Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Last night, after some prebauchery (TM) at Grendel's, I was waiting for the last bus home. A very nice woman was sitting on the bench near where I was standing, and she was very nervous about missing the last bus. I explained that the last bus is usually very very late, as it waits for the last red line train, which waits for the last green line train, which waits for the apocalypse.
After a few minutes of very pleasant conversation, she said that she was still nervous that she had missed the last bus and that her roommate would be nervous because her phone was dead. Because I'm not a piece of human filth, I let her use my phone, and her roommate looked up online and confirmed that the last bus was coming. (How she checked, I don't know. All the apps I have to track the T said there were no more buses.) She gave me my phone back, and I realized I had to use a bathroom, so I told her I would be back and I RAN back to the store (the MBTA bathroom was coned off), used the facilities and ran back. She smiled and told me that I had just missed the announcement that the next train to Alewife was coming in five minutes. Awesome. As we talked some more a couple of very very white young lesbians with amazing hair walked over, and one of them sat between me and the girl I was talking to and said "Step off, SKETCHBALL. She doesn't want to go home with you." I was about to start laughing when my new friend said "Excuse me. You're the one being sketchy, sitting practically in my lap and trying to tell someone who I can and can't talk to." "Just look at this guy, though." and then to me, "I see the way you're looking at me." "I'm looking at you like you are too drunk to be in public and/or you are a super judgemental asshole." So now my new friend is laughing, and the girlfriend who hasn't spoken yet grabs the other one's arm. "FINE." she said. "I'm trying to help you, girl. Get raped, then." There was some prolonged eye contact between me and my new friend and then the bus showed up. As we got on the bus, the girl who had just called me a rapist for, I don't know, existing and not being attractive, decided to apologize. "I'm sorry. It's just. I mean, look at you. I teach a self-defense class." "Fuck you." Seemed really appropriate. "I hope when you sober up someone tells you how awful you were to a stranger." And I got in the bus and sat way in the back, and my new friend came and sat not next to me but very close. WISELY, the quiet girlfriend kept her obnoxious partner at the front of the bus, where she proceeded to antagonize the driver about where her stop was. As in, at EVERY stop she would ask "Is this Walden Street? Because I took this bus before and they didn't tell me where Walden Street was and I missed my stop. And that's BULLSHIT. If I miss my stop, you are paying for my cab." I was kind of hoping the driver was going to throw her off, but he did not. Though when she did get off, everyone on the bus let out an audible exhale. This morning I had a text from a number I didn't recognize thanking me for the use of my phone and hoping I had a better day than the night I had last night. So far, yes, but it's a low bar.
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Random Loiterer, standing behind bookcase: “Could you tell me how much this book costs?”
Me: “I can’t see it. What book is it?” RL: “It says $12.95.” Me: “Then it’s probably $12.95.” RL: “Why? It’s kind of small, you know?” Me: “I don’t. I have no idea what book you’re talking about. I can’t see you.” RL carries book up to counter, puts it down, raises eyebrows. “$12.95? Seriously?” Me: “Seriously, $12.95.” RL: “Why?” Me: “Because that’s how much it costs.” RL: “Why?” Me: “Because that’s how much it costs.” RL: “You already said that.” Me: “Well, you asked me the same question twice, so I gave you the same answer twice. I’m consistent.” RL: “But why does it cost so much?” Me: “Because that’s how much it costs.” RL: “Why?” I turn to the store computer and start typing in info for tomorrow’s shift. RL: “Why?” I continue typing, not making eye contact. RL: “Why won’t you answer me? I’m asking you a question.” Me: “If you’d like to buy the book, I’d be happy to sell it to you. If you’re bored and are trying to engage me in a debate, I’m not interested.” RL (smiling): “Why?” Type type type. RL: “Why?” I turn the sound system up as loud as it will go, which is even louder than I imagined. RL: “WHAT THE HELL?????” More typing. Another woman comes down the stairs. “Emily, what are you doing in here?” Emily: “It’s expensive and this guy is SO RUDE.” AW: “You are waaaaaaaay too drunk to be shopping right now. Let’s go.” Emily: “But I need to find out why this book is so expensive and this asshole won’t—” AW: “Emily, I”m calling your mother.” Emily: “The fuck, Jennifer?” Jennifer heads up the stairs, Emily follows. Peace returns to the universe, or at least the comic book store. Guys, if I’m in my forties, and you feel the need to threaten to call my mom in order to get me to stop behaving like a jackass in public, please, please, please sign me up for rehab. That is no way to be alive. I don’t think I’ve ever told a customer that what they’re looking for is “directly to your right” and not had them turn a hard left and look high in the air. Over time, I started to wonder if it wasn’t them, if, perhaps, I’ve always confused my right and left. I have made the “L” with my left hand, I have looked it up online. It isn’t me.
