It's been over an hour since Mike's SMS. I decide to ring him, a big deal, as I'm technically calling Australia, which is fine and cheap on a land line (2c/min) but ten times as much (literally) on a cell.
(Yes, Mike kept his Aussie cell. For $5/month he has a local number where the less techie members of his family can leave messages. Stupid dirt cheap cell phone plans that are better everywhere in the world except the US, where even the prepaid phones make you pay every so much every so often. I have at least $120 in my Virgin "savings account" that is never getting used because my phone number stopped doing anything but giving out busy signals, and they can't seem to fix it without me speaking to a live human. Another summer project.)
(Yes, I went out to eat twice this weekend and went to the movies, but I quibble over paying 20 cents per minute for a phone call. Didn't anyone ever tell you that pennies add up? And dollars are meant for designer chocolate drinks that would buy a hungry family eight boxes of name-brand macaroni and cheese?)
Anyway! He's still downtown. The southbound Deuce isn't operating from Fremont Street at the moment, for some reason. (If anyone is in Vegas tonight and planning to get in on that Golden Gate 99-cent shrimp cocktail experience, plan accordingly.) So, they've just, an hour later, been told to cross the steeet and take the Deuce NORTH to the transit center, get off, and take a bus southbound. (That presumably won't stop at Fremont Street? I'm so confused.)
NORTH. North of Fremont Street. To a bus station.
You can call me a snob or soulless or white or whatever, but mentally I'm directing a shielding cloud of pepper spray around Mike, Darren, and Lisa. Because they're going NORTH. On a BUS.
Mike said something about how he was the one that got the info about the bus issue and got everyone (meaning his party + an unspecified number of strangers + ???) onto the northbound bus, which he was riding when I phoned. (In other words, too late to offer to swoop across town and get them.) So, if he does get knifed in the side while protecting his free Spamalot tickets, I expect a movie of the week. I don't care what the title is, as long as it starts with "American Hero:". (I need to make him grumpy enough to haunt me. We'll have fun! I'll have to be considerate and drink my Fraps in the car, though.)
Oh, and yes - free Spamalot tickets! Those were his last (LAST?) words to me before heading north (NORTH!): "I won free Spamalot tickets. Do you want to go or should I sell them to Darren and Lisa?" I said I wanted to go. (Monty Python's Spamalot! In its final weeks at the Wynn! Oh boy!) He cheerfully said "Good!"
And that's the question: if he does get jumped and executed by gangbangers, probably ones who failed my final yesterday and have been looking for a fight ever since, should I still go to the play?
Heck yes you sh ould go to the play. I'll go with you to console you if you want. I'm a counselor, after all.
:)
Hope everything turned out ok..
Posted by: Heather in PA | 04 June 2008 at 05:36 AM