memories taste like plums
In the interest of maintaining a minimum of sanity, I took a break from jotting down my ill-conceived opus, and went out to the living room. The two bedroom apartment was divided between my roommate and me, with the living room and kitchen the areas of intersect. In this shared space, the roommate was hosting a friend, both of them drunk on the power to purchase beer without being asked for ID. They lounged back on the couches and debated matters of philosophy.
Saureen, my roommate, decided to involve me in this discussion by posing a question of dear ethical value.
"Would you sleep with Margaret Thatcher for ten thousand dollars?" He asked with intense interest.
Lest you think this unusual, let me assure you that this was not an atypical inquiry, despite repeated rebuffs and knowledge of my fiance.
I grunted a negative and went to the fridge, retrieving a plum. Leaning against the counter, I surveyed the living room, eating peacefully.
"No, no, no, come on! How about for a hundred thousand dollars?"
I did not think this worthy of a response. Half done with the plum, I popped the rest into my mouth, gnawing around the seed. (This behavior would, years later, indirectly lead to my finding out that plum seeds are poisonous on the inside but not when swallowed whole.)
"Hold on, hold on." Saureen, being either a neat freek or a closet Douglas Adams fan, carried a kitchen towel everywhere. He now gesticulated with it to focus his guest's full attention to this battle of wits. "What about the Queen of England? Would you have sex with the Queen for a hundred thousand dollars?"
I chewed the remnants of the plum silently, mulling over the seed, considering my options.
In a moment of inspiration, Saureen upped the ante to one surely impossible to refuse. "Would you have sex with the Queen Mother for a million dollars?!"
Sigh.
I did what any rational minded, emotionally balanced person would have done. I spit the plum seed at him.
True and straight it flew, from the kitchen and across the living room, propelled by a mix of compressed air and ennui. To my vast satisfaction, it struck Saureen squarely around the midsection.
For a drunk, his reflexes were impressive. He jumped no fewer than two feet into the air, landing behind the couch on which he had been resting, and started smacking the couch with the kitchen towel in the general area where the seed ended up. "What the hell was that?! What the fuck? What happened?!"
He continued along those lines for quite a bit, accompanied by his guest's laughter, until I took enough pity to explain the nature of the projectile.
Although he did not clearly remember the incident the next morning, he never again asked me if I would sleep with someone for money.
Saureen, my roommate, decided to involve me in this discussion by posing a question of dear ethical value.
"Would you sleep with Margaret Thatcher for ten thousand dollars?" He asked with intense interest.
Lest you think this unusual, let me assure you that this was not an atypical inquiry, despite repeated rebuffs and knowledge of my fiance.
I grunted a negative and went to the fridge, retrieving a plum. Leaning against the counter, I surveyed the living room, eating peacefully.
"No, no, no, come on! How about for a hundred thousand dollars?"
I did not think this worthy of a response. Half done with the plum, I popped the rest into my mouth, gnawing around the seed. (This behavior would, years later, indirectly lead to my finding out that plum seeds are poisonous on the inside but not when swallowed whole.)
"Hold on, hold on." Saureen, being either a neat freek or a closet Douglas Adams fan, carried a kitchen towel everywhere. He now gesticulated with it to focus his guest's full attention to this battle of wits. "What about the Queen of England? Would you have sex with the Queen for a hundred thousand dollars?"
I chewed the remnants of the plum silently, mulling over the seed, considering my options.
In a moment of inspiration, Saureen upped the ante to one surely impossible to refuse. "Would you have sex with the Queen Mother for a million dollars?!"
Sigh.
I did what any rational minded, emotionally balanced person would have done. I spit the plum seed at him.
True and straight it flew, from the kitchen and across the living room, propelled by a mix of compressed air and ennui. To my vast satisfaction, it struck Saureen squarely around the midsection.
For a drunk, his reflexes were impressive. He jumped no fewer than two feet into the air, landing behind the couch on which he had been resting, and started smacking the couch with the kitchen towel in the general area where the seed ended up. "What the hell was that?! What the fuck? What happened?!"
He continued along those lines for quite a bit, accompanied by his guest's laughter, until I took enough pity to explain the nature of the projectile.
Although he did not clearly remember the incident the next morning, he never again asked me if I would sleep with someone for money.