Page Twenty-Eight: Hard Falls and Close Calls

First of all, please excuse the nerdiness of a rhyming page title. Not really my style, but it just worked to well to not use it.

While the previous page displayed my sentimental side, page twenty-eight will depict absolutely no sentiment whatsoever. After reading this you will only view this Texan as a clumsy idiot with an odd magnetism to strange situations and even stranger people.


Rachel and I, after much debate decided that not going out in the city one last time before she headed home would just be criminal. We raced back to Jersey, got ourselves as cute as a humid sticky basement will allow and then made our way back to the city. Note: don't even try to wear jeans or pants of any kind in humidity like that. There is no hope. You might as well not even straighten your hair or put on make-up.


We met up with the crew of interns that I found myself surrounded by all summer long, in the same booth that I have found myself sitting in all summer long. Like a typical Rach and the Texan night would go, we managed to find friends of the Italian descent. Go figure. Also remaining in perfect Rach and the Texan character, we managed to find a Duane Reade to satisfy our perpetual Goldfish and Trail-Mix craving.


Rach and two of the Italians waited outside while I went in with Nico, the third and most studly Italian, on a desperate search for crunchy goodness. I was wearing a pair of grey peak-toes that were my moms until she realized once and for all, after years of convincing, that she is not 26 anymore. They are out of this world high and are painful even to my completely numb feet.


I took about two steps down the flight of stairs before my big show. I missed a step or slipped or tripped or stumbled and found myself tumbling head-first to what I thought would be my inevitable demise. Nico grabbed my right foot trying to be a hero and thank God he did. Miraculously I was granted another chance at life.

The entire Duane Reade staff rushed to my rescue which makes me wonder how loud of a thud I made. They thought they were going to have to call an ambulance, I swear. I assured them I was fine in between my obnoxious and uncontrollable laughter. They quickly jumped on my dramatic plunge as the perfect opportunity to try to sell me every medicine, bangage, pair of flip-flops they had in that place. Somehow, I ended up standing at the register with a $17.00 total.

Excuse me Duane Reade, I don't have brain damage. I just want my Goldfish, Ok? (A new bag of course, because I crushed the first bag into crumbs.)

So I relay the tramatic experience to Rach wishing she had been there to see it. On to the next part of the adventure...the close call part.

We are standing outside talking to the Italians. I didn't take into much consideration that the particular corner we were standing on was strangely empty. One of the Italians threw out a generous cocain offer. This Texan has a strict no hard drugs policy so I politely said, no thank you, have a good night, we're going to head home. Rachel and I turned around to see about 8 NFL sized black boys surrounding us. We squeezed out of the not-so-friendly looking semi-circle as quickly as possible.

Rachel is convinced she has a guardian angel and judging by her track record, I believe her. An off-duty cab was sitting on the corner and for some reason signaled to me saying he would take us. We got in and Rach told him to not let anyone in the cab besides us. Just drive, just drive, mister. The group of guys that seemed to magically appear were trying to follow us into the cab, so miracle man sped off.

To make matters worse, in the all of the commotion and cab jumping, Rach lost her cell phone. Of course.

Is the moral of the story this summer to stay away from Italian boys? Wolf in sheeps clothing, perhaps?

Nah, too pretty.