My Quest To Recover A Watch I Left At A Psycho Girl’s House: Part 2

Siblings of Mark Wahlberg9 years ago

To read Part I, click here.

Next thing I know I’ve got Robin in tow, running across campus towards a likely police report. We make it almost half way before each of us realize we only continued to run as to not inform the other of our horrific cardiovascular health. We stop and hunch over panting like a demoralized prostitute. “Dude,” Max says, “why can’t we just call her and ask for it back? I don’t understand this.”

I regale him with the details of my romantic evening with his former formal date, and for the first time he realizes my horny disloyalty actually may have benefitted him for once. “So, in a nutshell, I just don’t see us being too friendly. Plus, unless she was completely full of shit, that FIJI she fucks might be over there.” “The knuckle dragger?” Max asks. I nod affirmatively.

“Oh fuck, he’s big. I bet he has a cock like an elephant’s trunk.”

“What?”

“Like on the Hub, when it’s just gaping open afterward and you’re like holy fuck how doesn’t the shit just fall right out? I mean can you clench that thing together? Who has ass muscles like that?”

“Okay, Max. Can we get my fucking watch back? Ask a proctologist because I don’t have time for this.”

We resume our labored jog until Sarah’s shitty peasant-filled building sprouts on the horizon like the disgusting pimple that it is. This is the kind of building that has never seen a Rolex, let alone gave one back. We approach the front door and the lobby area is locked. “Okay, MacGyver, how the fuck do you suppose we get in here?” I enter the four-digit code and the door buzzes open. “How the fuck did you do that?” “Max, it’s the four numbers I saw her enter twice. We go to fucking [school redacted]. It’s not exactly the Imitation Game.”

“Wait,” Max says. “Benedict Cummerbund, right?”

“Close enough.”

“Man, that’s not funny. My great uncle was involved in that.”

“The persecution of gays in the army?”

“You know what I mean.”

We are now walking up the sort of stairs the unfortunate protagonists of a horror film try to creep down while the slasher inexplicably can’t be found. This, ironically, may have marked the beginning of our own terror. Max, of course, cannot shut the fuck up, whispering about the “irony of cupcakes and muffins — if you frost a muffin does it become a cupcake? Is a cupcake right out of the oven a muffin?” To be fair, he has a point. Kind of. “Max, I swear to God if you don’t shut the fuck up I will American Psycho-style dismember you.” Finally some silence.

With the third floor finally in our sights, we take a moment to gameplan before communication will become far too risky.

“Okay, Max, you asked to come with me so shut the fuck up and do what I need you to do.”

“Okay, but how do we get in the front door.”

“I was the last to leave, and I know I didn’t lock it. If the primate FIJI showed up we just have to hope his animal urges took over when he saw her chimpanzee tits and they didn’t even notice the door. But either way, listen, if we get in, her room is directly to the right. Take your shoes off and leave them here or else the hardwood floors will sound like a marching band.”

We both take off our shoes. “It’s going to be extremely dark, so after I open the door, I need you to keep an eye on the bed. If anyone moves, knock once softly on the side of the door and we will just make a run for it.”

In hindsight, this whole thing sounds far more Jeffrey Dahmer than James Bond.

“And Max, for the record, I have no idea why you would choose to do this with me, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it’s with the hope that Sarah sleeps naked.”

“What?!”

“Two things: 1) That’s incredibly odd and probably illegal. I’m not judging you, but Jesus man, come on. 2) Yes, she does but it’s a mess and totally not worth what you’re doing. The point is that if I were you, I’d turn back now. No judgment.”

He nods his head, turns to leave and pivots. “You know what, fuck it. At least this will be a story.”

I turn the handle slowly, clenching my teeth, hoping to not feel the click of a handle lock. It’s open. We tiptoe inside the apartment kitchen, ten feet from my watch and one false move from the sex offenders list. For once in his life, Max was actually somewhat reliable, moving towards the bedroom door and standing in position to keep watch. “Okay, I’m going for it.” I crack the bedroom door and slide in, shuffling without picking up either foot across the cheap vinyl floors. I see my watch glistening in the light of the window.

At this point I’m sweating insatiably, like Patrick Bateman comparing business cards. I have the sort of instant regret usually reserved for a morning after hogging, or a terrible NFL wager. I feel ill, but am two feet from relief, when Max knocks. Somebody might be awake. I lurch for the watch and make my way for the door, and breeze right by Max. Next thing I know, I’m in the hall running down staircases in terror like the woman Bateman drops the chainsaw on. I get to lobby and relief washes over me like an awesome wave. I’ve made it, watch on my left wrist and without a single siren.

But Max is nowhere to be found. Like any good friend, I took off immediately, knowing there is nothing I could do to save him from whatever had transpired in the apartment. I finally got home and spent the remainder of the night drinking heavily and preparing for an eventual arrest, phone call from enraged parents, or even a collect call direct from the county jail from my long lost roommate.

As the sun came up, still none of the above. Finally I fell asleep, resigned and puzzled by my eventual fate, unable to take the spins and lack of sleep. No enraged texts from Sarah, missed calls from my parents, and nothing from Max.

I could hear the TV in the family room. Assuming we left it on the night before, I stumbled like young Steven Hawking towards the door. “Hey,” Max says sitting on the couch in lounge pants, Entourage blaring.

“Max what the fuck, man? What happened?!”

“What do you mean? It’s all good.” He continues eating his takeout like nothing has happened. “It’s all good? What’s all good? Did you get caught? Are we fucked?” Max looks up at me and laughs, “Seriously, it’s fine.”

To this day I have no idea what transpired that night, or how Max and Sarah ended up dating for almost a year directly after. He must’ve let her finish first, too..