$52 worth of gift certificates inspired a 10-person trip to Rogue Brewing, which is kind of like Papa Murphy's in that it will never become a G.C. Institution. After I ordered 3 appetizers, a 16'' supreme pizza, and many beer flavors, my significant other as well as the other ghost couple were looking to take the Max back home. The other party split looking to somehow find their way to Spyce, undoubtedly for that rowdy Friday night $9.99 lobster/NY Strip combo.
After getting Revolutionary Warred on and denied entry into a club because of British identification, we received a text from Chopkins asking "Where abouts getting max from?" I took a brief moment to translate this into American to realize that he was saying "I got rejected from the bar because I'm British and would like to join your guys on your bus ride home." This situation became pretty funny for me, as I imagined the O trying his luck at obtaining directions by communicating with local hipsters, who would surely do nothing but think he's trying to out-hip them with his fake accent and not help him in any way.
Well this kind of disturbed Xmas's ghost companion, and she made me text Chopkins saying how worried we were that he was alone and British in downtown Portland. This text was sent only after we had successfully waited around for a while, and then boarded the Max, destroying any opportunity of meeting up with Chopkins. A quick response came back from the O, "thanks mate, sorted now"
What?
Somehow the tables had turned and Chopkins had already made his way home. It was cold and wet outside and now we were the fools transferring from the Max to a grimy hipster shuttle bus oozing of some sick combination of trendy homelessness and actual hobos. Dammit, how could this have happened, I thought as the O texted me again "well the bar wouldnt accept my british driving license id so [Frek Daddy] let me drive his car back!" Jesus christ. So now Chopkins must be haphazardly driving on the wrong side of the road, making intelligible squeaking noises, and becoming totally lost running red lights somewhere on the wrong side of the Willamette.
This story could continue, but I don't really want it to. By some act of Science, and after worthlessly waiting at New Seasons for a long while, the O somehow managed to find his way to pick up the double ghost pair, drive exactly the speed limit, partially run a red light before putting it in reverse and correcting his rubbish mistake, and finally drop everyone off safely. We can only assume he returned Frek Daddy's car after going for a round of berries and cream and defiling the back seat.
That entire night I wore a pair of Snowdi's socks. My feet have never felt so unsure (or sweaty, imagine our combination), but yet so secretly watched-over as if.....
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