Geneva

            I am a bad traveler when it involves any flight over two hours long.  I had lived in Seattle for a few years and was taking yet another “putting myself first” trip.  My brother owned a condominium in Florida and had granted me permission to stay for a week in February.  I had two choices.  I could stay in Seattle and soak up the rain that plagues February, or I could endure the six hour flight to Florida to soak up the sun.  I chose the latter and actually managed to twist the arm of a friend from Iowa to fly down and meet me there for a few days.

            We soaked up the sun by day and tried out trendy restaurants at night.  I was on the hunt for Crème Brulee.  Midweek we gobbled down steaks and two Crème Brulee at a beach type restaurant.  You know the type.  They had palm leaves hanging from the ceiling.  Drinks were served in half coconuts, the servers wore Hawaiian flower shirts, and so on.  Our bellies full and round, we rolled out of the restaurant and stumbled upon a scene that was unfolding in the parking lot.  This scene was what made the six hour flight worth every painstaking second. 

            A man in his mid-sixties was standing next to a mini-van, gray in color.  I think it was a Mazda.  There was a body lying on the concrete.  The man was yanking on this lifeless lady’s arm.  We moved forward with caution.  We were riveted and wanted to know more, but also wanted to stay in the background so that we wouldn’t miss anything that unfolded in the parking lot.

            We skulked to our car and listened with tuned ears.

            “Geneva, you fat ass.  Get up and get in the car!”

            Geneva, we figured, was the lady lying on the ground.  She was a big girl.  She too was in her mid-sixties.  It was hard to tell if Geneva had been attractive in her younger days.  At this stage of life she had a large gut, which was hanging out of her shirt while lying horizontally on the concrete.  One of her flip flops was on her right foot.  The other one was under the mini van.  The man’s frustration grew by the second.

            “Holy Christ, Geneva!  You big drunk, get in the van.” He was pulling on her other arm and then scurried around to try and pick up her feet.  She rolled around a bit and mumbled something.

            “Mmmhhhhhhggghah.”  I think she was saying, “You are hurting me,” but I can’t be for sure because I didn’t take Drunk Interpretation in college or graduate school.

            My friend and I looked at each other and got in the car.  Then we looked at each other again.  We both knew it was wrong to drive off and not offer Geneva some help.  So… we got back out and walked quickly to the scene.

            “Can we help you, sir?” I asked.

            The man jumped.  He was so engrossed in getting Geneva into the van so he could flee the scene, that he hadn’t noticed us approaching.

            “No, folks.  She is drunk.”

            “Are you sure we can’t help you?” my friend asked.

            “No, really, she just had too much to drink.  Thanks though.”

We walked back to the car, but my curiosity meter was registering on overload.  I needed more information about Geneva.  Was she a drunk usually?  Did she always booze it up to excess when she went out with who was presumably her husband?  I needed to know.  Clearly, the man tugging on Geneva’s limbs wasn’t going to accept our help, which in a way was a relief because Geneva was a big girl and I am not sure that we all would have been able to pick her up and sling her into the back seat of the van.  The space was too small for all four of us.

            I drove the rental car to an adjacent parking lot and parked, somewhat out of sight, but in a good enough spot that we could see Geneva being tugged at.  For the next fifteen minutes my friend and I laughed and laughed, but not once took our eyes off Geneva who still was lying on the concrete next to the gray van. 

            Time ticked away and we both kept repeating, “Geneva, you fat ass!  Get in the van!” and I was laughing so hard that snot ran out of my nose.  It was a good thing that I had a bag of candy from an earlier run to Albertson’s.  We dug into the licorice nips and watched Geneva get poked, prodded and pulled.  It was just like being at the filming of a Hollywood movie.  This was the kind of stuff that I lived for.  Being a part of someone else’s crisis and embarrassment only made me feel superior with all of my own dysfunctional traits.  It made me feel superior because nobody knew about my dysfunctional self.  Well, at least not anybody who didn’t know me.  These two, Geneva and her husband, were the perfect candidates to think I was superior.

            Well, after the licorice nibs were gone and Geneva had been dragged into the van by her husband, we watched the van drive away in a cloud of dust.    For the next few days, anytime one of us wanted the other to hurry up, we would yell, “Hey, Geneva you fat ass, hurry up!”  Laughter is good for the soul, even when it is at someone else’s expense.