It's amazing how one man can ruin your life. For Quimsical and I, it's Scott, a painter often employed by both of our families. He is also as silent and unassuming as the wind...
Let me take you to a lovely Spring day of my youth. I'm in Quimsical's kitchen and we're under the impression that we have the house to ourselves, giving us free range of our emotions and fantasies (don't be dirty, our friendship is pure and lovely, you sick fuck.). We're making lunch, pretending that we're on a cooking show, obviously. The cooking show featured a saucy wench with a sailor's mouth, obviously. Quimsical played the saucy wench, obviously.
"You better get that pan out of the oven soon or it's going to go down faster than a cheap whore!" Quimsical screams, slamming a pan onto the granite countertops. I cackle with glee.
Quimsical crosses the room to turn on music; The Goo Goo Dolls. We begin to sing the songs at the top of our lungs, not musically either. Instead, we rely on singing as though we have no concept of how singing works, screwing up our voices so that our speaking voices sound like Jewish-smoker-mothers. Obviously.
We calm down after we've eaten our sandwiches as we typically do. Crazy subsides with a full belly. Shortly after we've begun talking like normal human beings again, Scott enters the room. The two of us freeze, giving each other the same terrified look. There is simply no WAY that Scott did not hear Quimsical yell about cheap whores. Fuck.
"You guys have pretty great singing voices," Scott says with a rueful smile. My first instinct is to kill him, gouge his tongue out so that he may never speak of this occurrence again. We've got to cover our tracks man.
Instead, "yeah," I say with my nervous laugh (which is a doozy let me tell you).
This would not be the last time Quimsical and I encountered Scott. Apparently he is a talented painter and both our parents would trust him to complete many jobs. In which jobs we would avoid him fully but also betray other odd behaviors such as dancing to See You Again, by Miley Cyrus. God.
Do you have a Scott?