Neil Aitken Features at the Ugly Muga.k.a. Wayman the Punctual Sinner
I'm sick I can't breathe, my head is full of mucus and fluff but it's my poetic little brother's debut feature 76 frigging miles away and what am I supposed to do? What I always do, of course: call Wayman and see if I can talk him into driving. When he arrives at my place, five minutes early as usual, I am still in my hot pink satin bathrobe. It matches my runny nose. I would have been ready if he arrived when I asked, or even a few minutes later, but he never does. Wayman Barnes is the most punctual person I know. And this is an unforgivable sin.
Through a handful of tissue, I say, “Here is where you are supposed to say I don't look nearly as bad as I sound.” Wayman merely smiles and says nothing. I remember back to kindergarten my teacher instructing: if you can't say anything nice about someone…
Wayman sitting smugly on my couch reading my latest New Yorker makes me want to give him an indian burn. Then I realize we haven't left yet and he could still reneg on driving all the way to Orange, last bastion of the Republicans. So I'm very quiet (for me anyway) until we pull out of my driveway, roll a block or so down the street. But before I even start telling him the best way to get to the freeway or to watch out for the speed bumps he always ignores, I notice he is playing a Nixon speech on tape. Fascinating and a grand departure from the usual techno stuff he assaults my ears with. I wonder is this is the famed “Checkers” speech and listen intently until something disturbs my concentration: Wayman is shouting, “Well aren't you going to say anything about this tape?”
“I was just thinking how interesting it was.” I try to sound very interested.
“Well if it isn't driving you nuts ” and he yanks it out of the dash and tosses it into his pristine backseat. Wayman's car is always cleaner than mine. This annoys me.
He replaces the tape with Prodigy. If you aren't familiar, Prodigy sounds like 12 parts techno and one part thrash-Metallica, all turned up to ear-splitting decibel levels. Then it repeats.
As the windows of the car begin to shake he looks sideways at me. “I'm so glad you put this in,” I tell him, “because I haven't heard it since I left for the east coast. Makes me feel like I'm truly home.” I sigh sweetly.
He makes a noise that sounds a lot like Grrrrr and offers to put on a different tape. I insist on listening to this one. I know it's a mix tape and my favorite Red Hot Chili Peppers song is coming up if I can hold out for just a little longer. I can't hear much anyway with this cold. I fumble for more tissue and try to ignore the screaming lyric Feel the pressure!
Wayman believes in taking at least six freeways to get anywhere, particularly if a direct route exists. But I have to hand it to him this time we make it to Orange from West LA in the height of rush hour in 35 minutes flat. The quickest route anywhere in Southern California has nothing to do with straight lines, but every time we crisscross the jammed 405 I feel compelled to remind him that the 76 mile readout on mapblast is only relevant if we actually follow the directions.
We arrive at least half an hour early (oh, cardinal sin). The owner takes an instant dislike to us, particularly to Wayman. Wayman slips me some cash and persuades me to go up to the counter and buy his drink.
“I'm afraid he'll spit in it if he's knows it's for me.” I oblige, sweet-talk the owner so that he can concentrate all of his personality disorder on Wayman, and tell him I've got a cold.
“You poor thing. I'm so sorry.” When I bring Wayman his mocha with whip he counts his change, stops, then says, “You didn't TIP him, DID you?!”
“But of course I did. After that time you called me a cheapskate, I always make sure to tip the barrista at least 20%” He blinks several times before making that sound again the one that sounds a lot like Grrrrr.
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