. We were out to di
When the server came over, Mike ordered a Heineken, I ordered my standard vodka with lemon, and Greg decided to go with a double-gay Bay Breeze.
"When do you think you'll be starting your first period?" I asked my brother.
"Chelsea, I think we both know I've been getting my period since the third grade."
Greg is not a gay man, but he has some very gay qualities, which he is not only quick to admit to but even quicker to embrace. Today he is married to a Russian woman and has three small Russian sons who live in New Jersey and speak with thick Russian accents. This di
"Can you two please not talk about periods?" Sloane piped up, looking sideways at Mike.
I didn't know Mike very well at the time, but what I did know was that trying to get a conversation started with him was like trying to go sleigh-riding in a straitjacket. He was extremely quiet.
Greg and I are not quiet and have never pretended to be. We both have extremely unfortunate personalities and thrive on embarrassing anyone we're in a room with. Somehow we have both managed to carve out lives for ourselves and yet maintain an attitude of utter disrepair. He is a certified public accountant, and I have a real life.
"When do you think you'll get our sister knocked up?" Greg asked Mike, taking a bite out of the cherry that came in his drink. Sloane was five years older than Mike and was interested in getting married, penetrated, and knocked up. In that order. The best news about Mike was that, unlike Sloane, he had not been captured by Mormons.
From what I could gather by his facial expression, Mike didn't seem to have any problem with the topics of penetration or menstruation.
"I have mushrooms," I a
"Oh, that's nice," Sloane said.
"Where did you get them?" Greg inquired.
"From a drug dealer."
He put his hand out. "Please give me some."
I pulled a Ziploc bag from of my purse. "Would you like some mushrooms, Mike?"
Mike looked at Sloane, who looked back at him like he was four years old.
"Nah," he said, "that's okay."
Greg pointed his finger in Mike's face, sternly. "Mike, if you want some mushrooms, my suggestion is that you have some mushrooms. These are your last months as a free man."
"Mike is not doing mushrooms," a
"Fine," I said, making two small piles on the table. I then proceeded to eat my portion of the mushrooms as I perused the menu, trying to decide how much food would prevent me from getting a good high.
"That's really nice, you guys. You're just go
"We'll probably end up robbing a liquor store, Sloane. Mushrooms can be very violent," Greg told her with no inflection, grimacing at the flavor of the drugs. "These taste like a moose's asshole."
"Uh, I wouldn't bring up anyone's asshole at the same time you're holding a Bay Breeze with your pinky pointed toward the sun. It's better to mix it with some food. Wa
Greg nodded in agreement and then leaned in. "Do you know that in five states it is legal to mail your dump to another person, but if you do it more than once, you can get arrested?"
Sloane lifted her elbow to the table, resting her chin on her fist, and looked in any direction but ours. "This is just great. This is lovely di
I for one couldn't have been more fascinated. "You can mail a shadoobie to another person?"
"That's correct."
Even Mike was flabbergasted. "Wow. That's pretty intense."
"But, Chelsea," Greg said sternly, "you ca
"Well, that's stupid," I told him. "Who would need to do it twice? If the person you sent it to the first time doesn't understand that a shadoobie in the mail means that that friendship is on the rocks, he certainly isn't going to figure it out the second time. That would be a total waste of a stamp."
"Or two stamps, Chelsea. Depending on just how big that shadoobie is."
"So where are you guys going to go when you start hallucinating?" Sloane asked. "Back to the house to hang out with Mom and Dad?"
"Don't tell Mom and Dad that we did mushrooms, Sloane."
That was the last thing I remember saying before I started seeing flying Chinese babies. Sloane claims that Greg and I got up from the table before our food came and started dancing in the middle of the restaurant, together.
After she and Mike finished their meal, she came over to us and told us they were leaving and that we could take a cab home. Then she said that she told me, "There is no music playing, and you and Greg are related." I do in fact remember dancing, but I have a hard time believing there was no music.
About four hours later, I found myself in a cab back to my parents' house without Greg. I was still pretty high, but now the Chinese babies were at my eye level and were on foot.
At some point in the evening, my brother and I had separated. After the restaurant we'd gone to a bar across the street where they actually had an area designated for dancing, called a dance floor. I'm pretty confident I spent most of the night humiliating myself on it, but I had no idea when or where Greg had removed himself.
During the ten-minute cab ride to our house, I became increasingly concerned over Greg's whereabouts. Although I have been lucky enough not to ever have had a bad reaction to the drugs I've experimented with, some people are not as fortunate. It dawned on me that he could have been freaking out somewhere in a roadside bush. Once we pulled onto the dirt road that led to our house, the cabdriver recognized the road and said he had just dropped another person here an hour earlier. Thank God, I thought, and was able to go back to my previous jubilation of being in a paranoia-free zone of euphoria. This wasn't the first time Greg and I had crossed paths with the same driver in the hours of darkness.