Tonight, someone asked me where the Mad Magazines were. He was standing directly in front of them. So I said “They’re right in front of you.” AND HE TURNED AROUND AND LOOKED UP ON THE WALL. And continued to scan the wall. The wall contains only four posters. There are no comics, and no magazines on it. So I said “Now they’re behind you.” And he turned around IN A COMPLETE CIRCLE and started looking to his right and left. As though, perhaps, the reason the magazines were now behind him was not because HE had moved but because THE MAGAZINES THEMSELVES were dancing around him. I entered a state of shock. So he came in my direction and stood in front of me, perhaps thinking I couldn’t tell the difference between the two of us and when I said “They’re right in front of you.” I meant “They’re right in front of me.” I ended up just walking him back to where he started from and pointing at them like I was The Ghost Of Christmas Fucken Future. You know the future, right? It’s directly behind you. Last night, on my way home from work, I was on the T, properly headphoned, when I noticed a person appeared to be talking in my direction. I removed my headphones, but the T was making the same noise peacocks make when they catch their wings in a paper shredder halfway through their Diamanda Galas medley, so I couldn’t hear him.
I moved closer to him, and he pulled a joint out from behind his ear and said “I just need to go somewhere and bang tonight.” "Hang?" I asked. "Bang." He smiled. I then moved further away from him, and decided to get off a stop early and go grocery shopping. He did not follow. This is rare, but whenever I see that someone has a major change of pets, I wonder what happened to them. A friend who’s now overseas gave up his bunny rabbit and two cats a few months ago, has just posted pictures of his new pets: two tarantulas and a scorpion.
I’m going to call him tomorrow and ask how he’s doing. But first I have to figure out how to phrase “So, what the fuck happened to you?” into something slightly less judgmental. Eleven year old to his…uncle?…godfather?
"I love the Bone books! I totally ran train on them this weekend." WHAT? While sitting at a coffeshop, a relatively cute guy voiced his approval of my Back To The Future 2 hat. A few minutes later, he was sitting across from me. Hands at his sides, sort of twitching his head (because I attract winners).
Guy: Sorry. The inside of my ears itch, and I don’t know how to make it stop. Me: Did you lose your fingers in a freak fisting accident. Guy: There are fisting accidents that you wouldn’t describe as freak? Maybe I do attract winners. From a nearly non-awkward first date:
Me: “I mixed up two of the digits in your phone number, and now some stranger wants to now why I need to meet them at Castlebar.” Him: “You think that’s bad? I dated a guy named Moe for a year. You haven’t been embarrassed until you’ve accidentally texted ‘It’s been a while, maybe you should pick up lube for tonight.’ to your mom.” I let a friend use my laptop for a few minutes, and was disturbed that the term “manhunt” showed up when he entered the letter “m”. Was the relieved to see that it was part of the phrase “martian manhunter” which is totally acceptable.
"Actually, I might have met someone."
There was a pause. I earned this pause. Three years of unrequited I love yous built up to this pause. "What's he like?" Sora asked. Who should I tell him about? The sweet, gorgeously nerdy drag queen? The stripper with the heart of platinum? The dancing actor with the scathing sense of humor and perpetual smile? Or #4, who had also just gotten out of a three year relationship, and who I was supposed to be meeting for lunch in a couple of hours. "He's a dancer." I said. "How old is he?" Really? Sora was, by far, the youngest person I'd ever dated. Eleven years younger. And our relationship made me pledge that I'd never date anyone with that much of an age discrepancy again. I was 32. #1 was 26. #2 was 24. #4 was 27. But #3, the dancer was "A month younger than you." "Really?" "What about you?" I asked. I was okay with answering questions about #3, but I really didn't want to get stuck on how old he was. He was only a month younger, calendar-wise. Maturity-wise, he was at least a decade older than Sora. Perhaps a couple of years older than me. "Well, there's this guy online. He's 27, runs a motel in the suburbs, and thinks I'm an amazing artist." "You are." He was. "Speaking of...." Pause. "Yea?" I asked. "I finally got into MassART." "Wow!" I said. "Congratulations!" "There's just one problem." Sora said. And I could smell the bullshit churning in his brain. "I need to get married." What now? "What now?" "Well, you know that minority scholarship they offered me a couple of years ago?" To be truthful, I probably wouldn't have remembered anything about the scholarship if it weren't for a night I spent in the kitchen with Ben and Celeste: "It's bullshit!" Ben had screamed. "Why does he deserve a scholarship more than me? I'm much smarter than he is." "Dude." Celeste said. "It's a minority scholarship. You know, to encourage diversity." "So why does he get it? He lives in suburban Rhode Island.Scholarships are for kids from the ghet-toe." I shot him The Velociraptor