It was late in November, and myself, Beans and Wolthuis lived in a three bedroom apartment at 1452 Diamond St. Apartment 3, in San Diego. Wolthuis was in the process of moving out, as he had just got a new apartment with Helen. Brian and I would be moving out in a week or so.
Brian and I like to play acoustic guitar on occasion. Brian had recently bought a guitar in the Bay Area, and I has just bought one of my own. However, after a few trips to the beach, Brian had started complaining that his guitar sounded funny. It probably needed some adjustment or new strings, he noted. He would take it to the guitar store for a checkup one of these days.
Later that week, I happened to open the dryer and see that Wolthuis had forgotten his last load of laundry (whites, as it may be) in the appliance.
Now Wolthuis, you must understand, cherished his tighty whities. They kept everything in place, just the way John apparently liked everything. So, alas, a load of John's underwear and socks has been left behind for Brian and I to contend with. Luckily for our heroes, I knew exactly how to handle the situation:
I put a pair of John's underwear on Brian's pillow.
Now understand this. The first tendency when you see a pair of somebody else's underwear resting on your pillow is NOT to assume that they've just come from the wash. In fact, mental images tend to conjure the exact opposite evaulation of the situation.
Knowing this, I had not-so-conincidentally closed and locked the door to my bedroom, where I began working on something or other. No surprise when a few minutes later, I hear Brian emit an unholy cry of terror as he runs toward my door... tighty whities in hand. Since I have fortified myself in my room, Brian cannot exact immediate revenge.
Half an hour later, I deem it safe to exit my room. When I do, I find the underwear securely fastened to my doorknob. I immediately plot my countermeasure, and the John's stinkin' underwear ends up back on Brian's pillow.
At last, Brian catches me off my guard about an hour later. I find myself standing with John's underwear around my head. Brian prancing around, taunting me that I have John's stinking underwear, including the stank of sweaty ass and genitalia, resting currently on my head... and that has got to be the worst place that said Underwear has ever ended up.
As a sidenote, I've decided to capitalize the word "Underwear" from here forward, as this particular pair of John's Underwear I think has earned itself a proper title.
Back to the story.
Brian is prancing and taunting that the Underwear on my head is the worst possible outcome of this little war. However, not to be outdone, I vow my revenge at an unknown time and place. Fear, my friend, fear.
True to my word, later that day, I find Brian's guitar and shove that very pair of Underwear into the hole in Brian's guitar. I nestle it back into the body, tucked far out of sight. And I leave it there.
And I forget about it. And the next day, I myself move out of the apartment, headed Eastward for New York.
Three days later, I got the voice mail message on my cell phone.
Click here to listen to Brian's message.