She suggested a picnic. I knew of a small, quaint lake a little more than an hour outside of town where cows, pigs and pickup trucks outnumbered people. It was our third date and Doreen offered to make the food, which came as a relief. The last time I tried to cook, I attempted popcorn in the office microwave. I accidentally entered a cook time of 44 minutes instead of the suggested 4 and walked away. Corporate headquarters issued a company-wide ban on microwave popcorn after that. It seems the fire department frowns upon being called out for false alarms and issues hefty fines to drive home the point.
Doreen would bring food, and I would supply drinks, which I took to mean alcohol. I planned on bringing water and soda, but the real choice was between beer and wine. I was young then and had little experience with wine. I preferred beer and still do—I feel it goes with just about anything. Still, I wanted to make a good impression. My knowledge of wine could be written on the back of a postage stamp though:
Red
White
I knew about the pink stuff too, but I sort-of assumed it was a mixture of the two—like maybe it was for indecisive drinkers. I also knew that certain wines went well with certain foods but was completely clueless as to what went with what. On top of that I didn’t know what food Doreen was planning to make, or even if she told me. (In my defense with regards to all arguments that have transpired since, I have never professed to be a good listener.)
Back in the days before we could access all the world’s knowledge with a device in our pockets, I did what most people did—I winged it. I opted for a bottle of red and a bottle of white. If nothing else, we’d have a good time.
There was still the matter of quality. My only gauge was price. Some friends told me anything under an Abe ($5) was rotgut, less than a Hamilton ($10) was cheap, and more than a Jackson ($20) was the good stuff. I decided to squeeze in between Hamilton and Jackson. Although mired in turbulence, those were solid, foundation years for America. I liked that metaphor. It made me feel quite patriotic when I reached the check-out line. I think I even hummed a bar of “The Star Bangled Banner.”
It was a warm day in early June—just right for summer clothes but not yet hot. We enjoyed the fried chicken Doreen brought, drank, chatted, and drank some more. We sat in the shade while the occasional breeze tickled our skin. After a few glasses we became a bit silly. I knew this because she laughed at all of my jokes, even the ones that weren’t really funny.
To this day there is some controversy over how the series of events unfolded. Her version of the story is that I got her drunk and goaded her into it. To which I counter wine doesn’t make you do anything. It might offer a little encouragement, but if she took her clothes off and got into the lake it’s because she wanted to. I might also mention who it is she wanted to be naked in front of. Comments like these are why there are constant red marks in the shape of hands upon my face.
Anyway, we were skinny-dipping and having a fantastic time. At some point though Doreen looked towards the shore and her expression shifted dramatically. “Where are our clothes?” She asked.
Well, that completely ruined the mood.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that someone stole our clothes, and you’ve heard this story 100 times before and you don’t really care to hear it again.
You would be wrong. We found our clothes easily enough in the bushes. We hadn’t brought much in the way of valuables and, the little cash I had brought, I found unmolested in my pocket. No, these vandals did not go for the cheap, easy thrill; they put a lot of thought into their caper. Our clothes had been glued together—her pants were glued to my pants, my shirt glued to her top, etc. As icing on the cake, they glued our underwear to the outside of our clothing.
Upon discovery, Doreen decided that we should try to pry the clothes apart, and she volunteered me for the task. I started at the pant legs, but the delinquents had used a fast-bonding glue and all I managed to do was shred a sock that was glued to her pant leg.
A barrage of obscenities that would embarrass a bartender at last call ensued. Doreen then snatched the clothes out of my hands, and alongside her vivid linguistic phrasings, she made numerous comments about men’s lack of finesse. She tried to separate the clothes herself, with the same result. The obscenities and colorful remarks about men continued, only this time, they weren’t aimed at men in general—they were derisively pointed towards one specific male. That truly hurt my feelings.
I suggested that we could just drive home as is—after all, it’s not that different from swimming naked, just a bit more adventurous. This did not go over very well. Doreen insisted that we had to get our clothes back on. After much complaining, bickering. swearing and falling over, we did manage to get them back on, and began the trek back to my car.
This part wasn’t too bad. The pranksters had glued the fronts of our clothes together, so we had to walk face-to-face with our arms around each other for support. If it weren’t for the underwear hanging off us, it might’ve looked like we were just a really affectionate couple. In this spirit, with no tongue-in-cheek intended, I told her that, despite everything, it was kind of romantic. She promptly suggested I go somewhere known for being hotter than global warming on steroids.
