Morons in Manhattan III

The twenty minutes that Ms. Wonderful spent in the bathroom were the most blissful twenty minutes I’ve experienced in a long time; but all good things must eventually come to an end—and that’s exactly what happened to my all-too-brief, drama free respite from Ms. Diva’s annoying yapper.

But alas, return she did, despite my wishing that she would either spontaneously combust in the bathroom, or somehow be magically teleported back to Puerto Rico, and out of our lives forever.

Unfortunately for me, my powers of wishful thinking go only so far.

I sensed her presence and I looked up from my plate to see the wondrous sight of Ms. Wonderful as she approached the table, staring at me with her disapproving, beady eyes and asshole-puckered lips—frowning as if I’d just forced her to take a bite out of a huge shit sandwich.

I rolled my eyes and looked away in sheer disappointment at the very unfortunate fact that she even exists, then I took a moment to prepare myself for as much brown-nosing as I can possibly bear without vomiting.

I instinctively lowered my eyes into the palms of my hands, rubbing them lightly, as if doing so would make her disappear from my sight.

No Luck.

She was still there as I looked up. I immediately slumped in my chair, thinking to myself, “Aw Christ, here we go.”

Trying to kiss her ass was about as easy and painless for me as trying to pass a marble-sized kidney stone after being dehydrated from drinking no liquids for two days.

In fact, I think I would’ve rather tried to successfully suck a baseball through one of those skinny little black cocktail straws you get in your drinks at Happy Hour.

I tried in vain for a few moments to think of a way to apologize without actually apologizing, so we could get through the day's itinerary in relative peace.

But after a few moments of that futile exercise, I just thought to myself, "Aw, screw it.”

“Why would I apologize?”

“For what?” I thought.

“For being direct and honest? I don’t think so.”

You see, the problem with me is, I have a Holden Caulfield-like dismay for anything phony; so not only am I very bad at pretending that I’m sorry when I’m not, I also can’t even stomach an attempt at coughing up some phony response just to play nicey-nice.

I’ll save that for puppies and children, thanks.

Maybe I’m just an ass; but at least I’m an authentic ass. And that, to me, is as sacred as any Holy Relic or scripture is to [insert pious, religious pilgrim of any faith here].

You simply can’t buy or put a price on authenticity, my friends.

So, all of this considered, I decided to just say whatever I needed to say, and let the chips fall where they may.

“Listen, I really need to be as straight-forward as possible with you here. I’m not good at sugar-coating things, so I need you to turn down your girly sensitivities for a minute. This way I can say what I need to say without pissing you off—again.”

I cringed for a moment, thinking the ‘girly sensitivities’ comment would set her off, but thankfully it didn’t.

Her non-verbal cues and facial expressions, however, tightened up like someone who was anticipating a punch in the face, or like someone who knows they’re about to hear bad news.

“Um…ok” she said, reticently.

“So here’s the deal…”

“You and I clearly don’t get along and don’t have much in common” I said.

She nods in agreement.

“I don’t trust you, I think you’re way too pretentious, you have no sense of humor, you’re too judgmental, you act like a spoiled brat, and you take way too goddamn long to go to the bathroom.”

She sits back in her chair, a bit shocked at what I had said.

“I know that’s some brutal honesty for ya, but I’m just telling it like I see it.”

Before she has a chance to respond, I continue:

“That said, you’re here and that’s the reality of the situation. We’re all here for a few days, so I just need you to know that I’m a sarcastic person, and if I sense someone is being fake or disingenuous, I’m gonna call them out on it.”

“Capiche?”

Immediately after I said it, I regretted saying ‘capiche,’ since I thought the word would fly over her head and I’d have to explain what it meant.

But that’s not the word that threw her off.

“What do you mean disingenuous?” She asked.

“Note to self,” I thought...

“Don’t use anything above a fourth grade vocabulary around her.”

In as patient a demeanor as I could muster, I replied, “That means when I think your full of shit, I’m gonna point it out, and I’m most likely gonna be sarcastic about it.”

“When was I full of shit?” she asked.

“Um, you’re full of shit when you use your Puerto Rican heritage as an excuse for the fact that you’re simply not as cultured as you’d like us to think you are” I said.

“I mean, give me a break—my parents are from Hispanic countries too, but they know what a goddamn Yuppie is! Just say you don’t know, but don’t blame it on being Puerto Rican, because that’s bullshit.”

She smirks and looks down like a little kid who’s been busted lying.

“I guess” she says, reluctantly.

“Whatever, you know it’s true.”

“Remember the time TD and I were talking and he threw out that Moby Dick reference?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you also remember that when we told you it was from Moby Dick, you asked, ‘What’s Moby Dick?’”

“Yeeeaah, and?” she replied.

“Great. She's yes-ing me to death now” I thought.

“So if you remember all of that, then how do you not remember that after we told you that Moby Dick is a book, you said, ‘Oh, well I’m from Puerto Rico, we don’t read books like Moby Dick there.’”

Smirking again, she says, “Oh yeah, I did say that. It’s true though…I think.”

“Ok. Welp, I hate to burst your bubble, but literature isn’t exclusive to people in the U.S.” I said.

“Believe it or not, people all over the world read literature, including those in Puerto Rico—which is, by the way, considered U.S. territory.”

“Well, I just never heard of it” she replied.

“So, just say you’ve never heard of it then” I retorted.

“When you blame your ignorance on being from Puerto Rico, you basically insult the intelligence of all people from Puerto Rico” I said.

“Not only does it piss me off when you say that, but you sound like a complete idiot.”

“Alright, fine” she replied.

“If I stop saying that, will you stop picking on me?”

During all this, TD motioned to the waiter for the check, and it arrived just before we finished the conversation.

“I haven’t been picking on you any more than I would anyone else…”

I paused for a moment, then replied, “Ok, well maybe I have.”

“All I ask is that you stop trying to be a bullshit artist.”

“I think I can deal with your pain-in-the-ass-ness for a few days if you can cut down on the bullshit” I said.

“Ok, I’ll try.”

I was tempted to reply with a Yoda reference from the movie Star Wars and say something like, "There is no try, only do!" But instead, I opted for something a bit more tame.

“I guess that’s all I can ask for” I replied.

Feeling relieved, TD pays for the check in cash, and we get up to leave. She put out her hand to shake mine and says, “So, we got a deal?”

I look at her hand, and in jest, I scoff at the gesture.

In a loud, obnoxious voice, I recall one of my favorite episodes of HBO’s Entourage and say, “Nah! No hand shaking on this one, we gotta hug it out bitch!”

We all laughed, the mood was light again, and were finally able to leave our little Café on 23rd Street and start our much anticipated Metropolitan adventure.

(continued from: Morons in Manhattan II)