Back in the late Nineties, my friend talked me into donating blood. It’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s that I hate needles. He was making a big deal about it partly because the blood drive was being held at his church, but also because that’s just who he is. I had never donated before, and my friend assured me it was no big deal, and that he had done it many times.
I had to work that morning, so I arrived about one o’clock. I was smart and ate lunch beforehand, which turned out to be the correct call. It was about four-ish by the time they got around to me, and they were passing out the Fig Newtons and Nutter Butters to those of us who were waiting our turn.
Meanwhile, my buddy was walking the floor like the father of the bride at a mob wedding; shaking hands and making sure everyone was well taken care of. Everyone kept asking him when was it going to be his turn, and he said he was waiting for his name to be called. When he finally rolled up his sleeve and they poked his arm, he promptly passed out.
While I was sitting there with nothing to do, (this was before the fainting) I noticed this woman who worked for the organization that was collecting the blood (it wasn’t the Red Cross). She looked vaguely familiar, and it took me the longest time figure out who she is.
A decade prior, whenever a different friend and I would go to a certain town, he always had to stop by the shoe store. Not because he had Peter Pan syndrome, but because he had to see a woman who worked there. He somehow knew her from somewhere, and all I know is that she used to be a dancer at some club, and “Her Strut” by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band was her jam. You have to remember that Motley Crue’s “Girls Girls Girls” was only a few months old at the time, and hadn’t yet become the on-the-nose song for dancers who lack originality.
I guess my pal thought he had a shot, otherwise why would he spend so much time at Fayva? Or was it Payless? She did have a cute coworker, but unlike my friend, I didn’t even bother. A man (even a teenaged one) has to know his limitations; I would have been like a little leaguer going against Nolan Ryan. Meanwhile, my friend was making like John Kruk versus Randy Johnson, but with nary a hint of self awareness.
She convinced my friend to let her clean his house for a few bucks. How much? I have no idea, but it was almost more than it was worth.
We were hanging out watching TV, when he asked if I had seen his Swiss Army knife. I replied, “Nope. Not lately.” A few days later his nearly filled Turtle’s stamp book (Google it) had gone missing, and no, I hadn’t seen it either. This is where things got accusatory. His roommate told him to call his cleaning lady and ask her if she had seen his missing stuff. I could tell by his tone where he was going with this.
She was all like, “Yeah, I ‘borrowed’ some of your stuff. I hope it’s all right.” Of course it was all right. She also took his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. When he heard this, I could see him placing a file in a folder, then putting the folder in a deposit box in the impregnable vault deep inside the Banque des Spank. Now if he could only figure out a way to be in the same room when she takes it off.