We eventually reached the car, and got in without too much difficulty, except that I sat on her hair a few times. The real problem was it would be impossible to drive while facing each other. One of us had to remove their clothes. Being a chivalrous man, I volunteered Doreen. This went as well as you might expect, and a few moments later, I drove down the road naked.
I owned a convertible. Because it was a beautiful day, I had taken the top off and left it at home. So, we cruised down the road, she fully clothed, and me naked as a jay bird, my clothes and our underwear trailing behind her, flapping wildly in the wind.
Suddenly, we heard a loud bang, something akin to a shotgun blast. Doreen ducked instinctively, and then once she realized what it was, unleased another stream of obscenities that would make drunken sailors blush.
My convertible had a lot of character, and one of its charming features was that it occasionally released beautiful blue smoke out of the exhaust. It would build up over time and then release all at once, like sounds from a portly gentleman after a great meal.
In the mirror I watched the smoke dance delightfully as it wafted upwards toward the sky. On the edge of the smoke, glued to my pant leg was, of all things, her bra. It was waving in the wind as if it had too much to drink and was shouting ‘hello’ to all on-lookers and passersby.
I don’t know why but what I found funny was that the bra wasn’t lacy or see-through or the least bit naughty in any way. It was just a plain white bra. Against the blue smoke, it seemed to glow. The scene struck me as perfect for a Clorox commercial. I could envision video clips of the day’s mishaps, ending with the glowing white bra and a slogan: “Come! Bring us your tired, abused, and possibly soiled underwear for we shall make them white again!”
Doreen looked at me with disgust. “Is there something funny?”
“Only that we are low on gas,” I said. “I had filled it up before we left. So, on top of everything else those marauders must have drained my gas.” I laughed, but I wasn’t really amused. I’m not typically a nervous person, but the thought of a long walk home naked sort of got to me. I could see the headlines, “Man Found Dead, Naked and Strangled. Primary suspect had his clothes glued to hers. Strange sex game suspected.”
Luckily, we soon came across a gas station—Teddy’s Gas, I think it was. Only Teddy did not look thrilled to see me. Actually, I think he was perpetually PO’d on account of his yellow teeth. I barely stepped out of the car when he ran up and hollered, “What the hell are you doing driving naked? You some kinda pervert or something?!”
“No sir,” I answered, “I’m no pervert. It’s just that Doreen—the woman in the passenger seat—has never seen me naked, and I enjoy the feel of the wind against my skin. With the low population density around here, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“You’re a dang smart ass is what you are. I ain’t serving gas to no smart ass.”
“But you’re self-serve!” I protested. The only response was the slam of a door as Teddy disappeared into the gas station’s office.
I lifted the hose and put it in my tank. I slid my credit card into the slot, but there were no lights on the pump. Uh-oh, I thought. I tried to replace the hose and lift it out again with the same result—no lights. I tried it two or three more times, a bit more desperately each time. “I think he turned off the pump,” I said to Doreen.
“Are you sure?” She asked, her voice more of a cry than a question. “Maybe it’s broken. Should we try another one?”
“I don’t think that will work. Let’s try getting the other half of our clothes on me and go talk to him.”
With practice did not come perfection. At one point I landed face-first on the ground. Later, I crashed into the pump, then into my car. That last fall got my blood boiling—a scratch on the paint would not go well with the beautiful blue smoke.
When I finally managed to get my half of our conjoined clothes on and wiped the gravel from my teeth, we shuffled over to the office to beg Teddy Tooth Decay to let me fill up my car. Only now my adrenaline was pumping and I picked up the pace. Next thing I hear was Doreen’s voice, “slow down, slow down…” (which, as much as I hate to admit it, was not the first time a woman had shouted those words at me.) Then, a violent jerk on my arm almost toppled me over. I had been walking faster than Doreen which caused her to trip and fall. Once again, she was not happy. They say it takes a few dates before prospective partners show their true personality traits, and it was beginning to seem like extreme negativity was a habit with her.
After I helped her get back on her feet a very large man emerged from the office. He let out a big belly laugh and said, “I’ve been watching you for some time. What are you some kind of circus freak act?”
“Cirque du Soleil,” I said in my best attempt at a French accent. I proceed to tell him the story of the clothes gluing caper.
His giant belly laughs were interrupted by cigarette-stained coughs. As I wove my story of teenage deceit, he could not stop laughing. Between the laughing and the coughing, I don’t think the guy had taken a breath in like 4 minutes. I was worried that Doreen and my Laurel and Hardy impersonation might land the guy in the hospital.
Finally, he managed a breath and said, “You could spit from one side of that lake to the other. How could you not see them?”
