Meme Boy

“Ok,” I say, “give me the worst movie idea you can think of!” Luke changes lanes and pops his Tesla into auto-pilot before relaxing back in his seat to give me his full attention. We have at least an hour of stop-and-go traffic ahead of us, and there was nowhere else I’d rather be. We’d been dating almost a month now and I “had big hopes for this one,” I’d told my mom on the phone earlier. On the other side of town dinner and a play awaited us--the world's most perfect date.

I let loose a contented sigh and put my feet up on the dash.

“Oh, could you not, actually?” he says, pointing to my feet. “I just got it detailed.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

“No biggie.” I busy myself with my hands, hoping to hide my embarrassment. It’s fine, I reassure myself, an honest mistake. I shake it off and focus back on the game.

“So, your worst movie idea,” I say.

“Right, okay, um… I don’t know.”

“Or premise.”

“Yeah, I, I don’t really, I mean, I’m not really into bad movies.”

“Oh no, I know!” I say. “I’m not either.”

“Okay, but, it makes it hard, I guess, to come up with one?”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“So I don’t, I dunno. You go first.”

“Sure.” This was not going according to plan. It’s okay, this is good, actually. This is your chance to shine! I rack my brain. I need an idea that will show off my creativity--something I am really very proud of--but that doesn’t seem pretentious while also allowing good use of the vocabulary I’d acquired through both higher education and my own commitment to a life of continuous learning. It needs to be wholesome and cute while also showing him I can rock his world and keep him on his toes, in and out of the bedroom. And it needs to leave him with the overall impression that I am an independent thinker unwilling to bend my ideals to accommodate the patriarchy.

“Okay,” I say, “okay. So, a woman goes to South America.”

“By herself?”

“Yeah. Or, no, she goes with her step-mom! And they--”

“Where’s her dad?”

“Uh, I don’t know, it’s a girl’s trip.”

“So no guys?”

“Who needs guys?” I ask impishly. The joke lands like bird poop on an ice cream cone. I push on. “So, they go on this trip--”

“Where?”

“Like, Belize?” He nods. “But their plane crashes and only they survive cause they were both in the bathroom together due to kinetosis.”

“What’s that?”

“Motion sickness.” Score one! I beam inwardly, awaiting his applause.

“So why don’t you just say that?”

“Oh. Um, okay, motion sickness.”

“It’s just confusing otherwise.”

“Got it.” I’m an idiot, I’m a total idiot. Is he thinking that too? Should I just drop the whole thing? Or continue and hope victory awaits?

He picks up his phone, scrolls. Reads something with a small smirk.

“So then,” I start again. He looks up as if remembering I’m here. Focuses on me politely. “So then, they are taken in by this tribe. Of natives. And these gals are ballin, so they tell the tribe ‘hey, we’ll give you a ton of money if you help us get home,’ but the tribe's people are all like, ‘your green paper is no good here.’ And they’re like ‘so what can we offer you?’ and they say ‘you must travel to the highest peak to get for us a tail feather of the great, ruby-breasted macaw.’”

“And that’s a bird, right?”

“Yeah it’s--do you not know what a macaw is?” My tone is more judgmental than I intended, but if he picks up on it he doesn’t show it. “Well,” I say, in my most understanding, non-judgement, friendly voice, “they’re beautiful. And super smart. And scientists don’t know how but they can eat all of these toxic seeds and things without dying.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. And they mate for life, just like us.” I give him my sweetest smile and wait for him to agree. He doesn’t. “So yeah,” I finally say, deflated, “they’re a type of parrot.”

“Ah.”

“You know,” I try again, “if you were a bird, I bet you’d be a macaw.”

“Yeah?”

“They’re awesome!”

“Well, thanks.” He checks his phone.

“What about me?” I ask. He looks up, confused. “What kind of bird would I be?”

“Oh.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m not really a bird expert.”

“That’s okay.”

“So, I don’t know, a pigeon, maybe? They’re cute. Or, actually, you’re a hen! In England they call women hens, did you know that?”

“Thanks,” I say, instead of ‘yes I did know that, everyone knows that.’ Tears sting the back of my eyes for reasons that aren’t totally clear to me and I look out at the sea of red tail-lights before us.

“Hey!” he says. It’s the most animated I’ve heard him so far. I turn to him, hopeful. “You wanna look at some memes?” I give him a tight smile in response.

This is going to be a long ride.