I’m in the car in a parking lot waiting for Mr Mc. It’s raining. Now it’s hailing. It’s sunny then raining again.
There is a tree, some bushes and a fence.
In the car next to me a woman is applying lipstick. A Fun Fair is in full swing somewhere nearby.
A man’s muffled voice booms across the parking lot -“Blah! Blah! Come on! Hey!” – before morphing into nightmare-ish clown music that ends with “Bwwwwoooooo-whooop.”
Never trust a clown
A blue car pulls in two cars down from ours and parks at the side of the fence.
Get that rust-bucket off the road
The driver gets out. He walks from his car to another car and stands behind it. He stares. He paces. His feet are large.
"Got ants in my ants and I need to dance"
He takes out a cigarette, lights it and paces. He puffs but the cigarette sticks to his lips when he pulls it away and his fingers slide to the lit end. He drops it to the ground and stomps it to death.
He shakes his hand violently and walks back to his car but doesn’t get in. ‘Ants-in-the-pants’ is what I’m thinking.
It’s raining again but he stands there jiggling around getting soaked.
In my notebook I write, “See if you can find that Saturday Night Live skit with the, “I have ants-in-my-pants and I need to dance”, song. Or maybe it was “party in my pants”.
I use peripheral vision to watch him because he won’t stop staring at me.
I lock the car doors.
He reaches inside his coat, pulls out a red envelope and scans the parking lot.
He’s a slippery character is what I’m thinking.
Cripes. Is he undoing his belt? He stops to pick his nose then clomps across the parking lot to another car. I put on my sunglasses and watch him in the side-view mirror. He leans into the open window to speak with whoever is inside. I’m pretty sure that we’re dealing with a ‘builder’s-butt’ situation here and am glad I’m not close enough to see it.
“What is he doing?” I ask myself. I don’t unlock the car. I sit and wait.
Mr. Fun Fair says, “Blaaaaaah. Hey. Hey. Blah-blah. Come on!”
Back at his car, ants-in-the-pants circles once. I see that he still has the envelope. I think, ‘it must have been the wrong whoever in that other car’.
He stares and paces. Smokes and stares. I’m feeling a teensy-weensy bit uncomfortable.
I pick up The Relic, phoney dial and start a conversation with Mr Mc who is not on the other end.
“Hello,” I say and pause to give Mr Mc time to say hello back.
“There’s a super-freak in the parking lot. He’s staring at me, jiggling around and in general, acting suspiciously”. Pause. Fake laugh. Nod.
I lower my voice because I feel stupid talking to no one.
“Anyway. He’s smiling now. There’s nobody here but me and he’s smiling in the other direction. I swear if he comes over here I’ll deck him.”
Ants-in-the-pants leans on the car next to his. He looks at the envelope before stuffing it back into his jacket. It’s raining again.
“So. Ya. Listen,” I say. “If you could tell her that when you get a chance. Ya. I know. I know, so that’s what you should do anyway. And then if you can do that it would be great.” I have no idea who I’m talking about.
Mr. Fun Fair says, “Blah, hey, blah, blah, come on, blah.”
I scope ants-in-the-pants in the rear-view mirror. With The Relic to my ear I shake my head, ruffle my hair and say, “he’s standing in back of another car and I can’t see his hands. I think he’s having a pee.”
I try ventriloquism.
“Weirdee-weird,” I say without moving my lips. Well, they move a little. “Are you coming back to the car anytime this century-I’m talking to you-I feel like Dee Wallace in Cujo. I can’t open the window and I’m suffocating in here.”
Minutes pass. Ants-in-the-pants is back near his car. He sits on the bonnet then slides off. I’m so bored. I try speaking in tongues but all that comes out is gibberish.
“Chran chrink tu tu. Inkta oonktah. Maninta poojaloo. Valeena, goruna, gooktah.” I growl into the phone. Then, I make believe I’m raising my voice.
“Eeeeeneeee, eeeneee. Poopala smooner.”
For dramatic effect, I throw in a few angry gestures and then, revert back to English.
“What are we having for dinner anyway? I really don’t feel like cooking. I’m always cooking.”
I grimace into the mirror. ‘Ants-in-the-pants’ sees me doing this, gets into his car and drives away.
Two minutes later Mr Mc returns.
“Sorry that took so long. Wanna go check out the Fun Fair?” he asks.