I swear to you, if the automatic sinks and toilets don’t kill me my drawstring shorts will. Also, if I fall out of the truck one more time, I’m filing for disability, based on spacial unawareness and inability to climb down backwards. For some strange reason, I still miss the bottom step about every third time out. It’s maddening. I’ve seriously considered putting the tree-climbing gaffs I wore when we did landscaping in the truck, so I can dig in and shimmy out without incident.
We had stopped at Krystal, which happens to be my very favorite place to eat when we get far enough South on I-75. For those of you who have never experienced the delicious goodness of a Krystal burger, bless your heart. They’re tiny square burgers, called sliders in others parts of the country (similar variants sold at White Castle locations), and they’re soggy and gross looking and probably only contain traces of real, actual meat. I really don’t care what they’re made of, they taste like Georgia and heaven to me. It’s hard to get George to stop for a meal at Krystal, as the gastric distress they cause can sometimes be a bit overpowering in the truck, but most of the time my whining is worse than the sounds and smells, so he stops.
I think the main reason he stopped this particular time was because he had to pee so bad he was doing the leg-shake. We all know the sitting pee-pee dance. Everyone has a different version. George’s happens to be bouncing his left leg. Mine involves a variety of insane hand motions, as if I am preparing to do my “magic wand” routine over the automatic sinks before I even enter the restroom. Practice makes perfect.
He ran in ahead of me — well, he limped in, trying not to soil himself. I was farting around (figuratively: remember, we haven’t eaten yet), putting on my shoes and lip gloss. (Side note: Lip gloss is totally unnecessary while eating Krystal burgers, as the grease and weirdly decomposing bun slather your mouth with enough moisture to pass for a full-on Mary Kay lip festival.)
I was determined not to fall out of the truck, or miss the last step, and I did great the first time out. Then I realized I had left my key inside and hadn’t locked the door. I stepped up on the second step, leaned into the floorboard, and got my things. As I reached up to lock the door, the drawstring from my shorts apparently became lodged in the door mechanism without my knowledge, so when I locked and slammed the door, I was trapped by the string of my shorts. No problem. I fished my key out of my pocket, which was no easy task, since my shorts had been cinched to about an 18-inch waistline by the trapped drawstring. I finally extracted the key and immediately dropped it. Because I’m that freaking cool. Believe it or not, I didn’t panic — I always carry a very nasty little Army utility knife my brother gave me in the small of my back when we’re out and about. Here’s the problem: the shorts were so tight I couldn’t get the clip from the knife to unlatch. It was pinched shut by the drawstring. I was stuck, hanging by my shorts, on the second step of a Freightliner. The fact that my face was almost pressed up against the side of the truck kept me from having to witness the hundreds of people I’m sure were pointing and laughing at me.
George always seems to magically appear during my most embarrassing moments. He didn’t say a word, he just whipped out his knife and cut the strings.
“You couldn’t unlock the door and let me get my strings out?”
“Those damn strings have cause enough trouble. Get a belt.”
“No. I’ll just eat enough Krystals to bloat me so I won’t need a belt or a drawstring.”
“Great. The punishment continues.”
I had a nasty little retort but decided to keep it to myself, as he was still holding a knife in close proximity to my vital organs. Life on the road is never dull, and neither is his buck knife. Live and learn, and keep your drawstrings tucked in at all times.