All In A Day's Jerk
I started working at the ultra-large store three months ago. I prefer not to name the ultra-large store. Use your imagination. It's a large store. There are lots of them. In the one ultra-large store I work at there are a few people who stock shelves like I do. One of these employees is someone I have privately considered to be a mouse. She is tiny, doesn't say much, and eats with her hands in this way that makes her look like a damned rodent.
One evening after an eight-hour shift I found this mouse standing outside the store, talking on her cell phone. While I tried not to listen I heard that her car had stalled and that she needed a ride home. I decided I'd give her a ride. When I offered, she accepted, and then we walked to my car, which is a classic. It is a 1984 Chevrolet Chevette. I live four miles from my job at the ultra-large store, so this car works well, still. Over two hundred thousand miles, but still working fine.
I asked the mouse if she'd like to get a drink, and to my surprise she said yes. We went to a bar outside the town limits, and we had one drink. This turned into two, and before I knew it I'd had four. The mouse found a few friends and went off with them, and we didn't talk until it midnight. By this time I'd eaten two plates of nachos after drinking a pitcher of beer.
She came up to me as I was finishing my last mug and said that she would appreciate being driven home.
"I'm a bit tuned," I had told her, "so maybe we should wait until I dry up." She looked particularly upset. She told me that she needed to be home to get a good night's sleep, and she asked that we leave then. I thought about it and realized that I could probably trick her into staying if I told her I'd go with her if she could drive a stick shift, because then I would be fine with crashing on her couch. I did not think she would take the offer for a few reasons: One, she could not drive a stick shift; two, she would not want me to sleep on her couch. I was hoping she'd just take a cab.
"No problem," she replied, "I can drive a stick shift."
So, I ended up in the passenger seat of my own car while the mouse took the wheel and drove toward her home, wherever that was. There were a few instances in between the bar and my car where I could have said "no", but I did not. Damn.
I'd like to to say that this story's end involves some great back-and-forth between us, but it doesn't. The ending is rather anti-climatic. She hit a bump in the road while driving my car at close to sixty miles-per-hour, and when she did so I shit myself. I hitched forward and up, and my colon decided to do the exact opposite.
Yes, I crapped my pants. In my own fucking classic car. Two loads of nachos pushed the crap that was stuck in my tube down farther, and I had no control over the fact.
"Hey, Mouse," I said.
"You might want to pull over."
By the time she did, I had pulled out my cell phone and had started to look for a taxi. The mouse realized what had happened, and just like a mouse she moved over to the side of road, biting her nails, while she waited for me to get out.
When the taxi came, it drove up to her and not me. She got in, and I was left, a bit trashed, with poop in my pants, and no way to get home.
I did manage to get home, slowly. When I arrived at work the next week she was there, stocking shelves. She looked right at me, smiled, and then she went back to work. It's funny, but she's quiet like a mouse, too. Go figure.