“Well, we were kind of preoccupied.” I responded. This earned me a jab in the ribs from Doreen.
“I’m Bob—Big Bob to my friends, and I’m the owner of this here station.” Big Bob glanced over at the man I’d been calling Teddy. “Jim, get them some gas, will ya, and knock off a couple of bucks. That’s cheaper than the local comedy club…and a lot funnier. In fact,” he added, turning back to us, “you two should audition there. You don’t need an act—just tell ‘em your misadventures.”
Jim went to fill up the car, while Doreen and I took abuse from the owner. A few moments later, Jim returned and said, “Bob, there’s sugar residue around the gas cap, and they drove the car here.”
Doreen and I exchanged puzzled looks. She spoke first. “So, what does that mean?”
Bob answered “Gonna have to take a look at that engine of yours. Can’t do it today though—my mechanics don’t work on the weekends. I’ll have my wife bring you some clothes, and then I’ll have Jim drive you home.”
“They weren’t pranksters or thieves,” I said to Doreen. “They were Teenage Ninja Terrorists!”
After some time, his wife brought us some clothes, and she weighed almost as much as Big Bob did.
Doreen decided I should change first, so we shuffled to the men’s bathroom. It smelled like most gas station bathrooms, only worse—much, much worse. “Man, if Jim is the one who has to clean this every day, no wonder he seems terminally angry,” I said.
She started to respond, but then stopped. Her eyes had a faraway look as if it had all been too much. Admittedly, I did sometimes have that effect on women.
I stripped off my half of our unified clothing as fast as I could. Doreen then left the Men’s bathroom. I put on Big Bob’s clothes and walked back out. I couldn’t help but laugh when Doreen came out of the women’s. She’d been given sweats that were about 18 sizes too big, and she had to hold up the pant legs to keep from tripping as she walked. I was about to say that if we didn’t look like a circus act before, we were only colorful hair, and giant shoes shy from that now. She still had that glazed look though, so for once, I bit my tongue.
Jim drove us to Doreen’s place, over an hour’s drive from the gas station. The sky had deepened to a dark shade of blue, on the verge of black. Other than Jim’s occasional mutterings about how he should be home enjoying a cold one, the only sound was the drone of the wheels against the road. Doreen didn’t say a word or even look at me, she just directed Jim to her house. We stopped on the edge of her driveway.
Doreen told Jim he could leave, and she would be responsible for “making sure the pervert gets home.”
I still had the aforementioned cash in my pocket and wanted to give Jim a tip, so I told him to wait a second while I found it. Our glued together clothing sat in a pile next to me and digging through it in the dark proved to be no easy task. I had trouble finding my shorts, much less my pockets. All I managed to do was feel-up an empty bra, which given the silent treatment I was receiving, was beginning to look like another, albeit inadvertent, metaphor.
“Really don’t worry about it,” Jim protested. “As Bob said, the entertainment was payment enough.” As soon as we were out of the car, Jim put the pedal to the metal. If I had had my mouth open, I probably would have swallowed gravel.
“I liked him better when he was Teddy,” I said to Doreen. She said nothing, and we started the long ascent up her short driveway. I was about to suggest that I could wait outside while she called me a cab when I was completely taken aback as she wrapped her arms around me. She laughed and said, “Cirque du Soleil? Does anything ever bother you?”
“Only that you are standing on my feet, and we are wearing tents.”
She pulled me inside and closed the door. The tents came off.
Anyhow that’s pretty much the story of the caper of the gluing of the clothes. (OW!!) That was Doreen hitting me in the ribs. I forgot to mention the part about me and her being married with a couple of rug-rats, living happily ever after, yadda, yadda, yadda… (OW!!! You could cause permanent damage you know!)
In case you’re wondering about the title, I do have a reason for it. You see, how we actually met isn’t nearly as interesting, so when people ask us about how we met, we tell them this story instead. As a result, we get invited to lots of parties because people think we have a good sense of humor, which is a blessing for some of my friends. They have this idea that a good time involves sitting around with an expensive bottle of wine pretending to like some foreign dish that they can’t pronounce. So, I send in Doreen to lighten the mood—she drinks from the bottle, burps, farts and tells dirty jokes. (OW!) Okay, okay, I’m the one who burps.
There has been a long-lasting psychological effect on Doreen though—she won’t go near the water without wearing at least a swimsuit. (OW!!!! What is the deal with the blows to the ribs?!)
The End
(What? No, I am not going to admit I was exaggerating… Because that is exactly how it happened, that’s why!
What do you mean your dad was right about me?!)