Two summers ago I took a job as a waitress in a pizzeria. The goal was to work somewhere low-key where I could rock high-tops. I might’ve made a career of it, had it not been for my ‘attitude’ and my haphazard task performances. Like steaming milk. Yes, I steamed that milk pretty hot. A little too hot. One day I saw my negligence pinned to the wall in a note:
Jane, not sure how it came about, but Julia thought that your milk (steamed) was on the verge of being too hot. So just watch that.
Pretty outrageous behavior, I know. But to my credit I did list ‘crazy fucking misanthrope’ on my resume. Guess that was one bullet point they overlooked.
One good thing about the job was that I met Chris, a hot waiter who asked me out. That turned out to be bad though…
At the bar:
We had some drinks. He told me he is an activist. I shrugged and went home with him anyway because he was cute and I was drunk.
At his place:
He turned on the TV! Mama, why? Seinfeld came on and he actually left it there. I was repulsed because I know that television is for the lesser species that can’t differentiate between reality and anxiety ridden trite garbage. Except for CSI Miami. That shit rules. But I’m sorry, I just can’t relate to Seinfeld watchers. Jerry Seinfeld’s bulky ass white 90’s high-tops (not form fitting, streamlined ones like mine) and those laugh tracks drive me crazy! And why do people always bring up a Seinfeld episode when something really banal happens in their lives, as if they just got the point of the show? “Like, oh my god, we’re totally waiting in line for this cake. No way, it’s just like that Seinfeld episode when Elaine has to wait in line for that cake! Haha, remember that one?” Dude, SHUTUP! No one cares!
“Can we turn the channel?” I asked, about to go ape. He obliged and we settled on Tommy Boy.
“I can recite this movie verbatim,” he said. Paused. And then, I SWEAR TO GOD, blinked a small river of tears down his face.
“Oh shit. What’s wrong?” I blurted.
“Chris Farley actually had a really sad and depressing life. I wrote an essay on him around the time of his untimely death. People only ever laughed at him, not with him, and he just couldn’t get beyond that. It’s really sad.”
I think I thought something to myself like “no fucking way is this fucking happening” and then faked a coughing fit and excused myself to retrieve some water. Looking for a glass, I opened a kitchen cupboard, and instead found a cacophony of herbal remedies and elixirs. There were approximately 5 boxes of colon blow tea, flower essences to increase ‘groundedness and psychic abilities’, and 1 bottle of probiotic pills. Wait, did this guy have a fucking yeast infection?!
Eventually we cut the chitter chatter and started to make out. It sucked that he kept saying ‘Jesus Christ’ over and over, but it sucked even more that he had such a boney body with a concave chest to boot. It also sucked that he was wearing those bullshit oversized boxers. C’mon boys, you gots to rock those hot tighties—preferably in a cute color from American Apparel, I don’t care how hipster it is. Fuck it, go commando! But please, kick those jr. high school saggin’ baggins to the curb. I mean, you don’t see me rockin’ my goddamn period underwear here, do you? I digress. So he kept trying to penetrate and I kept holding off because that underdeveloped part my brain was saying, “Slow down Jane, this could be boyfriend material here!”
“I really like you,” he said lying on top of me.
“Huh?”
“I have the biggest crush on you,” he continued.
“What?”
“We must really respect each other.”
“Really?” I queried. “Why?”
“Because we’re practically naked and we’re not even having sex!”
Respect: What you get when you don’t let someone rape you.
Our next date began at the Griffith Park Observatory. This is when you drive to the top of a mountain and look down on a depressing shithole called Los Angeles. I was sick with a cold, so please no hiking was my only request. Of course, that’s precisely what we did. I was pitting out and not looking cool when we got to the top. And then he puked up something he referred to as “clarity and vision.”
“I know what I want to do with my life.”
“Really?” I inquired. This could be the most stimulating thing he’s said yet.
“Yeah I wanna go back to school.”
Psssht. Join the club.
“So, what exactly do you want to do?” I asked.
“Design the Future.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to be a social designer of the future.”
“What?”
Maybe it was the altitude, but I started getting a freaky Xenu vibe. I needed to
clear things up.
Eventually, I helped him to know that what he really wanted was to pursue a double major in two things he’d never heard of before: Urban Planning and Public Policy. On our hike back down the mountain, Chris sing-sang the letters: U.P.P.P. (YOU Pee PEE pee. YOU Pee PEE pee) as a mnemonic device to remember his new path in life and I too felt a moment of clarity: I was dating a moron.
We returned to his studio where Chris lectured me on the topsoil crises and the dangers of factory farming. Then he ate some pizza while I rubbed his sinewy bicycle legs. Soon, I became entranced by 5 long black hairs sprouting from Chris’ skeletor back. I fell into a vortex and reached Nirvana, which probably explains why I succumbed to having sex with him.
Our next and last date was not really a date at all. It was a time for Chris to tell me that he did not like me anymore, but not to worry because it was not my fault. He did this sort of thing—gets really into girls for about a week or two and then never talks to them again—all the time.
“I have issues,” he informed me on our walk down Sunset in Silverlake.
Yeah, I know, they’re growing on your back.
“There’s probably a roomful of girls out there who I’ve done this to.”
Yeah, I’m sure they’re all commiserating in a room together and reading Oprah magazine, speculating on how the magic was lost.
“Yeah well, you’re a fucking douchebag—a guy who just wants to fuck, no different than all the rest. No big surprises here.” I said.
“Hey now, that’s not true,” he said, “I’m not just some dick who goes around trying to get laid all the time. And anyway, when I’m horny, I simply meditate and channel that sexual energy back into my chi.”
I couldn’t wait to hear more, but just then we happened upon a really neat looking shop and I bid farewell to Chris.
“Well, I’m having a really good time and all, but I’m gonna go in here now. See ya on the flipside!”
Rough Trade:
Rough Trade is a unique little store where you can purchase slave labor handicrafts from developing countries at an affordable price. I’m kidding. It’s a dirty nasty neighborhood sex shop! Here you buy handicrafts for your slave. Which reminds me.
“Eww,” I said peering at a life-sized replica of a gimp strapped in his chambers. “Gross.”
Then, out of nowhere some idiot behind me barked: “Shhhh. God, Shutup!”
I turned around and the biggest idiot of all time materialized before my very eyes.
“Um, huh? Chris?“ I stumbled.
“You know these people take pride in their shop and the things in it. You can’t just come in here and criticize their products.” Then he acknowledged the big leather bear daddy behind the counter saying, “Sorry man, I’ve got to teach this one some manners.”
Uh uh. No.
“First of all, Shithead. What are you even doing here?”
“You said see you on the inside.”
“Oh my god, I said see you on the flipside!” The situation was too retarded to even deal with. “I can’t even deal. I’m outta here. And by the way,” I said to the shopkeeper, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t like gimps.”
“It’s okay, Honey,” He said. “You may not like getting fisted either, but I do. To each their own!”
Finally, some goddamned respect. Thank you, Mr. Leather Bear Daddy. Thank you.
