Classic move on Emma Stone’s part to leave me stranded in the middle of the Mojave desert. See, Emma and I had been stuck in the great pile of brush that is the Mojave for the past two weeks. We’d been fresh off a weekend of taking dope, conning the elderly when our winnebago ran out of juice. My little green-eyed, husky-voiced Emma, had been underneath our whip all morning brainstorming on ways to get our sorry asses out of the desert heat.
“Baby,” I said, using the last of the water to cool my already scorched head, “can’t we just screw ourselves silly until we see a helicopter?”
My question was answered by a stray wrench thrown in my direction.
“Guess not.” I muttered to myself.
Vultures circled overhead, clearly aware of our predicament, just waiting for one of us to buy the farm. Lunacy filled our impressionable young heads and we found ourselves screaming at each other.
“You dug a hole and threw us in it, you gutless bug!” She screamed, narrowing her smoky eyes at me.
“Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining, baby. It was your idea to rip off the billionaire and your idea to drop peyote. Don’t throw frozen piss on my leg and tell me it’s sherbert!”
Emma Stone popped out from underneath the RV, lit a cigarette, and flicked her tongue at me in the way that always drove both of us wild. Had we not been in the middle of the desert, where scorching temperatures baked us like a couple of sexy human cod, I would’ve jumped her right then and there. Emma was always the apple of my eye, even before she was in Superbad and those other guys. I found her in The Standard Hotel on the west side, exposing her breasts for the city to see. I was a mere window washer who had picked up the job in hopes of seeing such breasts occur. I nearly broke my damn neck trying to get her attention, but when she got my telegram and mouthed her room number, I knew everything would be fine again. Truth be told, her beauty was distracting.
Distracting enough for me to agree to getting cranked up in the desert and stealing petty change from the wealthy…and forgetting to fill up on gas.
“I really should’ve juiced this puppy up.” I said, my mind elsewhere.
“I mean, I should’ve gotten gas, you know?”
“You didn’t get gas?!”
“Baby, I keep telling you…you’re just so beautiful. So exotic. Like Indian, but
white. Ugh, I need you.” My outstretched tongue found itself locked in Emma’s hand.
“You twit. You dickless masterpiece of feces. Have you no brains within that oversized balding noggin? You didn’t fill a monstrous RV with gas before a journey to the goddamn desert?!”
“Baby, refer to my hairline again and I’ll sell your effing teen choice award for a bottle. Oh wait. I forgot that already happened.”
The last memory from that day is contorting my face into a “told-you-so” grin and watching Emma’s face erupt into a look of nauseating anger. What I assume happened is that the enormous rock-shaped imprint on my face came from the blood-crusted rock I found sitting next to my head after I regained consciousness. I have to assume Emma , angry from me admitting I pawned off her small-time award for a bottle of Glenlivet.
I never saw Emma Stone again after our desert heist. Still…when I smell sand, I think of her.