the only thing worse
than bad memories
is no memories at all..
[dismemberment plan]
4.12.2005
When Things Go Quickly From Bad to Worse.**
Imagine this scenario, if you would:
It's midnight on a Friday night, and I'm in a cab with a friend Harry going home from some terrible, ritzy club in Chelsea. The place was a fucking smorgasbordistic nightmare; - part seedy bar (ugly, leering barstaff), - part trendy lounge (blue lights and obnoxious rich young patrons eating room temperature sushi), - part dance club (loud house music and sluts), - part sports bar (two wide screens of football and soccer and visible buttcracks of fat viewers), - part pool hall (50% white college turds with backwards caps/50% short Azn gangsters in Banana Republic chinos and Skechers dress shoes), - part EVERYTHING ELSE ALL CRAMMED INTO ONE FUCKING SWEATY LITTLE SHITHOLE.
In any case, the place and how much it sucked is pretty irrelevant, I guess. Harry got out of the cab before I did, leaving me alone and very visibly drunk with a young male Egyptian cab driver. Shortly after Harry exited and the cab door slammed behind him, I heard the small, throaty, mucus-filled sound of the driver clearing his throat: "*AH-CHALAAHMM*"
It gave me a short, quick, nervous chill down my spine, similar to the effect of when Hispanic construction workers bellow chittering animal noises at me from the sidewalk (this happened Wednesday); or when wrinkly-faced, very obviously single old Chinese immigrant men (whilst eating dinner in the same restaurant in which they work as short-order chefs) start talking in a dialect that sounds like shattering glass (jing! jong! xiang!) while slyly pointing at me with their chopsticks as fried rice comes flying out from their gaping mouths (this happened today); or when old white guys with their remaining thinning hair shaped carefully into a mullet follow me down the street in their vans with their headlights off in the middle of the night (this happened last night); or when an old dirty Mexican man with acid-wash, elastic leg jeans and a matching denim elasticated cap grabs my ass going down the steps to the subway station and runs away cackling (this happened Friday). I digress, however -- The cab driver locked eyes with mine in the reflection in the rearview mirror and began to speak:
"Hallo I am Mohammed. What is your name?" "Trisha." "Your boyfriend is very lucky man." "Oh, that's not my boyfriend. He's just some stupid asshole." "Oh really? Lady you are most beautiful woman in world. I see you when you get in cab with your frieng and I say to myself, 'Wow. Wowie. She is beautiful woman in world. I am lucky to have her in cab even though some asshole greasy young man with her. I am lucky.' -- That is what I think to myself." "Ha ha, thank you --" "And I say to myself, 'For that kind of woman, wow, I would kill a boyfriend like that man for her. For you I mean. I would kill with my own hands because you so beautiful.'" "-- Uuuuuhhhh..." "Oh do not be afraid. That is not my way. I am kind man. Okay? You like Egyptian food? You call me anytime, I take break from work since I get off 5am, we get Egyptian food to eat, together. We will do that? Let me give you phone number."
At this point I'm pretty freaked out. I'm alone with this maniac who wanted to kill Harry, and I'm so drunk I'm practically sliding out of the seat onto the floor. I look down at my fat, drunk hands and see that my cell phone is sitting plainly in my left fist. So as he called out his series of 10 digits through which I was to contact him, I decided in my inebriated state that refusing would lead to much scarier consequences than were I to be a good sport and just punch the numbers into my phone -- to be deleted shortly after.
I took a quick glimpse of the eyes in the rearview mirror, and at that very moment we passed by a bright street lamp, and I saw the briefly illuminated jaundice-tinted yellow eyes glaring straight into my shivering soul, framed with the pulsating lattice of red veins. With this sight, I suddenly heard in my head the sound of tribal drums and natives chanting, and vividly pictured myself as Kate Capshaw as the ever-annoying "Willie" in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984) -- strapped into a cage-like contraption that I would years later compare to the wire french fry baskets I had to dip repeatedly into vats of boiling grease at Burger King -- as Mohammed stood on a rocky ledge in the fire-lit cavern, cackling with my pulsating heart gripped in his hand, his black eyeliner-rimmed eyes gleaming with sheer delight... all because I hadn't put his damn phone number in my cell phone.
So I did.
The traffic light was red and the wheels stopped spinning. He turned around, opened the plastic window between us a little wider and reached his large, hairy, faintly spicy hand at me and said, "Let me see if you get it right."
And I fell for the oldest trick in he book and gave it to him; he immediately pressed the green Send button to call himself with my phone to leave my number on his; the rest, as we like to say, is (call) history.
I clammed up for the rest of the ride and didn't speak unless I had to. Mercifully, the ride was just short of being interminable, and I tumbled out of the cab. The head of oiled, tightly curled, sheer black locks swiveled to look at me as I got out, and his face cracked open into a wrinkly yellow smile, and he said, "I will call you, Miss Tree-sha. We eat Egyptian fud. Hokay? You so beautiful."
Of course, I never answered my phone when I saw his number flash on my phone screen. I had him on my Caller ID as "MOhammed Crazy." For the next three or four days, I got at least seven calls a day from Mohammed. Luckily, my voicemail inbox gets filled up quickly, and he only left about 11 messages on my phone.
Here is what a few of them say:
:: "Hallo. Miss Tree-sha. It is I, Mohammed. I just driving around but taking a break now. I think about you all day, and how beautiful you are, I miss you so much. If you are free tomorrow I take you to dinner. Call me back, we will talk about America.* I miss you so much."
:: "Hallo. It is I Mohammed once again. I do not know if something wrong with your phone or you not picking up for some reason, I do not know. I thought today we were going to get Egyptian food from my country. I can't sleep at night thinking about your beautiful body and your face. I still want to kill that boy that you with that night. I miss you so much."
::"Miss Tree-sha, it is I, Mohammed. Please call me, this is the seventh time I call today, it is 3 in afternoon. It is Mohammed. I can't sleep anymore because when I think of you I cannot close my eyes and my heart beat so hard. You are so beautiful, I miss you so much."
::"Hallo. It is I, Mohammed. Please call me to tell me if I should not call anymore. Did you lose your phone? You have new boyfriend now? I think about you all day when I working and it hurts my body. Your breasts so beautiful, I wish I could just to touch. I think about you all of time. I miss you and love you so much."
What the FUCK!
* Strangely enough, when I was in Ireland, a British boy used the same line, "We will talk about America" on a friend of mine. Must be some weird international pick-up line that people learn to use with us stupid, horrible Americans. I ask again -- What the FUCK!
**UPDATE**: I just got a call from a "Restricted number," and this is what happened -- "Hello?" "Hello is this Tree-sha?" (I didn't think of the accent until later) "Yeah.. who's this?" "Tree-sha I think you are so hot. You are so beautiful--" "Huh? Who is this?? Hello?" "-- I think you so beautiful." *CLICK*
He's calling from a restricted phone number now!!!! Shit! I'd better start sleeping with one eye open and a knife under my pillow!!
[Peek-a-Foo]