Yesterday we bought a few luxory items... new lightbulbs that burn cooler and brighter than normal ones... new pillows made from NASA memory foam. We were feeling pretty good about these things.
And then Elise cut her finger on the lightbulb package. One of those plastic blister packs that are sealed to the hilt and require scissors to open. Anti-theft packaging from hell. But it was such a little cut, like a little paper cut. Still, I saw her blood. I hate seeing blood. I ran upstairs like a baby screaming, "I wish blood didn't exist!" And we all had a good laugh.
Then I stepped on the cardboard the pillows came in and cut my little toe open, right on the joint. Didn't even know it happened for half an hour. Then I felt a tickling and grabbed my toe, pulling the cut open wider and ruining my day. Now I'm walking around with curled toes. Anything to never do that again!
And so began the worst nightmare of a night we could have ever had!
You see, 20/20 had an exclusive interview with Corey Feldman, where he was going to reveal the shocking truth about his friendship with Michael Jackson. E and I were eagerly anticipating this. We had a bag of trail mix all lined up for this.
An hour before go-tiime, we stepped outside onto the front steps. Anthony and ConnectiKelly were out there conversing, waiting for Jeremy to finish primping himself. Murphy's in Stamford (a bar) this, Murphy's that. Jeremy eventually appeared and the three of them got in a car, pulled out of the driveway.
It's nine at night and, with still an hour to go until Corey Feldman's shocking truths, I was ready to come inside and do a little work on my book. All I wanted to do was work on the book... I was in a mood, I tell you. So I grab the doorknob.
It's locked, locked, locked. I turn around to catch the tail end of Jeremy's car speeding away. Folks, it's nine at night and thirty degrees outside and we're locked out of the house.
I try all the doors. I try the windows. I try anything to get in the house.
THEN. Elise realizes that her car is unlocked! Her car is actually unlocked! It is this stupid moment of hope, because you see... we certainly don't have the keys to actually start the car. In fact, there's absolutely nothing in the car that can help us. Our cell phones are in the house. We decide to ask a neighbor for help. For a phone. ConnectiKelly is the only one of the three that just left that has a cell phone. We don't know her number. It's saved in our cell phones. Our cell phones are in the house.
Still we walk across the street to use a neighbor's phone. It's now almost ten at night, but we luck out, knocking on the door of the nicest Polish people in the world. They sit us down, offer us tea and a phone and a phone book. Their gigantic poodle is quite friendly.
I call my father. I'm not sure if he'd have ConnectiKelly's number, but I call him anyway. Voice-mail. Then I open the phone book. Murphy's in Stamford... OF COURSE! I ask for Kelly, thinking that she's been around here a lot longer and that if anyone, the bartenders would recognize her. They scream through the bar, but they're not there. So I describe what they look like and ask the guy to tell them that they locked their friends out of their house, in case they ever show up. Then I call O'Neils pub, because it's very possible that they went there, instead. Nothing. I leave the same plea with that bartender. Then I call the Brewhouse. Again, nothing. Then my father again. Still nothing.
The Polish people offer us tea or Polish coffee. Polish coffee, they said, is made with the grinds right in the cup, so you have to let them sink to the bottom before drinking. This didn't sound very appetizing and all I really wanted was to get out of these people's house.
One of them talked to us about jazz music for quite some time. Then he insisted on reading us his poem. I'm not joking, you know. He ran off, returning with an 18 stanza, 5 page poem. Then he proceeded to read it to us. Stopping to ask if we got this and that metaphor. Poems fly over my head, you know. So I really had to force myself to listen. It wasn't bad actually. A little showy, with such big words... but not bad.
Then we talked about Bush and God and other horribly touchy subjects that I certainly didn't bring up. But this guy shared much of our same views, so all was good.
Then there was the Josh Groban song. We all sat quietly and listened to an entire Josh Groban song at his request. That part of the night was maybe the most awkward.
I tried my father again. Finally, he picks up.
He gives me directions on how to break into the house. One of our giant picture windows in the Florida Room is rotting to the point that it no longer locks. He's broken in through it before. He urges me to be careful though... because it's rotting to the point that the entire window could fall through and break. And then he says, "If the window falls out and shatters, don't worry... just get out of the way."
So we go, envigorated. We'll be in the house in no time!
No kidding is this window rotting! I'm trying my best to not disturb the window frame, but the wood is crumbling, practically dissolving in my hands. But I finally grab it and pull. The window starts opening. But it's stuck at the top. The wood must be swollen. It's stuck at the top and so I have Elise stick a screwdriver inside and slide it up higher and higher to break the seal. It's still stuck, but with a little leverage from the screwdriver halfway up the seal and a tug on the bottom, I'm sure I can get the top to pop open. So we go for it. And I tug.
The sound was deafening, you know. Glass was falling all around me. I broke the fucking window. I jumped out of the fucking way. I looked up at what had happened. It was devastating.
This window is eight feet tall and so expensive, I'm sure. And now it's in a pile on the ground. And the frame is still holding these gigantic, dangerous shards all around. We broke a window and it was still impossible to get into the house.
We would make such horrible burglars.
It was the stress, the tension, the pulling of the glass at the bottom, but not the top that did it in. It was really stupid of me.
It was my blood running down my hand. I was still in shock from the window and didn't feel any pain. I saw that I was bleeding, but didn't much care. I just wanted to get these Polish people's screwdriver out of the pile of glass and return it to them, defeated.
I didn't want them to know that we had failed. I didn't want them to offer me anything else. I just wanted to wait outside in the thirty degrees for my brother to get home with the key. I just wanted to chain-smoke.
But of course the Polish insisted that we come back inside. I hid my bloody hand in my jacket. The last thing I wanted was for them to see that, they would insist on helping me wash, disinfect and bandage it. I guess it was a pride thing. So I hid my hand from them. The cut was so tiny, I swear. Its bleeding was far more impressive than it should have been.
I called my father back and broke the news of the broken window.
Then the Polish people offered us a place on their couch until our friends got back, or all night if we wanted. Then they went to bed. And we were alone in these other people's house.
At midnight we let ourselves out, it was too awkward. We spent another thirty minutes or so in the back of Elise's unlocked car, huddling for warmth.
And then Jeremy pulled up.
This morning, we finally got around to the Corey Feldman special. Michael Jackson showed him porn and pictures of genitals with venereal diseases. I just thought I'd end on that little bit. Michael Jackson with his hush high-pitched voice sitting next to a young Corey Feldman. "Look Corey, look at these gross diseases."
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