How I miss the days of Karaoke Cult. That is where I met the soft-spoken Amy. Soft-spoken, that is. Very lovely. Very tall. Very sweet. And a complete maniac onstage. Those stories are played out, though. If you think that Amy is only capable of warbling Claudine Longet ballads, you should hear her death metal version of "I Am Woman". Suffice it to say, despite her Midwestern nice girl exterior, deep within lies the soul of a lusty diva.
Amy lived in a nice one-bedroom on the east side of the red line in Edgewater. I remember being a little nervous walking to the train one night from her place, but for the most part, the iffy neighborhood pretty much kept to itself. The day we heard that there had been several recent murders within a block of her apartment, however, our group of friends decided it was time for Amy to move. About 8 of us gathered on a Saturday morning, and filled Amy's moving truck as quickly as possible. Fear is a great motivator.
Once we got her out the door, Amy told us that all she needed was to sweep up and clean the bathroom and kitchen. She would leave the door unlocked and come back later. We, the helpers, piled into our three cars, and Amy would bring up the rear in her moving truck. She would have to catch a ride with one of us when we drove back into town to get her own car. We zoomed off to Evanston, the site of her new pad. All of our cars arrived, and Amy was the last. Amy looked a mess. She was breathless and on the verge of tears. Apparently, when she pulled out of her crime-ridden block, she misjudged the radius of her turn and ran over the curb. To make matters worse, she had run over some guy's duffel bag in the process. To make matters even worse, when she ran over the bag, a cloud of white powder billowed into the atmosphere. Amy gunned it all the way to Evanston, scared for her life.
We strategized. Amy still had to retrieve her car. We had some daylight left, but we didn't want her to go back. We decided that Amy should just turn in her old apartment keys to her landlord, explain why the kitchen and bathroom were not cleaned, and get on with her life. Marky and Michiel, our token burly men, would pick up Amy's car, so she would not be spotted by the drug dealer. The drive would not take long, maybe 10 mintues total, and Amber and I instructed our boyfriends to waste no time. Amber and I waited. And waited. 30 minutes went by. Sure that Marky and Michiel had been recognized and kidnapped by the duffel bag-toting cocaine lord, we began to panic. None too soon, Marky and Michiel drove up the street.
We sighed a breath of relief. The boys were surprisingly quiet about their adventure. Once the relief of seeing their faces passed, Amber and I grilled them on what the hell took so long. Pardon the paraphrasing, but their explanation went a little like this:
Bree: What the hell took so long?
Michiel: Did you know that you can't take a left turn on Sheridan?
Marky: Yeah, so we had to go all the way around the block.
Amber: But that shouldn't have taken so long. Where did you go?
Marky: Well, we wanted to check things out.
Amber and Bree: WHAT?!!!
Michiel: Don't worry, there was no one there.
Marky: There was a little pile of powder, and we wanted to check it out.
Amber and Bree: *disdainful looks*
Marky: It was sugar. Powdered sugar.
Bree: Oh, really? How do you know that?
Marky: We tasted it.
Well, I guess we all let our imaginations get the best of us. We can laugh about it now, but it was pretty scary that day. It seems ridiculous now. Boys are stupid. It's a good thing they're so cute.
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