Look. "He's a gay Puerto Rican. As in born in Puerto Rico Puerto Rican. He's a double minority threat. Republicans hate him twice as much as they hate you." "But that's only because they don't know you well enough." said my other roommate, Sir Trick. He was still pissed that Ben had once borrowed his Michel Gondry DVD without permission. "Well." Sora said. "I got it for this year. But in order to get the scholarship for next year, I have to marry a Massachusetts resident." I laughed. "No. Sora. All you have to is establish residency. We talked about this when we lived on Mission Hill. All you need to do is pay a bill in Massachusetts in your name. Like, an electric bill or rent or something,." "No." He said. "For this scholarship, I need to be married to a Massachusetts resident." "Is it a green card scholarship?" I asked. Pause. "Sora." Pause. "Sora, I'm not marrying you." He sighed loudly. "I wasn't asking you." "Oh. Okay." "I..." Pause. "Some day. Maybe." I no longer believed in our potential Some Day. I shouldn't even have been talking to him. "Seriously!" #3 said, when I called him to schedule a make up date for our previous lack of encounter. "You need to change your address and phone number, and block him on Facebook." "Yea, yea, yea. Look, I'm going out to lunch with #4 today. Do you want to go out for drinks after?" "Seriously?" He asked. "Two dates in one day? And I'm the second one?" "You're the headliner." I said. Which really was how I was considering it. #4 seemed cutely nerdy, but I was already pretty certain that #3 was The Keeper. "Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine." He said. "Where should we meet?" My initial suggestion was "Tuatara's." The bar I took most of my first dates to ever since the night I introduced Ben, Celeste, and Sir Trick, several years previously. But #3 had other ideas, and we spent forty-five minutes debating a hundred possibilities before he said "Let's go to Tuatara's." Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. First, though, was lunch with #4. "My life is so weird right now!" He said. "How so?" I asked. "Well, ok! You know how I told you about my breakup last week, right?" I did. "Well, like, ok, yesterday, I got this awesome promotion at work. Which means I'm practically running the hotel now. And we have this regular customer who's just a huge pain in the ass, he comes every month for one weekend to visit his kid or something, and he's just this, like, total dillweed, and anyway, yesterday he he shows up with his kid, right? and he" I so did not care about anything he, like, had to say. "right in the pool?" Huh? "Isn't that hilarious?" "Yea. Wow." Two hours before I was supposed to meet #3 at Tuatara's. "and he was all like aren't you going to get off the phone, and I was like but this is an important call, and he's standing there and his suit is positively dripping, and he's like what is more important than your customers and I was like" He was, like, wicked fucken annoying. I pitied anyone who had to spend more than, like, an hour, like, listening to this guy and his dull dull stories. He was nice enough, but "and then he asked me to marry him, and I was like what?" "The customer asked you to marry him?" I asked. "Not the customer, silly. Are you listening to me? The guy. The art student. We went on, like, two dates, and he actually, like, proposed to me. I mean, he says it's for this weird art school scholarship thing, but I think it's--" Are you fucken kidding me? "Sora?" "Yea." He said. "How do you know his name?" "Oh. My. God." said #3. I was explaining to him why I needed to drink more than should be humanly possible that night. "So your date was proposed to by your ex? Your The Ex?" "Yea." I said, taking a sip of Tuatara Tea (which was all alcohol, no tea). "Hey, do you want to try this beer punch?" "What is it?" "I don't know." I said. "But it comes in a pitcher." "Bring it, bitch!" We were about halfway through the pitcher when #1 texted me, asking if I wanted to come over. "You should go!" #3 said. "Fuck, no." I said. "I'm having a good time with you." "Ok." And for the first time, his smile wrinkled into a half frown. "Here's the thing. I like you, but we're friends." What? "Huh?" "Yea, I don't knoooooooow. I just think we're friends." "But--" "Friends." I chugged another glass worth of beer punch, and filled it back up. "Friends." It didn't sound as firm when I said it. "You can still check out my ass, if you want." He said. "You just can't touch it." We only made it through 3/4s of the pitcher before we had to call it quits. I wasn't going to end my eleven year not puking streak just because I'd had my heart walloped twice in one day. "Awww, poor baby." said #1 when I took the T to his house. "Come to bed, daddy will make it all better." "Really?" I shot him The Spock Eye. "Daddy?" He kissed me. "Would you rather be Daddy tonight?" "I would rather we not be related." "Kinky." He said. When we were done being positively no relation to each other, he looked at me. "I'm not the one, am I?" "Don't be silly." I said "You're #1. That's as one as it gets." He smiled, and pulled my arms around him. "You're sweet." He said. "But you're a terrible liar." |
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