Crash Landing

My friend Luke and I have known each other for over thirty years and I've shared a few stories of our misadventures together. It would seem that when you place the two of us on the same patch of earth, some seriously strange shit happens. More brothers than friends, Luke and I have also been roommates at various times throughout our lives and I have to say, there's never been a dull moment.

Before we go any further, let me describe Luke to you. I don't think that I've ever described Luke before, not on these pages, anyway. Please realize that I am going to poke a little bit at him in my description, mostly because I'm an ass, but it's basically accurate. Luke is a stunted, little, rotund man... I kid. Luke isn't very tall. He probably claims to be 5'8', but I think he's more like 5'6" and he's been going bald since before the day I met him. Hell, he's been going bald since before he went into the womb. Luke wears glasses and is definitely one of the most Jewish looking people that I've ever seen, so just picture a short, tubby,balding  Jewish guy with glasses and you've pretty much got Luke.

Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way, I need you to bear with me for just another moment, because I need to build this next bit o' bullshit up a bit, so I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent.

I once worked as a DJ at a posh nightclub in Miami Beach, FL, back in the mid 80's. Now, before you can say to yourself, "Holy fuck! How fucking cool was that?" let me clarify things a little bit for you.

It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It wasn't exactly Miami Beach  and if I'm going to be honest, I wasn't exactly a DJ, although I did a pretty shitty job of pretending to be one. Let's break this down point by point, shall we?

Point #1 It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It certainly wasn't posh until the lights were off and as for being a club? Well, it was, but it wasn't. It was a shitty little dive bar, or "club", if you will, that was tucked away in the basement of the Marco Polo Hotel, a hotel that was fairly well regarded and did serve an international clientele. The "club" in the basement was still a fucking dive, but in its own way, it was totally fucking awesome. I realize that this was actually kind of, sort of two points, but don't you try to play your math fuckery games with me.

Point #2 - It wasn't exactly Miami Beach. Well, it wasn't. Not even close. It wasn't even within jerking off distance, but it was fucking close enough, okay? The Marco Polo is actually located in Sunny Isles, FL, which is the northern tip of Miami-Dade County, so it's in the same county, which makes it fucking close enough, okay?

Point #3 - I wasn't exactly a DJ. Well, I was, but I wasn't. I mean, it was my job title and all and I did play music, but to say that I failed in fulfilling any part of my responsibilities would be putting it mildly; I was the worst DJ ever, but I can make a mean motherfucking mix tape and that's basically what I did all night long, make mix tapes. How I got this job is a story in itself, but that's a story for another day. I could go into all of the reasons why I sucked as a DJ, but let's just say that I didn't give a fuck and I played whatever I wanted to, was an absolute wanker and constantly fucked things up. Pretty much the same shit I always do. Trust me when I say that I excelled at that job.

Anyway, even the worst DJ ever has to have DJ equipment and I bought myself all kinds of stuff, mostly tacky shit like disco balls, rope lights, strobe lights, revolving police lights, etc. My bedroom looked like the set of a bad 70's porn film. The Feng Shui was fucking great though, let me tell you, even if I have no clue what the fuck Feng Shui is.

Blah, blah, blah... This sure is taking a long fucking time to tell a relatively short story.

Anywho, around this time, I was having some medical issues that were causing me to have a lot of horrible migraines. The headaches were non-stop and would last for weeks on end. It turned out that the strobe lights and all of the other flickering lights would serve as triggers for the migraines and sadly, my light show had to go. Bummer.

Luke and I were roommates at the time and I mentioned to him that I was looking to sell my lighting equipment and he told me that he was interested in purchasing them. We negotiated a price and they were his. The lights disappeared into Luke's bedroom.

Months went by...

I'd met this girl Kim and it was our first date. We'd gone out to dinner and then headed back to my place for a little Betamax and chill. Luke had a date as well and he was supposed to be gone all night, so Kim and I had the apartment to ourselves. Betamax and chill, yeah baby! Just as things were about to get hot and heavy, fucking Luke comes busting through the door along with his date, Irma. Irma. Seriously. Who the fuck names their child Irma? What the fuck is wrong with people? Anyway, those two shitheads come busting through the fucking door like fucking gangbusters, drunk giggling and totally cock blocking me, Fuckers.

