I love my friend Kezi. I really, really do. When we hang out, we
hang out. Nothing is half-assed in the world of Kez 'n Kat.
But here's the thing: our winning combination gets us into some crazy-tastic situations, which often culminate with placing my...er..."personal effects" in grave danger.
Take my ring for example.
I've worn a tiny gold Claddagh ring on my right ring finger since my mom gave it to me when I was five years old. It's sized at 3 and 3/4, and it fit me perfectly then. Still does. Seeing as I'm not a midget, I consider this a phenomenon. It's become a humorous game to take off the ring and watch people attempt to push it beyond the tip of their fingers.
My stupid party trick, if you will.
Anyway. After an epic evening of dining, drinking and belly laughing, Kez and I found ourselves on the Third Ave L train platform, chatting and flitting about in a drunken stupor.
It was then that I decided to recount my freakish right-hand ring tale.
And Kez - appropriately - squealed, "Give it to me - I want to try it on!"
So I took it off and placed it in her hand.
As she lifted it from her palm - quick like lightning - it fell from her fingers.
And it bounced.
Two.
Times.
Before landing silently in the bowels below the subway platform, nestled right next to the tracks.
We gaped in horror. There were no words.
And then a train came.
Enter: Standard Coping Mechanism (I began laughing hysterically). Tears rolled silently down Kezi's cheeks.
Once the car pulled out, we scanned the tracks and - miraculously - the ring was still there.
Kezi immediately ran to the operator station.
She returned moments later with two large, wholly unenthused-looking dudes. One of them was carrying a ladder.
"Where is it?" Dude Number One asked in a thick Jersey accent.
I pointed.
"I don't see it." Dude Number Two snorted.
"Who asked you, anyway?" Kezi scoffed.
Admit this much: you've always wondered what happens when a person drops something into the depths of the subway tracks, right? Am I right?!
I know I have.
And so
I was enjoying the ordeal immensely.
Dude Number One situated the ladder against the wall below the platform, making a big show of the inconvenience of it all as he leaned down.
After climbing onto the tracks, he rooted around a bit as we pointed and verbally coaxed him in the right direction.
Once he'd picked it up, he returned to ground level and handed me the ring.
Kezi started crying again.
I broke into a fit of giggles, but managed to squeeze out an audible, "Thanks."
As Dude Number One sauntered off - ladder slung over his shoulder - Dude Number Two left us with these parting words of wisdom: "You girls need to cool it with the alcohol."
Which brings me to last night.
I hadn't seen Kezi in over a month, and decided our gathering was the perfect time to take my brand-spanking-new bright red suede slouch boots on their maiden voyage.
After another dinner and yet another 2 bottles of red wine, Kezi and I walked together on Second Ave toward the subway.
This is when Kezi stopped in the middle of the street to turn around and show me her ass (as all respectable ladies are known to do, from time to time).
As she leaned over (she was really getting into it), her bag swung around and landed hard on the sidewalk.
I heard glass shatter.
The extra bottle of wine she'd been lugging seeped through the cloth, dripping onto the ground.
In a fit of inebriated stupor, Kezi flailed her arms, causing the liquid to fly about in every direction.
A bunch of it happened to land on my left shoe.
Re-enter: Standard Coping Mechanism.
Though what I
really wanted to do was smash something Hulk-style in a fit of rage, I guffawed loud and hard, as per usual.
And Kezi freaked out, as per usual.
She ran into the nearest bar and emerged with a giant glass of club soda and a towel, then proceeded to blot my shoe until it was fully soaked.
These boots are suede, mind you.
The best part of the ordeal is that a completely intoxicated guy hovered close the entire time, smoking a cigarette and spewing to us his woes (something about his parents being inside the bar getting wasted and making out even though they'd been divorced for 20 years and how it was really traumatizing for him blahblahblahblahblah...)
Kezi told him to fuck off.
I woke up this morning with a hardcore hangover and immediately ran to look at my boots, terrified for the inevitable confirmation of their one-day shelf life.
Alas - no huge crimson smear or giant water stain greeted me.
They're spotless. I'm baffled. Kezi is, clearly, a wizard.
Honestly, though, I might've been willing to sacrifice a righteous pair of shoes to the Party Gods for one reason only: when I'm with that girl, I forget about every other stupid, ridiculous, stressful thing wreaking havoc on my weird little world and I concentrate on the finer points in life.
Like rescuing rings from being flattened. And saving suede from a lifetime of scarlet stainage.