Nick's Voicemails

I met Nick through Tom. 

I think . . .

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it goes like this . . .

Tom had convinced me to see a 16mm print of Celine et Julie Vont en Bateau at the St. Louis Art Museum. I agreed to give them both a ride and we arrived at Hunan to assume Nick into our posse.

He was wearing his classiest "I'm-going-out-to-eat-proper-like-a-man-with-status" clothes:  an orange tie paired with blue khakis and some shitty plaid blazer with mouse holes in it.

I was immediately impressed. He'd get my vote.

On entering St. Louis we stop for gas in nowheresville and soon discover that the car wouldn't start. A sketchy-looking dude with an Invader Zim T-shirt banged on the starter for a while then gave up like the meth-child he is.

We had to push it into a parking lot.

After the gazillionth try and by some stroke of luck, the car jolted to life and we were on our way. Arriving halfway through the film, we had a kickass time despite no knowledge of the plot (there isn't much, anyway.) After the film, our Mötley Crüe shambled  to the City Diner for a brief film analysis over burgers. Before long, we were on the road back to Carbondale.

Oh shit, I forgot to mention that for the past hour we had been heading north.

WHELP . . .

Nick knew some friends in Springfield and we crashed there on the eve of a friends funeral . . (awkward) . . . We awoke to the smell of natural gas, peed, then took some pictures outside. After a lenghty voyage and a pit-stop in Greenville ('cause Nick wanted to get laid), we arrived safely back in Carbondale, promptly falling asleep and living happily ever after.

And that's how I met Nick. And this is how Nick leaves voicemails.



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