Luke stopped long enough to chat for a moment and introduced the girls. I was screaming, "Get the fuck out!" the entire time. I didn't really scream it out loud, but I did think it right to his face. I was giving Luke some serious stink eye coupled with the universal look for you need to get the fuck out of here before I set your ass on fire. Luke didn't get my subtle hints and both he and Irma continued their cock blocking. Luke walked into the kitchen to get a drink and I followed, coming up behind him and whispering into his ear, "If you don't get the fuck out of here, I'm going to set you on fire." In my defense, I did say it as nicely as I could. Luke, being the perceptive little cock blocking motherfucker that he is, managed to absorb that subtle hint and he and Irma made themselves scarce, disappearing into Luke's bedroom, giggling like drunken idiots, which they were.

Luke's bedroom went dark.

Back to business...

I turned out the lights in the living room and then Kim and I got back to some Betamax and chill. I was in the middle of, "Praise Jesus, I'm about to get some!" when the room lit up in shades of red as the laser light show in Luke's room started up. The blue rope lights were next and then the blue strobe.

Wtf? I felt like I was about to have sex in the middle of an airport runway. Kim and I looked at each other, perplexed.

"Does he have an airport in there, or something?" Kim asked me.

And that was when we heard Luke's voice, just as loud as could be.

"Better watch out, this plane's coming in for a landing!"

"Can he fly that plane and land it?" Kim asked me.

"Surely you can't be serious," I said.

"I am serious... and don't call me Shirley." she answered.

I fucking lost it. Just the thought of that tubby, little bald fucker sailing through the air, hoping for a one point landing sent me off into maniacal madness and laughter. I started giggling and then I was laughing so hard that I fell out of where I was and off the couch. Thankfully, both the floor and my face broke my fall.

The next thing we heard was a loud thump, followed by another loud thump, which was in turn followed by a scream and then another scream, both so loud and shrill that I couldn't determine if they came from a man or a woman.

Irma came running out of Luke's bedroom.

"Luke's been hurt," she said.

I lost it all over again. How the fuck do you hurt yourself while fucking?

Kim and I jumped up, fixed our clothing and ran into Luke's room, where we found him splayed out on the floor and he wasn't moving. I knelt down to help Luke while Irma explained what had happened. Evidently, Luke had made his landing approach, bounced off his water bed runway, sailed through the air and managed to hit the floor in a perfect belly flop of a heap. I started laughing again.

Kim, Irma and I managed to lift Luke off of the floor. We dropped him. Twice. I shit you not. Luke screamed out in pain both times and all that I could do was giggle uncontrollably. I suppose that I should have felt bad, but I didn't. Fuck that, it was funny.

The three of us were able to drag Luke's ass onto the couch (sorry about that wet spot, bro) and he just laid there whimpering. Whimpering and cock blocking me. Look, I know he was in tons of pain and all, but I just wanted to get laid and here was my supposed best friend, keeping it from happening. What kind of fucking friend does that?

Luke wanted to go to the hospital. I wanted to get laid. The selfish little prick wanted me to take him. We were at a bit of an impasse.

"I'm not carrying your ass down three flights of stairs," I told Luke. "Besides, I'd have to drive your car. There's no way you're riding bitch on my bike."

Irma shot me a look that made me feel as if I were the most horrible and selfish person on the face of the planet. It made me feel good. It made me feel proud.

"I'll take him to the hospital," Irma said.

Good luck with that.

"No one is driving my car anywhere," Luke told her.

I knew that line was coming and Luke had just painted himself into a corner and I still wasn't getting laid. Who was the selfish motherfucker now?

In the end, we called 911. Just fucking great. More red lights, more people invading my apartment and more of me not getting laid.

Fucking roommates...

The paramedics checked Luke over, strapped him to a gurney and carried him out of the apartment. No matter how hard I wished for it to happen, they didn't drop him on the way down the stairs. Doesn't anyone care about my happiness?

Obviously not.

Fuckers...