When Mikey Met Sally
Saturday, April 20 :: 8:23 a.m. :: link

:: So, that horrific night, after I returned to the panic room, I couldn't help noticing the shattered hands on which I had inadvertently shut the window were nowhere to be seen -- until one of them whipped haphazardly from the darkness and fumbled in its repeated attempts to clutch my mouth. I was too petrified to make noise, but the slap ... slap ... slap sounds against my face filled the void.

"You were the voice of Anastasia and the light in Dennis Quaid's eyes," whispered a man I did not recognize. "You've been 'Addicted to Love,' had 'Courage Under Fire,' and 'You've Got Mail.' I wish I could put my hands together, ladies and gentlemen, to welcome Meg Ryan."

I didn't move, except for my pores which kicked into "oscillating lawn sprinkler" mode.

During the next three hours, the abductor grilled me on every nuance of Meg Ryan: The "Charles in Charge" Years.

"Is Chachi a good kisser?" he wanted to know. It might even be his mantra, for he said it whenever and wherever any sentence would normally require a period.

"Meg, I'm worried about your health is Chachi a good kisser? You're too thin is Chachi a good kisser?"

I played along as best I could. Besides, he thought I was skinny. At 190 pounds, I figured what-the-heck and stopped sucking in my gut, which, considering my rising perspiration level and the close quarters, I might soon need for a floatation device.

"Margaret," he said, "I don't believe you're getting enough double chocolate instant pudding mix nutritional supplements is Chachi a good kisser?"

We squeezed 15 gallons of pudding out of the waterproof sleeping bag he'd filled for our party, emptying it like a giant toothpaste tube into an aluminum tub. Then, he made me bob for Snapples.

Puddin' Head Photo © 2002 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Each time I'd surface for air with a Mango Madness bottle in my teeth, my captor pirouetted with delight and said, "I'll have what she's having is Chachi a good kisser?"

When the stalker was satisfied I was enveloped in enough shiny brown head goo, he spread Reddi-Whip on it with a frosting spatula.

His voice became more Tom Hanksly as he suggested we go for a swim in the nearby creek. He said he always knew I should have been "Splash" the Mermaid. He pointed to a pine tree. Leaning against it was a full-size mackeral-finned costume torso and a bucket of oyster crackers.

Later, when things began to get weird, I flapped myself out of the water and flopped onto the creek bank. I escaped into the woods and aimed for town, making remarkably good time, for the terrain is treacherous to a man in fishtail.


Copyright ©2002 Mike Durrett. All rights reserved. I want a book deal, dammit.