Kaitlin tended to call me en route to a vacation stop, or while waiting for a plane, or to check in from some local airport bar where she was living down her latest forty-eight hours of poor decisions. This story is just that, a recollection of a weekend that involved a few poor judgement calls, bars in airports, and a holiday disaster of epic proportions.
She called me while at Logan airport after a weekend of guests, and she caught me off guard with the immediate and aggressive details of her weekend, so much so, I almost got hit by a car trying to cross the street to process the latest disaster she called dating.
“First, I need to tell you how good looking he is,” she emphasized this, as we’d had some terrible suitors of late that did not qualify as good looking, and so this was her disclaimer up front to get me to avoid being disappointed in her latest tryst.
“He’s a pro-golfer,” she continued, defensive still, and I started in with my usual interrogation tactics. This is odd, I thought. Normally I have to pull the professional details of her latest out of her, like the time I did with the toilet salesman, or the Target worker, or the guy with the ambitions to be on American Idol (the Bangor, Maine, version, to be clear).
“It’s winter, Kaitlin, and I highly doubt you met him on a golf course.” My voice was filled with doubt and judgment, as the only thing I’d ever seen her do on a golf course was pose awkwardly with her siblings, every Thanksgiving, when they took this infamous family shot on the green at her Mimi’s retirement community.
“Did you meet him while visiting Mimi, Kait? Because that means he’s at least 70 and I know you like it there, but JESUS.” She had recently told me what a gem Mimi’s community was, with the early dinners, naps, and day drinking by the pool and golf course. She had boasted how marketable she was for any grandkid of one of Mimi’s friends, and truly, she never ceased to amaze me with her locations of choice for a pick-up.
“No, Christ, I’m not that bad,” and at this point, at least that was debatable, because her Coug days were just getting started, maybe perhaps with this very first take down.
She carried on with, “He’s the younger brother of one of my roommates and girlfriends,” to which I countered,
“Oh, this sounds like it’s going to end well. Please carry on.” Why the younger brother of a girlfriend wasn’t enough to deter her, I’ll never know, but apparently, she was into young, unsuspecting lads we were probably old enough to babysit a decade ago.
And then she just laid it out simply.
“So I took down her younger brother last night. The one with the nice girlfriend that the whole family loved.”
I was almost hit by another car and my mouth dropped so wide a swarm of bees could have flown in and I wouldn’t have been able to shut my jaw enough to stop them.
“Holy god, what the hell is wrong with you?” She knew I was more proud than horrified, and she asked what all the beeping was about.
“I almost got hit by a fucking Parisian. You could have warned me before you said take down.” These stories never ended well. She carried on, unphased.
“So he’s giving me the eye at the bar when we’re out with the family and then one thing leads to another blah blah blah and we’re back at the house,”
WHOSE HOUSE, I demanded, and I want to say hers and the roommates, but to this day, I can’t be sure. I’m pretty sure hers, though.
She continues, saying blah blah a lot about the details from the bar, but I can picture it all in my head anyway. I have seen her blah blah blah before. It’s less than classy or attractive.
“And then he comes in my room late at night and blah blah we had drunken sex. I think the headboard is broken because it kept banging but then we also kept banging.”
I couldn’t get enough of this story.
“And then when we were done, he went out to the living room to sleep in the aerobed, and yep, you guessed it, HIS MOTHER WAS SITTING ON THE COUCH.”
I made a pained noise and then laughed so hard I choked. “I didn’t fucking guess that, Kailin.” Truly, I didn’t see that one coming, no one guesses the mother is in the fucking same building, but then again, it was not a huge surprise.
“So she was sitting there just staring at him and then just said, “were you doing nasty things in there?” I almost got hit in traffic again. I had to stop walking and crossing these damned streets. This story was the best. Nasty things is one of my favorite things and while I wanted her to elaborate, I knew she didn’t need to.
“So I didn’t know any of this because I passed out in my room but then the next morning, no one said a word when his parents drove us to the airport.”
“DID YOU SAY PARENTS? Where was everyone sleeping? You had the whole family there and you took down the young brother? Oh my god. OHMYGOD. Why were you all on a group trip to the airport? Jesus, I’m so confused.” There were so many parts of this story I didn’t understand, care to understand, or really question. She had this ability to create a circus without even trying and it was magical.
“Who cares? Stop asking all these questions. I was flying out for work and he was flying back to DC. Anyway, I thought we had gotten away with it, but then we headed to the airport bar,” she paused for a second and I jumped in,
“Why were you all making a family trip to the airport bar?” I was confused. Didn’t she live in Boston and why was she going to the airport bar?
“Ugh, to see him off,” she was mad I kept interrupting her with my aggressive interrogation and disruptive laughter. I didn’t know what stitches was but I was fucking in them.
“So he grabs me and says, hey, quick, I need to tell you something, and then went into the story of how his Mom asked if we had been doing nasty things and that his sister (my roommate) also knew. The whole family knows. That’s why no one looked me in the eye today.”
Yes, hearing the drunken sex of the prized youngest son will do that to a proud mother and doting sister. Jesus, I couldn’t get enough of this story. She needed her own TV series, really, and if I had more time that day, I would have elaborated on what nasty things this time entailed. If I were to go with the historical knowledge I had of her sex life, I had an idea.
“Oh dear lord what did your roommate say? Nice work on banging my younger brother? I’d kill you, just so you know, if you banged my brother.” I did hope her friend at least had a sense of humor about the whole thing.
“Oh, you know, the usual,” which I assumed meant she was disappointed, slightly in awe and at least thankful for a good story.
“So she didn’t care?” I tried again. That girl had to care. Kait’s take downs were always epic and disastrous.
“Oh, no, she told me I ruined Christmas.”
And with that I just sat down on the sidewalk and laughed and laughed and laughed until the tears almost drowned me and lack of air almost suffocated me. People were staring and I had never been so happy to make a scene in the middle of Paris.
“HEATHER, IT IS NOT FUNNY. I RUINED THEIR CHRISTMAS.” I kept laughing.
She had ruined an entire holiday, for an entire family, on perhaps the holiest time of the year, around the birth of Jesus.
I was so proud to be her friend.