DATING: AL DENTE
Chapter 2: The Guy Who Cracked His Head Open
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To quote Metallica: enter Sandman. After being thrown around the sky
for a few hours and being denied a proper dinner, I was picked up, given
a hug, then...silence. UH-OH. I might have made a serious vocational error
along the way on this one -- he was frightened to even look in my
direction, let alone joke about how musty his car smelled in comparison
to mine back at home in the Park 'n Fly economy lot. In fact, everything
about him stunk of mildew -- I wasn't sure if this was a New England
thing or if it was him, so I hammered my mouth shut because I really
needed to get that all-important ride back to the airport at the end of
the week.
I won't subject anybody to details about the days leading to the main
event -- suffice to say, I will breeze over his blatant lack of food in
the house that otherwise could have been straight-forward preparation
for an out-of-town guest...I will ignore the infestation of spiders
and centipedes (my single most largest phobia) on the walls of the room
I slept in...I will let it slide right by that he didn't have an
itinerary drawn up for us to partake in...and I will overlook his lack
of interest in finding the goddamned ROCK when we drove through Plymouth.
No, I will let these horrendous examples just rolled off my back, slicker
than snot off a rooster's lip. What REALLY pissed me off was the last
day I spent in this dud-of-a-dildo's rain-drenched company.
Day 6: I wanted to take a simple drive up the coast to see big waves
crashing against big rocks, just like the movies promised. Hell, we
don't even get tides in my neck of the woods -- I was pumped for the
thrill of some geomorphological phenomena.
Go on to the next page.
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