the only thing worse
than bad memories
is no memories at all..
[dismemberment plan]
7.01.2005
Creepsters, Introduced.
There are definitely advantages to being a friendly young girl in New York City. I've never wanted to be the stuck up, miserable-looking type storming down the sidewalk with a mini-pooch tucked under her arm, a tight pony tail whipping people in the face, returning smiles with a wrinkled grimace. I always make sure I smile back, say "thank you," and treat people with respect. Cab drivers love that I don't treat them like soulless, turbaned infidels and give me free rides. Deli workers give me free sandwiches. Old lonely men buy me drink after drink and cackle at my drooling, helpless state -- okay maybe that one isn't a great example.
There's also advantages to being a regular at places. I stop by the Mister Softie truck by my work everytime I'm up there just to say hi to Ricky the ice cream man. I had a bad day at work last week and was bitching about it to him, and he said, "Come on, let's go for a ride." Yes, I know that sounds like something someone would say in either (1) a rape situation or (2) a porno movie, but I knew nothing would happen so I got to enjoy a joyride in a Mister Softee truck, speeding along Broadway and eating as much ice cream as I could. It was really fucking surreal and probably the coolest fucking thing ever.
I was at this one diner where I go to at least 3-4 times a week to pick up a sandwich for my boss's lunch (yes, I am the office bitch) where the workers there either call me "La Chinita" or "Rockstar." There's two people there who are definitely lunatics. The one is an enormous Hispanic man who looks at me with big, sad, bloodhound eyes and says shit like, "You so beautiful," or "I love you, you are my wife (life?)," very softly under his breath while toasting my boss's tuna melt. I wonder if he thinks I don't hear him? Because I do, and it's very strange.
My boss usually gets an egg salad sandwich with bacon, lettuce, and tomato, and I usually don't care much for eggs and the mayo in the salad, but today, it looked so good I ordered one for myself, too. "This one for you?" the big fat old Hispanic man asked. "Yes." "I put extra egg and bacon on for you ohiloveyouyousobeautiful." "No no that's okay." "Shh -- Shhh. For you yousobeautifuliwishimarryyouohmygod."
He was sweating so much and breathing so hard, I thought he was going to pass out. I looked at my big bulging sandwich packed with what looked like about 12 hard boiled eggs and 17 slices of bacon. I should have just asked for a liquefied pig slurry to slurp up through a straw instead. If he really wanted to "cut me a break," he should have immediately slapped the sandwich out of my hand and thrown a treadmill and a couple of Pilates video tapes at my face. Instead, he winked and gave me the sandwich, which was already starting to soak through the deli paper. When I left, he waved and said, "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I SEE YOU TUESDAY, ROCKSTAR." He called into the backroom, "Mira, La Chinita is leaving!" and a gaggle of small Hispanic men tumbled out of the kitchen doors and waved goodbye while making chittering animal noises, their plastic gloves covered in bacon grease and salad dressing.
There's another guy who is even crazier than that, which is hard to believe. He is this scrawny Indian fellow with a withered face and long, frizzy, wavy hair tied back into a ponytail. He says the weirdest fucking shit, like, "When I see you, it is a gift from the great gods above shining, down from the heavens," or "I must give you food that reflects your eternal beauty (which apparently was vegetable lasagne)."
He saw me standing in line at the cash register today with my greasy egg salad sandwiches, and came up to me, his bloodshot eyes wild with excitement and a thick mustache of sweat gathering on his upper lip. He still had his plastic gloves on as he gripped my forearm. "It is you. Listen to me. Meet me outside where we first met (?!?!)."
I had no idea what he meant by that, and I told one of the normal people that worked there that if he never saw me again, he knew who had killed me. I took the usual route back to work, and saw him hiding in the alley behind the diner with a small package wrapped in a brown paper bag.
"I did not get to make this formal, but I got you this present." "What?? I'm sorry I can't take this." "It is for you! You know, from me. As friends, nothing more." "I really can't, but thank you." "Take it, it is for you, no expectations. I will be sad if you don't. I got it for you since you are a big ROCKSTAR." "I.. um."
(Then the conversation got weirder.)
He continued, "Listen, I am celibate! I couldn't have sex with you anyway." "What??!" "That's right, for ten years, no wife, no girlfriend, no sex. I can't." "I, uh.." "That is why women are so attracted to me, because MY SPERM IS SO--"
That is when I screamed, "ACK!" and walked away really fast, convinced that the box contained his castrated, bloody dick.
I didn't even realize I still had the package in my hands until I ran into my coworker in front of the elevator in the lobby. "What's that?" he asked. "Some freak just gave this to me. I'm too afraid to even open it." My coworker shook his head and took the package from me and unwrapped it.
Inside, wrapped in stained white deli paper, was without question what every "rockstar" would dream of having: An opened box of the fragrance "Still" by Jennifer Lopez.
[Peek-a-Foo]