Okay, I'm going to rewrite this post...this is the one I created Tuesday night that ended in disaster.
But that's okay...we pick up the shattered remains of our lives and move on.
The scene: Tuesday morning, around 11:30 am. I had just finished doing some work, and my friend Chris A. called me and asked if I’d like to join him for lunch. He picked me up around quarter to noon in his boyfriend's Mercedes, and he suggested Fuzio. I agreed; I love their minestrone soup, followed by firecracker corkscrew pasta with a braised ginger pulled pork. Mmm.
The day was bright, the sun was shining, the breeze was warm, the conversation between us light and carefree. Usually we discuss politics at lunch, brows furrowed, tones direct and pointed, gesticulating wildly with our hands, counterpointing each other, but not yet. We were enjoying the drive through north beach on our way to the Castro. I think we were talking about something completely inane, like why do most people in San Francisco drive like their heads are up their asses and oh my god speaking of asses look at the one on that bike messenger!
Stupid gayboy stuff.
I was thinking how gorgeous it was, and how much I wanted to tear into that plate of corkscrew pasta, when suddenly, a bike messenger appeared out of nowhere. Chris gasped and slammed on the brakes as the messenger darted in front of us. He kind of looked like Ali G. except a lot more attractive, with grapefruit-sized calves. I let out a mock shriek, and as he darted past my open window with my arm dangling out of it, I heard a splat, and something hit my hand. I pulled it inside the car, and then...I saw it.
A fucking loogie.
It wasn't spit, oh no. This was a bona-fide, slippery, slimy, yellowish-green, gotta hock this up loogie. On my fucking finger.
"Chris, I think I just got loogied."
"You just got what?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Look." I showed him my finger.
"OH GOOD GOD!" He exclaimed, and while careening through the Broadway tunnel, reached around to the backseat to grab his backpack. I frantically dug through my murse looking for a tissue or SOMETHING to wipe this foul, vile sputum from my right index finger. All I could find was a napkin from subway that I had previously blown my nose in, so that would have to do.
It was nasty. There were even flecks of blood in it. The loogie, that is. Not the napkin.
Chris, in his homosexualness, magically produced a small bottle of Purell, which I grabbed and slathered liberally upon my befouled stinkfinger. "What the fuck?!?" I yelled.
"You weren't even doing anything! You were just sitting there!"
"I know! This isn't supposed to happen! This is a MERCEDES FUCKING BENZ!" I whined.
"How dare him! If we weren't in the tunnel I would have turned around and gone after him!"
"If we weren't in the tunnel I’d have jumped out of the car, chased him down, pulled him off his bike, and put the loogie back in his fucking mouth, that's what would have done!"
"I would have run him over!"
"I would have bitchslapped him!"
"I would have shaken my finger at him and scolded him!"
"I would have smeared shit all over his face and kicked his teeth out, then barfed all over him, then pissed all over him, then ripped his clothes off and rammed a traffic cone up his ass, and then made him lick a sidewalk in Chinatown!"
"Chad, that's fucked up."
Yeah, so was hocking a loogie on my finger.