What Happened to Megan??
File this one in the “This shit only happens to the two of you” box, folks. Really. I challenge you to find someone else this situation has happened upon. The scene: My apartment, Saturday night (or early Sunday morning, I think it was about 2:00 AM) The participants: Myself, Tony, and Megan. Don’t worry that you don’t know who Megan is. We didn’t either. So on Saturday night/Sunday morning, me and Tony find ourselves at home alone with the cats, having a few beers, listening to music and such. This is not because we have no friends, but rather our closest friends either a) are (were! Jack Joseph, born May 7, 2008) with child, won’t come to our house because they’d rather we come to theirs (totally understandable, they have a five story house and we have a one bedroom apartment, but really? This wouldn’t have happened there,) or moved to freaking ARIZONA. I digress.
So we’re having a fine time. I go out to the patio to have a smoke, and as I’m standing there, I see someone stumbling toward me, who then promptly falls in my lawn. Ha! Is there anything funnier than people falling down? Cause I haven’t seen it. So I’m trying not to laugh and stare while simultaneously trying to get Tony’s attention to laugh at the drunk. Then I realize she isn’t getting up. So I step over the railing, go over, and seeing it’s a female, say, “Hey, honey, are you okay?” See? I’m nice. Then she starts sobbing. This girl is absolutely shit-canned drunk. By now, Tony comes outside to see the commotion and starts to help her up, which she takes as an invitation to wrap herself around him and asks if she can come in. So us, being charitable and not willing to leave a drunk girl on the street by herself, take her in the apartment and offer to call a cab. Now it begins. Starts sobbing about how she left her boyfriend at a party cause he was “being SO MEAN to me. I just don’t understand. It’s just so hard when you love somebody so much! It hurts! I do everything for him! How could he be so MEAN?” followed by more hysterical sobbing. We’re nodding along, trying to act like we’re really interested in this, when it hits me. “Megan, how old are you?” Sob. “Nineteen.” Hiccup. BINGO!! “And how long have you been with your boyfriend?” “Almost seven months!!” Bout of hysterical sobbing. Oh, for God’s sake. Let’s assess the situation. I now have a hysterical, drunk, nineteen-year old girl having a not-even-quarter life crisis in my apartment at 2:00 AM. Time to take control. “Okay, can we call you a cab? Or walk you somewhere close?” Cause I don’t want to call the police (which, for those of you that know us, would be like saying, ‘Hello, officer. Take us to jail for giving a minor alcohol.’ Which we didn’t, of course, but I refer you to our previous excellent luck with the police the day before my wedding.) But I also feel kind of sorry for her, and I don’t want to just send her stumbling through our crappy neighborhood by herself at this time of night. She doesn’t want a cab, says she’s just going to walk to her friend’s house on the next block (undoubtedly where she was headed before she did a face plant in my yard.) She just wants to use the bathroom to clean up. Okay. So she’s in there awhile, comes out looking like a new person. Won’t let us walk her anywhere and pretty much runs out, probably realizing that she’s in a stranger’s apartment. So, about 15 minutes later, I go to take the garbage out behind the building. I hear screaming. You guessed it. Now she’s on the street behind my apartment, yelling at the top of her lungs at some guy (assuming he’s the boyfriend.) He’s screaming at her to get in the car. So, not being sure what to do (yes, Mom, I know at that point I should have just called the police, but you can’t buy this kind of entertainment,) I walk forward a bit. She spots me. “Megan?” “Courtney!!” Comes flying into my arms like a three year old who hasn’t seen her mommy in months, or at the very least like a close friend, not some stranger she met 30 minutes ago. Crying her eyes out and holding onto me for dear life (or balance, perhaps), now the guy’s yelling at me and her. Tony comes out and now he’s yelling at him. At this point, I am going to call the cops, when Megan abruptly stops crying, wipes her eyes, and without a backward glance, runs to the passenger door of the truck and jumps in. He takes off, never to be seen again. Now, you know me. I’m worried about Megan. I’m waiting for the police sirens announcing he’s wrapped the truck around the streetlight or thrown Megan out of the car. It’s going to keep me up at night. But she’s gone, vanished in a cloud of exhaust, and we’ll just never know what happened. We do have a reminder, though. The next morning, Tony came out of the bathroom holding a hair salon-type squirt bottle full of brown liquid, saying, “What the fuck is dark brown hair GLUE and what would you be needing with it?”