| I'll never forget you. |
| Sunday, January 31st, 2010 He didn't look like a crack-head. He didn't stink of alcohol. He didn't look homeless. But the old black man in front of CVS had some questions for me. He led in with, "Hey, man, I gotta ask you something. I see you have earrings in your face." I anticipated the typical "did that hurt" conversation, so I told him to ask away. "Why don't South Americans understand The Dozens?" Ok, I thought. It's a joke. I put on a little smile and waited for the punch line. He looked at my jacket and said, "You was in the military, right?" Odd. "Yup. I was enlisted from-" "So you know what The Dozens is, right? You know, like 'Your momma!'" He emphasized "your momma" by giving a small lunge forward. "Yeah yeah, we used to play that all the time in the military," I lied, taking a couple small steps backwards. He had a cigarette in one hand, and the other was in his jacket pocket. I kept an eye on it, and was grateful there were other people around. "Alright, so you know The Dozens. Now, why don't people from South America get it?" "I don't know, man. Why don't people from South America get The Dozens?" "That's what I'm asking you. I don't know why. But you get where I'm coming from, right?" "Totally. Hey, I don't want to be rude, but my girl's waiting for me inside, yaknowhatimean?" "Oh yeah, go ahead! But you get where I'm coming from, right?" "Oh yeah! I'm with ya!" As I walked into the store hoping he wouldn't follow, one more, "YOU KNOW WHERE I'M COMING FROM, RIGHT," rang out from the sidewalk. I gave a thumbs-up and quickened my pace. Did not see that one coming. Friday, January 8th, 2010 I took a seat at the bar next to a young, pale, bespectacled guy. I sipped my rum and diet and watched some sports show where martial artists went through some sort of brick- and board-breaking obstacle course. I wondered why all martial arts competitions didn't have this event. The guy leaned over to the bartender and ordered another beer. When the bartender returned with his Corona, the guy said, "How do you catch a cab around here? I called twice and have been waiting for an hour! I don't want to walk home, it's fucking cold outside!" The guy's voice has a thick quality to it, like he's struggling with the words. I thought he was drunk until the bartender says jokingly, "Cold outside? What, are you from Russia?" The guy responds, "Yes!" Quickly apologizing, the bartender offers to call a cab for him. Jumping on the opportunity to prove that not all Americans are bad people, I pulled out my phone and offered to help. There's no excuse for a lush in the 21st century to not have a cab on speed dial. While we waited the requisite ten to fifteen minutes, I chatted with him for a bit. Currently living in Switzerland, it was his first time in America, visiting family. He said I looked just like a friend of his named Zerg ("Yes, just like in the computer game."), and asked to take a picture of me to show him. Miami is "the sexiest city he's ever been in." I checked the time and told him the cab should be there any minute. He said, "I will bet you a drink that the cab will not come in ten minutes. If it comes in ten minutes, I will buy you whatever drink you want. If it does not, you will buy me a drink." Just as I agreed to these terms, the cab pulled up. I told him to forget it, but he insisted and, well... free whiskey is free whiskey. Safe travels back to Switzerland, Gary! Tell Zerg I said "Hi!" Tuesday, December 29th, 2009 I was standing by the Big Buck Safari game, sipping my drink as I waited to go on. I casually scanned the crowd (as people watchers are wont to do) when I saw a flurry of activity to my left in my peripheral vision. A cute brunette in a large coat rolled her eyes, turned, and walked off. The object of her derision was a slender man, about 5'8. He had short, stylish black hair, thick black eyebrows that gave him a brooding look, and was dressed in an all-black three piece suit. He was every inch the Hollywood caricature of "Oily Bastard." He looked like a James Bond villain. The reason a girl like the brunette would roll her eyes that way at a guy like this were quickly becoming clear. As I was thinking about that, I accidentally made eye contact with him. I gave him five seconds. On the four count, he walked over and (as convention dictates in these situations) stood uncomfortably close to me. He paused there for a moment, subtly swaying back and forth, and took a sip of his drink. He pointed towards where the girl had walked off to and said, "Fuck her, right?" "Uh, yeah, fuck her, I guess." "I mean, we don't need her, right?" I casually sidestepped the subtleties of that statement. "Well, let me ask you. Is she worth it it? If she is, then go after her right now. Stop talking to me, put your drink down, and go." "But how do I know if she's worth it?" "That's not really something I can answer. You have to decide if your life would be worse without her." "I mean, I'm going to Florida in three days for about six months, and..." At that moment, the brunette came back. Describing the look on her face won't do it the slightest bit of justice, but there was love, sympathy, pride, joy, and hope, all at once. I knew that look was being wasted on him, and it broke my heart. She started in with, "I couldn't just leave you like this." I slowly moved away and went outside to smoke, not wanting to interfere with their Moment. I came back in and didn't see them, so I took a spot at the bar and watched the guy currently performing put on a tough act to follow. A couple minutes later, Oily Bastard walks back in, sans Brunette in Big Coat. He quickly looks around, spies a blond and a brunette hanging out at a table, and moves in. I can't hear what's being said, but it's clear introductions are being made. Thirty seconds into the conversation, he's got his hand on brunette's upper arm. Twenty seconds after that, he leans in to say something, wraps his arm around the brunette, and grabs her ass. Just like that. I tune out, disgusted, and give my full attention back to the guy on-stage. I thought my opinion of him was as low as it could get, but then Oily Bastard comes over to the bar next to me to order three Redheaded Sluts. His head blocked my view of the stage. My opinion hit terminal velocity. I went on shortly after he went back to the table with the shooters, and didn't see what came after. When I was done with my set, I overheard the two girls talking about him as I walked by. "Yeah, he was really creepy. He said he just broke up with his girlfriend or something, and..." He had apparently left at that point. I saw him try to come back in a little later, but the bouncer turned him away. Brunette in Big Coat, my heart goes out to you. A special note to the female readers: A free shot is not worth your dignity. If you let some random dickhead grab your ass and walk away without severe ball pain, you are encouraging him to continue that behavior. |