Aselin

I didn’t date much in high school. Most of the boys who knew me tried very hard to avoid me. In college things picked up. One particular date made me want to return to my high school social situation. This particular evening combined a number of my least favorite things: crowds, guns and fire. By the end of the night my list of least favorite things had increased.

I am a fan of the Second Amendment. Everyone should have the right to own a gun. I just happen not to like them. I don’t like shooting them, the noise and the fact that most of the people I know who own guns make the honorable mention list of the annual Darwin Awards.

So imagine my delight to find myself on a date in the rural desert with 50 or so of my closest friends waving guns around a bonfire. I’m pretty sure it was an Amway style introduction meeting to the Aryan Nation.

While my date shot at aluminum cans, paper targets and cacti I entertained myself around the fire. There was a large pile of ammo next to the graham crackers and marshmallows. Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe the scene.

As the evening wore on, and I stress wore, the ammo ran low and the faces of the militia wanna-bees flickered in the light of the fire. I had taken to roasting marshmallows. Since we had eaten no dinner, and I wasn’t up to packing heat in search of a javelina to roast I decided to fill up on roasted sugar fluff.

I’m a really good roaster. I have the rare patience and stamina to achieve the golden brown toasty goodness while the mallowy inside is perfectly gooey. My date came up and asked me to cook him a mallow. As he speared it on the end of my coathanger he requested “well done.” This request was akin to asking Monet to draw you a stick figure. I was deeply offended but began to comply with his request. He specified he wanted it “burnt.”

So, I lit the confection on fire, carbonizing the exterior. As I drew the mallow to my face to blow out the flames it suddenly exploded with a loud “BANG!” Having listened to the gunfire all night I thought I had been shot. Dropping my stick, grabbing my ears and hunching to the ground I was completely disoriented. As I drew my hands from my ears, one of them was covered with blood. Looking around the campfire I expected to see everyone else in a similar state of alarm. Instead every single one of them was doubled over in laughter - including my date.

The clever little prankster had put a firecracker inside the marshmallow. When it exploded it blew out my left eardrum. Boy was I having fun.

Retreating away from the light of the campfire I tried to gain control of my tears. My date followed me and tried to get me to talk to him. All I would say was I wanted to go home. Now. Today’s amateur soldier apparently does not take classes in chivalry, and he found me a ride home with someone else.

I did have another friend in the group who had not witnessed the firecracker incident, she also was ready to call it a night. Waiting in the cab of a little pick up truck for the driver, my friend was extremely animated, having thoroughly enjoyed the evening of gunfire and arsenal display. This group bore all kinds of weapons.

She chatted as we waited for our driver. As we shared small talk, I was still very distracted by my injury and not paying much attention to anything else. My companion reached to the floor and picked up some sort of metal stick. She casually asked me if I would hold it for her.

I distinctly remember her yelling “NOOO!” as I firmly grabbed the end of the stick. Untold amps of electricity jolted from my hand, thorough my body and out my elbow that was resting on the metal door of the pick up truck. The searing pain was blinding and my whole body twitched uncontrollably. My former friend was yelling at my slumped frame like I was the biggest idiot she had ever met... “Don’t you know what a stun gun looks like?”

Well, apparently not. I thought I didn’t know anyone who had a stun gun. I thought I didn’t know anyone who carried firecrackers on a date. I thought the dried blood on my face gave me immunity from further mercenary pranks. I had reached my limit.

Unable to control my muscles I remained slumped over in the truck, completely incapacitated except for my incoherent whimpering.

Eventually I made it to the safety of my apartment. It took two people to help me stumble inside, where in the light they could see I was not only twitching uncontrollably but half covered in blood. Just wanting to be alone I sent them away and lay on my bed unable to feel my right side.

In the solitude of my convulsing stupor I realized what most women eventually find out: dating is entirely overrated.


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Today's Menu
Breakfast burritos Dinner: Enchiladas