For the third time this week, my housemate flings the front door of the house open and collapses noisily onto the living room floor. I look up from the book I was supposed to have read for class a week ago to see if he's bleeding or anything. He isn't.
Briefly debating an attempt to leave the room before he says anything, I settle on pretending to be invisible and turn back to my book.
Seconds later there is a dramatic groan from the floor and I ignore it.
"Dave," he calls. "Dave, you there? It...it's Jake."
I don't say anything. I am concentrating fiercely on the sentence that I've re-read three times since his Entrance.
He fumbles himself into an awkward crouch, and finds me sitting on the couch. To my chagrin, he happens to catch me looking in his direction.
"What day is it?" he asks.
I stare at him, trying desperately to convey the deep irritation of the soul I have since grade school reserved for paste-eaters.
"The date, Dave!" he sputters. "What is the date?"
"The thirtieth," I say, still staring.
He opens his mouth, and I hold up a finger.
"If you ask me what year it is," I say, "I will straight up punch you in the face."
He stands awkwardly and clears his throat, his eyes dart around the room briefly and then fix on me.
"In the face," I say again.
He stalks back toward the front door, stopping at the threshold.
"Tell me one thing?" he asks, not turning around.
"Fine," I say.
"Who is the president of these United States?" he asks.
I sigh. "It's Stalin, Jake," I say. "It has been for years."
His head drops.
"Then I'm too late," he whispers, and runs out the door.
I shake my head and turn back to my sentence. I have just enough time to read it again when the door to the second bedroom opens and Jake stumbles out, groggy with sleep.
"Was somebody here?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.
"You," I say. "Again."
He stops and looks at me. "Serious?" he asks.
I nod.
"Lame," he says, padding to the pantry in bare feet. "You tell him the president was Hitler again?"
"Stalin," I say. "He didn't take it well."
Jake shakes his head, almost ashamed, as he surveys the available breakfast cereals. "What a tool," he says.
Briefly debating an attempt to leave the room before he says anything, I settle on pretending to be invisible and turn back to my book.
Seconds later there is a dramatic groan from the floor and I ignore it.
"Dave," he calls. "Dave, you there? It...it's Jake."
I don't say anything. I am concentrating fiercely on the sentence that I've re-read three times since his Entrance.
He fumbles himself into an awkward crouch, and finds me sitting on the couch. To my chagrin, he happens to catch me looking in his direction.
"What day is it?" he asks.
I stare at him, trying desperately to convey the deep irritation of the soul I have since grade school reserved for paste-eaters.
"The date, Dave!" he sputters. "What is the date?"
"The thirtieth," I say, still staring.
He opens his mouth, and I hold up a finger.
"If you ask me what year it is," I say, "I will straight up punch you in the face."
He stands awkwardly and clears his throat, his eyes dart around the room briefly and then fix on me.
"In the face," I say again.
He stalks back toward the front door, stopping at the threshold.
"Tell me one thing?" he asks, not turning around.
"Fine," I say.
"Who is the president of these United States?" he asks.
I sigh. "It's Stalin, Jake," I say. "It has been for years."
His head drops.
"Then I'm too late," he whispers, and runs out the door.
I shake my head and turn back to my sentence. I have just enough time to read it again when the door to the second bedroom opens and Jake stumbles out, groggy with sleep.
"Was somebody here?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.
"You," I say. "Again."
He stops and looks at me. "Serious?" he asks.
I nod.
"Lame," he says, padding to the pantry in bare feet. "You tell him the president was Hitler again?"
"Stalin," I say. "He didn't take it well."
Jake shakes his head, almost ashamed, as he surveys the available breakfast cereals. "What a tool," he says.
Is that an autobiographical anecdote?
*still mourning the lost Friday Fives*
Posted by: Q | October 30, 2007 at 02:36 PM
Hahaha! I don't know what this is, but it cracks me up.
Posted by: Holly | October 30, 2007 at 04:16 PM
This
is
my
favorite
ever.
LOVE IT!
Posted by: Enna Isilee | October 30, 2007 at 04:59 PM
"That was totally WICKED!"
Posted by: Alauna | October 31, 2007 at 04:23 PM
Love that movie.
Posted by: Q | November 01, 2007 at 02:48 PM
This one is probably my favorite. I keep randomly saying, "In the face."
Posted by: Ruby Diamond | November 03, 2007 at 04:18 PM
"What a tool." Brilliant again, honey. Brilliant.
Posted by: the wife | November 07, 2007 at 03:36 PM