For your eyes only

Since our brains are sharing the same wireless connection, Jim and I often happen to be looking in the same direction when bizarre shit happens. We see all kinds of things that no one else witnesses. Maybe we're just freak magnets.

It actually started on our first date. We'd gone to see Bob Seger at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit (with Georgia Satellites opening), and then had a few drinks at a now-defunct jazz club in Flint. After the Underground closed for the night, we decided to cruise over to Dort Highway and get some dessert (I mean ice cream, not prostitutes) at the Kountry Kettle. As we pulled into a parking spot, a young man came dashing past the truck. Well, maybe "dashing" is the wrong word -- it was more of a fast wobble on Cuban heels. He was clad in skintight slacks and a three-quarter-length unbuttoned fur coat, with no shirt on (it was February), and he was sobbing like a bitch with PMS at an Oprah marathon. Jim and I exchanged a wide-eyed, "Did you see that, too?" kind of look, just before we caught the rest of the story. A moment later, another young man, rakish in a mod lavender suit, hurried past us, shouting "Wait! Waaaaait!", presumably to the barechested bawler. Jim and I once again shared raised eyebrows, and then, when we were sure there were no more floats in the parade, we shared our first uncontrollable giggles as a couple. I guess I wouldn't have been so surprised if I'd known there was a gay bar across the street from the restaurant.

Then there was the time we attended a drunken bonfire party at Mike and Shirley's house. The more Mike drank, the more animated he became, and after he finished all the beer he'd brought outside, he sprang up and hustled his way over to the house to get some more. Unfortunately, he didn't notice that the screen door was closed, and he hit that fucker so hard it threw him back on his ass. I'm talkin' feet off the ground, temporarily airborne bounce action. I saw every second of it, and as I turned to Jim, I could tell that he, too, had seen the whole beautifully awful thing unfold. We shared a good belly laugh that no one else understood, but what else is new? Mike had screen grid lines on his face when he came back with the beer.

And what set of stories would be complete without a heartwarming tale involving children? We were visiting some friends whose blended family includes four boys between the ages of 8 and 11 years old. Can you say, "Recipe for hell"? All the boys were home when we visited, and we navigated our way around the rambunctious lads and a large, mellow Boxer dog. The kids would disappear into their bedroom, then would burst out occasionally to announce something like "They just showed boobs on Jerry Springer!" We had this relative peace for about a half an hour before the boys decided they all had to be in the front room with us. They raced back and forth with the dog, and finally ended up in a heap, dog included, between my chair and Jim's. The Boxer was on top of the pile, and she rolled over onto her back to show us all her feminine glory. Then, in a moment that seemed surreal and strangely eternal, I saw this little hand reach around from under the mass of kids and dog, and the little hand proceeded to give one of the Boxer's jumbo gumdrop-sized nipples a hearty squeeze betwixt thumb and forefinger. My eyes met Jim's, and there was an unspoken message in the air between us: Only we saw this, so let's not bust the little pervert, no matter how hard we laugh. And, to our credit, we never gave up the goods on the dog molestor.

I'll put up with that, but if I ever go over there and see one of the kids with his pants down behind the dog, I'm gonna have to say somethin'.