Save me, John McClane and/or Batman

If you take a look at timeline of my recent writing history, you’ll notice that I was MIA from October of last year to January of 2010. Those three months were an adventure not unlike an oddly eerie, opium-fueled thrice-international trip you’d expect from Lewis Carroll. (…or Chris Farley TOO SOON?)
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I met them on a website. These four ladies were always together, attached at the hip, closer than sisters. Each of them was uniquely different, yet all of them were irresistibly sensual. One was quick-witted and filled with facts; another had a slow-brewing mind and was highly analytical about everything around her. I especially liked this one – she was simple on the surface, but I had a feeling that she would be frustratingly complex once I got to know her better. Of all four girls, only one of them was short and seemingly mentally challenged. Must be all that acetone and ethanol she has with her all the time, I thought. But, my word, she was gorgeous. It was hard to compare them all, so I decided that I must have all of them.

I sauntered over, nervous yet confident, and slapped down $230.

“Hey girls, how’s about all y’all hangin’ with me for the next few months?”

The first couple weeks were filled with simple flirting beneath the sweet caress of fluorescent light from the study carrels at the library. Eventually, I felt comfortable enough to bring them out to my favorite fine dining establishments. At the beginning of this thrilling courtship, I’d take them out for a night on the town and show them what the odd sides of Berkeley offer in the dark of night. After a couple weeks of playing this game, we finally engaged in a passionate hours-long orgy, complete with chocolate, caramel, strawberries, bowling pins, and Mike Tyson’s tiger.

That night – oh, what a night – locked us within each other’s destinies. Eventually, I became a disciple of Senator Bill Henrickson, the tragic yet hilariously fortunate protagonist in HBO’s Big Love. I took the dive and married all four of them.

Four dresses, four rings, four vows, four wedding parties, and one big honeymoon later, we started having marital issues. Just as well, I figured. Over 50% of marriages in the U.S. end in divorce anyway. If I’m lucky, at least two of these money-grubbing whores will be gone by the end of January.

No dice. As the weeks went by, the fights got worse, the yelling got louder, the bottles and beer cans emptied faster. Pretty soon, I was abusing them so badly, both mentally and physically, that Joe Jackson would have been proud of my work. I had no regrets. None.

I woke up one morning and found all four of them gone. Like a lone feather in a harsh winter gale, they were nowhere to be seen. I looked high and low for them, but to no avail. I returned home, exhausted but feeling an odd sense of relief. That’s when I saw the divorce papers on the kitchen table. The date of separation was set for January 31, 2010. It finally hit me – this relationship had been doomed to fail from the very start. Who the hell has enough time and energy to split among four wives, anyway? (HT: Mormon Fundamentalists.)

I picked up the nearest pen and scratched my John Hancock on those papers with zeal. “My pleasure, ladies. My total god-damn pleasure.”

The big day finally came. I made my way to the address on the divorce papers, deep in the heart of the San Francisco financial district.

What an odd little building, I thought. It was the right place, but almost TOO right. It was just so…sterile. No matter. I walked in and checked myself in. Twenty minutes later, I was asked in.

There was no judge, no jury, no mediators. The ladies weren’t even there. Instead, I proceeded to answer a series of computer-given multiple-choice questions tangentially related to my marriage for the past three months.

11. How many ATP are required to transform pyruvate into glucose?
A. 5
B. 6
C. 7
D. 8

“How in the hell am I supposed to know this?”

But wait. Mrs. MCAT Biology had told me this on the first day we met. If I just think back hard enough, I can answer this. The test went on and on, asking me everything from my sexual history with Mrs. MCAT Gen. Chem. to a criminal report about Mrs. MCAT Physics. I took my time, swiftly yet surely answering each question the glaring screen threw at me.

Five hours later, it was all over. Divorce finalized, I breathed a sigh of relief. I haven’t seen those soul-wrenching succubi since, and I could not be happier. Turns out that those three months were handy, seeing how my MCAT score actually turned out to be pretty respectable.

Moral of the story: studying actually paid off. Also, butt cheeks can’t have freckles – wear a condom.
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If you’ve hung out with me at all, you know I like to use any stupid little reason to celebrate, so long as drinking is involved. The minute I finished my MCAT, I whipped out the flask of Jameson I had kept in my bookbag and started my night off right. I ate like a king at Zabu Zabu on University Ave. Suffering those three months of abuse and crappy late-night sushi was worth every single delicious bite of quick-boiled meats.

Of course, no night of decent celebration could be complete without my favorite watering hole, Beta Lounge. The whole gang was there, including my fellow MCAT war survivors, PermaRA, TheYoc, and Teeks. (Interestingly enough, I’ll be going to school on the bEast Coast this coming fall with Teeks, while TheYoc is staying here in THA BAY to attend UCfreakingSF. If you know who he is and you see him, congratulate him, then do me a favor and punch him in the face for being too smart.)

$180 of drinks later, I wandered back to my apartment along with $R$, BestBruinEVER and PermaRA. Considering my lack of fine motor skills, I thought I’d take the crappy excuse for an elevator up one floor to my unit. The three decided to come with.

We got in, pushed the “2” button, and…nothing.

“Uhh…are we moving?” $R$ questioned warily.

“No, I don’t think we are.” PermaRA made the executive decision to just take the one flight of stairs up. I vehemently (read: drunkenly and foolishly) refused. “I am taking the elevator if I damn well please! I LIVE HERE! WOOO RICKAY BOBBAYYY!!!!”

So the three of them stood outside and watched me through the three-by-six-inch window of the elevator door. I pushed “2” again. This time, the sliding door moved…then got stuck 90% of the way before fully closing. Crap, I thought. I could’ve just walked the one flight of stairs. What am I doing?

I jammed on the “Door Open” button. No response.

I looked all around the panel to see if there were other buttons I could push to rectify this situation. I looked up and saw the City of Berkeley Elevator Permit taped up top. The permit expired in April 2008. Scenes of the terrible horror movie Final Destination started to flash before my eyes.

I’m the kind of guy who has no problem drinking expired milk or eating expired processed meats. I guess an expired elevator license shouldn’t be that much worse. Boy, was I ever wrong about THAT assumption. Neither the “Door Open” nor the “Door Close” buttons worked. I started to panic, but that panic quickly turned into excitement.

“Oh my God, it’s like I’m in some awesome Hollywood movie.” See what a little booze does to your judgment? This is your brain on drugs, kids.

“I’ll try going upstairs to call the elevator to see if that’ll make it move!” Thunk thunk thunk went PermaRA’s quick steps. I waited. And waited.

“Did you push it yet?”

“Yeah. I guess it didn’t work.”

Panic set in once again, and much like pre-labor contractions, this one hit me harder than ever. Enter Bruce Banner. With sheer frustration and for lack of a better plan, I gripped my sweaty fingers onto the sliding door and pushed it right as hard as I could.

Ka-THUNK. “Oooooh holy CRAP it’s moving!”

An elevator ride that normally would have taken 45 seconds turned into eight minutes’ worth of a story I can tell for the rest of my life. Nobody was hurt, and I didn’t even have a hangover the next day. Go me.

Thank heavens I got out of that elevator when I did. I’m pretty sure that if I had been stuck in there for just another five minutes, this would’ve happened:

That would NOT have been good. Bruce Willis is WAY too old to save me from life-threatening situations like that.