“Yeah, I’m starting a sausage restaurant. Handmade sausages… made from hand. Pork sausages, mostly. Thinking of names now: ‘Sausage-eria’, ‘Sausage-opia’, ‘Snausages’, ‘Pork Buy-Products’….” my climbing partner continued chirpily.

We were standing at the bottom of the climbing wall, I was handing him the belay device. A small crowd of gatherers and his old climbing buddies were circled around him since apparently, being a sausage king is news that travels fast.

“Yeah, I’ve tried making sausages myself by hand. It’s very relaxing. Are you doing it yourself?” a sausage acolyte spoke up. My friend expertly explained, “Oh I’m working with a chef….”

I’m tying myself in to start my climb. I find climbing very calming. And since I’m recovering from a broken foot, this is basically one of the few low-impact sports I can continue without harm to the newly forming bone. Being in a climbing gym is like… a giant playground filled with quiet human chess pieces on a vertical chess board… everyone simply navigating their route… encouragement sometimes being called from the floor as you ascend… an occasional bubble of laughter… a grunt of gathered strength sometimes and OH MOTHER FUCKING SHIT!!!!! FUCKITY FUCKITY FUCK!

As I’m finishing my figure 8 knot, over my partner’s left shoulder, I saw him: SOUTH AFRICAN! He’s walking towards the circle of sausage-lovers, puzzled by the crowd.

I stared at my knot. WHAT DO I SAY?????

I look up and he’s just a few feet from me!

“Sausages sausages sausages…”

I look up again, he’s nearer!

“Sausages sausages sausages…”

I look up and WHAT?! He’s looking the other direction?! Oh HELL NO! If I’m going to be uncomfortable, he’s going to share in it!

“HI! HI!!!! HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!” I shout to him in slow motion while waving my arms as if to steer a plane on the tarmac.

He turned around. “Oh hello!” South African cheerily replied in his melodic baritone. “Haven’t seen you in a while!” He kindly leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek in friendly greeting. “This is AVA.” He motioned to his climbing partner, a tall drink of blonde water with an amazing ass. She smiled warmly at me. “Hi!” she extended her hand to shake.

“Ooooooh, HI AVA!!!” I guffawed and adjusted my thong underwear (cuz unlike her, I chew my cud and people use my manure for fertilizer). “This is my partner, ” I waved in his general direction. “He’s a sausage guy….. I mean, he’s not GAY, I mean, he stuffs sausages, actual sausages, like pork and stuff…”

“Well, I’d like to see you climb.” South African smiled with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh no! You don’t want to do that! I’m bad. Really bad. Broken foot. Can’t do much. Just dangling from the rope most of the time. Just dangling dangling dangling!! Like a dingleberry! Hello, is this thing on?! (Pretend mic.) Okay okay, well I’m only climbing this last climb and then I’ve got to go to work and work, cuz I work now…. God you look really good. I mean, great. You look, great. Like your abs are giving birth to other abs, you’re like one big Michelin Man of nothing but abs…Ha! Just kidding, no not really you do look good….” I faltered.

South African stood there bemused.

My partner inhaled. He faced South African. He was going to change the subject! He was going to smooth out that terrible greeting! He was going to say something that made me look less like a retard! He was going to SAVE ME!!!

“So… sausage casing doesn’t really look like foreskin, although yes, I’ve heard all the jokes…”