Sometimes, mythical creatures burst into being. The borders between fiction and reality are thin, and sometimes—like, say 2am on Saturday—they appear to you. Just such a thing happened to JR and I tonight, on our way home from Shadowland (which, frankly, is a little too fitting). Standing by the side of the road, looking lost and forlorn, stood two creatures out of myth and legend.
I speak of course, of the Magical Pixie Dream Girl. One is rare indeed. But two? That, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.
These two beautiful young ladies in their tiny black dresses and ballet flats flagged down our car, asking us if we could drive them to 3rd and Chesnut. One of them, the brunette, had left her credit card there. Seeing no harm in driving two tiny twenty-somethings a few blocks, JR and I agreed, and they climbed in.
“We’ll give you money,” the blonde said. I assured her that would not be necessary. Both of the girls were clearly smashed out of their skulls, though the blonde more so than the brunette. She was the louder of the two.
“What’s your favorite bands?” she asked. “Top three. C’mon!”
We admitted that we did not actually know our favorite bands—it’s one of those questions that really should have come up before but hadn’t, and we tried to steer the subject away. But neither girl was having it.
“How long have you been dating, if you don’t your favorite bands?” the burnette asked. We told them we were married, which was met with squeals and clapped hands. “Tell us your bands. We’re music snobs.”
It then came out that my current favorite bands are, in fact, The New Pornographers, The Veils, and P.O.S.—the last two the brunette had not heard of, and it blew her mind—and JR’s were Ani DiFranco, Regina Spector, and she was cut off before she could get out a third.
“Those are so awesome,” the brunette said. “Are you a feminist?” JR said that yes, she was. This brought more squeals of joy from the two girls.
“VAGINAS!!!” yelled the blonde, her head out the window. “VVVVVVAAAAAAAGGGINAS!!!!”
The conversation then turned to how awesome I am—“So awesome”—and how hot JR is—“So hot”—which then led to the inevitable question. Would it be okay if they made out JR?
“You’re so hot,” said the blonde to JR, to which the brunette agreed. “Let’s make out. Would that be cool?”
“Lay off,” said the brunette. “They said they were married.”
“She can do it if she wants to. Look at her. She’s so hot. She’s got his balls in her hand.” JR protested that she does not like to make out with people she doesn’t know. “It’s because you think I’m ugly, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” JR said. “You could be a model. If you told me you used to be a model, but you quit to go to school, I would have believed you.” I agreed with this.
“So I not pretty enough for you,” the blonde said, pouting and following her own train of logic. “I just want to make out with someone,”
“I’ll make out with you,” said the brunette.
“Shut up, Allie.” This was the first mention of either of their names. Katelyn and Allie. We pressed for more information. Allie liked Led Zepplin, but recently was turned on to folk music (“My friends from college would kill me if they knew I was into folk music”). Katelyn was a die-hard follower of Bob Dylan.
“My mom toured with Bob Dylan,” Katelyn said. “And my father toured with Eric Clapton. That’s how they met. And then, they fucked,” this was punctuated with a clap, and then a collapse back into the seat. “And that’s how I got here. I am so smashed. I just want to get something to eat, make out, and get fucked. Can we go back to the hotel?”
Making out and getting fucked was floated up several times—with the suggestion all four of us would be involved—and it was the combination of that and the notion of a hotel that became clear that these were no ordinary girls. These were Magical Pixie Dream Girls, the mythical creatures bi-curious couples seek out, hoping to add a third sexual partner for a night of debauchery, only to disappear back where they came from (in Katelyn and Allie’s case, that would be the Bronx), never to be seen from again.
These unicorns, these centaurs, these nymphs of legend were in the back seat of our car, pleading with us to talk about bands and make out with them and take them back to their hotel.
Naturally, we dropped them off at their originally specified destination (though not without circling it three times), and sent them on their way.
“My vagina’s hanging out,” Katelyn said as she got out of the car, adjusting her skirt. “Do you guys want money?”
No, Magical Pixie Dream Girls. The story is payment enough.
