So Randy and Yvonne tried the over-the-shoulder flip again unsupervised, this time incorporating it into the other moves they had learned. But that second time they tried it, Yvonne asked Randy to throw her a little higher, for fun. “And I said sure,” said Randy, continuing his story, “and, well … Yvonne’s pretty small … and I’m pretty strong, and when I threw her up and over—a little higher—well … I guess I threw her a little too high or somethin’.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Chad.
“Yeah.” Randy took a moment to relive the incident, and then added, “And she landed on her face.”
Randy took another moment to relive the incident. And then added, “And it broke.”
Chad took the same moment to imagine the incident. And didn’t know what to say. This was truly one of the saddest things he had ever heard—and also one of the most absurd. And something about the absurdity of it made him want to snicker. But he didn’t, because he could tell that the big guy was pretty broken up about what had happened. So he stifled his snicker.
And the fellas sat in silence for a long time.
And Randy relived his dancing debacle. Over and over.
And Chad relived his imagined version of the dancing debacle over and over. And wondered if Yvonne was okay. And took a swig of his beer. And hoped he never broke anybody’s face.
And Randy hoped that Yvonne was okay, too. And took a swig of his beer. And vowed that he was done with breaking people’s faces. On purpose or accidentally.
And then he crushed his can on his head and tossed it in the paper bag he had brought his six-pack of beer in. And Chad wished that he was as good at crushing a beer can on his head as Randy was.
And then Randy grabbed another beer and opened it and started drinking it. And then shared the kicker to his story: “I had to take her to the emergency room.”
“Oof,” groaned Chad.
And then he tried to imagine the drive to the emergency room.
And then wondered which emergency room Randy had taken Yvonne to. “Fort Kent?”
“Huh?”
“Fort Kent or Caribou?”
“Oh. Fort Kent.”
Chad shook his head in pity. It was thirty-eight miles to Fort Kent. “That’s a drive,” he said flatly.
“Yup.”
Randy relived the thirty-eight-mile drive to Fort Kent.
And Chad imagined the thirty-eight-mile drive to Fort Kent. And then asked, “What’d they say?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’d they say?’”
“At the hospital?”
“What do you think they said? They said her face broke, dude.”
“Yeah, where?”
“Orbit—somethin’.” Randy indicated his eye and couldn’t remember the term “orbital fracture,” so he said, “Her eye bone and cheekbone broke.”
“Oof.” Chad took a swig of his beer. And then asked, “Blood?”
“Oh, yeah.” Randy took a swig of his beer and then sneered, “And she cried!”
“Hate that,” griped Chad.
“The whole way.”
“Ugh.”
“And then—when we get to the hospital—she asks me to call her old boyfriend—who lives up there—to come be with her!”
“Oh, no!” Chad half groaned and half exclaimed.
“Oh, yeah!” Randy took a swig of his beer. “And I call him. And when he gets there, he asks me to ‘please leave.’ As if she was his.”
Chad hissed. And took a swig of his beer.
“He’s as small as she is,” added Randy wryly.
And Chad laughed. And the beer he had just drunk sprayed out of his mouth and up his nose.
And Randy laughed, too. At Yvonne’s tiny boyfriend. And at the absurdity of it all. And at Chad’s spit take.
And Chad coughed for a while and eventually recovered from the beer that had gone up his nose.
And then the guys sat in silence for a bit.
And Randy relived his drive to the hospital in Fort Kent.
And Chad imagined Randy’s drive to the hospital in Fort Kent. With Yvonne. And all her blood. And all her tears.
And then he made a weird sound—a combination of a snort and a chortle and a scoff.
“What?” asked Randy.
“That’s just pretty bad,” said Chad in grand understatement.
“Yup,” nodded Randy, almost triumphantly.
“And sad.”
“Yup.”
“So … I guess you win,” Chad capitulated.
Randy raised his arms, fists clenched, assuming a championship pose. “Yes!” he bellowed.
Chad laughed and said, “That right there might make you the big winner of all time!”
“Yup!” Randy bellowed louder, fists still clenched, arms still raised.
“Baddest-date guy of all time!” announced Chad, egging Randy on.
“Yaaaaaaah!” cheered Randy, strutting like a rooster.
“Congratulations!” cheered Chad.
“Thank you!” grunted Randy and he assumed the championship pose again and opened his mouth wide and made a sound like there was an imaginary crowd cheering for him.
And Chad laughed.
And then Randy dropped the championship pose.
And it was quiet again.
And the guys fell into a deep sadness as they contemplated their worst dates ever.
And then Chad managed to pull himself out of his sadness and asked Randy, “So what do you pick tomorrow?”
Randy shrugged and said what the winner always said. “Bowlin’. Supper at the Snowmobile Club. Coupla beers at the Moose Paddy. Hang out.”
Chad said, “Good.”
And then he wondered if someday they’d pick something else as the prize.
And then he air-toasted Randy.
And Randy air-toasted back.
And then Chad finished his beer.
And Randy finished his.
And crushed his empty can on his head.
And Chad didn’t quite crush his empty can on his head.
And then Randy made like his crushed beer can was a basketball and he pretended he was in the closing seconds of a championship game, and he counted down, “Three!… Two!… One!” and made a buzzer-beating shot into the paper bag that he had brought the Natty Light in. And then he made like an imaginary crowd was roaring for him in adoration. And then said, “And now, Chad Buzza for the win!” to let Chad know it was his turn to be the hero.
And Chad got up and fake-dribbled and pulled up.
And missed his buzzer-beating shot.
And his almost-crushed empty beer can clinked and clanked on the packed snow and finally settled behind the bag.
And Randy made the sounds of an imaginary crowd booing.
And the guys laughed.
And their laughter melted away and they slid into another sad silence. Which Chad tried to pull himself out of by laughing. And his laugh sounded like a dying animal.
Randy looked at Chad, wondering what the heck the sound he just made was. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. Just … sometimes I don’t know why I bother goin’ out. I don’t like it, Randy. I hate it. I hate goin’ out on these … dates.” Chad’s voice was getting high and phlegmy. “I mean, why do I wanna spend my Friday night with some girl I might maybe like, when I could be spendin’ it hangin’ out with someone I know I like, like you, you know?”