CRAZED DRUNKEN BUM: A man who will never truly understand how close I came to murdering him with a shovel, and burning his body in a fire pit on Cabrillo Beach.
CULTURE: Office mate, and Americorps VISTA sister.
HARLEM: Americorps VISTA sister and murderer of innocent wildlife.
BLONDE BEYONCé: Roommate, office mate, VISTA sister, and dessert fiend.
THE SOURCE: Roommate who was nearly burned alive by Harlem, and who would have run over Crazed Drunken Bum with her car if my shovel skills proved to be unworthy.
HONEY J: Roomate, VISTA sister, and quietest injured person ever. Does not fraternize well with boulders.
And Our Tale Begins…
Last night, I, the roomies, and/or my Americorps VISTA sisters decided to resurrect our bonfire tradition and hit Cabrillo Beach in the dead of night. We packed and purchased the necessary supplies – which included but was not limited to – a shovel, lighter fluid, skewers, wood, beer, an open bottle of Barefoot wine, my very dead friend Sir FrankenFish, my Pentax K-X, marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, and a blanket.
What we really should have brought was some raccoon repellant and mace.
If you know anything about our town of residence, you know it’s a whacked out little port city populated mostly by the criminally insane. Or something. But if you’re looking to meet up with some drunken bums, the beach after dark is a good place to be.
Which is exciting, because, you know, we all always wanted to be in a horror film where everyone gets murdered by a sputtering, slow-walking and obviously inebriated loon. Except for me, because I was the chick with the shovel, and I definitely announced several times that I was COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY WILLING to knock our stalker’s face off with our conveniently murder-of-a-full-grown-man-sized shovel.
Even more convenient, I could use said shovel to bury our drunken bum friend. Or I could have just burned his body in our bonfire.
God, I swear I’m not a murderer.
Anyway, upon our arrival to the beach, Culture, Harlem, and Blonde Beyoncé were immediately assaulted by a pair of bear-sized raccoons. Which was a pretty fitting start to the evening, I must say. However, I definitely would have put my money on Harlem in an all out raccoon battle, considering that she followed up the incident with the most disturbing raccoon-death story ever. This is the kind of story that makes me reevaluate our friendship.
See, Harlem and her brother found a raccoon in a trashcan one day during their childhood. And instead of running away like normal fucking children, they became convinced that it had rabies – because raccoons are nocturnal, and the only possibly explanation for the raccoon scavenging during daylight hours was rabies. Of course.
So Harlem’s brother tossed a cinder block in the trashcan on top of the poor creature. But it didn’t die. So like any normal children, they decided to put the animal out of its misery – by DUMPING A POT OF BOILING WATER ON IT.
And suddenly it becomes very clear that the drunken bums aren’t the problem. The problem is that I’m a friend to serial killers. Because I’m pretty sure cooking live raccoons is a sign of future homicidal tendencies. And I think this might be a little much for Bob the Pink Deer to handle.
Well, anyway, I decide to be extra cautious when it comes to Harlem. Which turned out to be an excellent decision when she mistook my roommate, The Source, for a vagrant and almost “bum rushed” her and threw her into a fire pit. Because, once again, the only solution to rabid bums is a horrible death by fire. Clearly.
It wasn’t all murder and mayhem. We did make s’mores, and Sir FrankenFish pulled up a chair, downed a bottle of wine, and snarfed up some charcoaled marshmallows.
And then he tried to go for a swim, but that was interrupted by Honey J tripping over some rocks and ending face down on the ground. Which was funny, because she took so long to get up – and didn’t respond to our inquires about her health – so we all thought she was kidding and started laughing. We are some SICK FUCKERS. She could have been dead, but I was too busy thinking, how funny, she looks like she’s mountain climbing horizontally. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT REACTION TO INJURY, PEOPLE. I AM FRIENDS WITH SERIAL KILLERS AND ASSHOLES.
Anyway, this is where shit starts to get creepy – we are all enjoying the fire when a male figure in dark clothes starts wandering – no, stumbling – toward us.
I realize that my buddies are backing away from the fire, so I too begin to leave. The figure comes closer, and we all start screaming and running across the beach. He yells, “WHAT THE HELL!” at us, and we basically fall all over ourselves trying to collect our things and make a quick exit.
We escape to street level. But it was too easy.
The Source, Honey J, Blonde Beyoncé, and I get into our vehicle (shovel and booze in tow) and drive slowly next to Culture and Harlem as they walk to their car, so that we can defend their lives if any shit goes down.
And then we see him.
CRAZY STUMBLY DRUNK BUM IS STANDING DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FOR CULTURE’S CAR!
And we start screaming our asses off.
Sadly, because we are assholes and nobody ever believes assholes, Culture and Harlem told us to shut up and stop fucking with them. The Source had stopped her car between theirs and the deranged bum, and I informed everyone that it was no big thing, because I was totally and completely willing to get the fuck up out the car and smack the homeless bitch with my fifty-pound shovel. Meanwhile, The Source was preparing to run the fucker down with her car if he took a step closer. In hindsight, my shovel antics were unnecessary, because she totally would have gotten to the bum first. And promptly killed him, without all the bashing and skull cracking.
But, anyway, Culture and Harlem are taking a damn long time getting into their car because they think we are messing with their heads here, but I’m sure they wouldn’t have felt that way if they had seen the mutha fucking death grip I had on that shovel!!
And, from across the street, comes a startling yell:
“GIVE ME A RIDE!”
Culture and Harlem’s eyes bug out of their heads, and they fling the doors open, leap inside, and – I’m sure – hit all the locks. Both cars of scared shitless girls go flying around the corner onto Pacific Avenue, and a collective sigh of relief is heard.
And that, my friends, is how we cheated death.