I'm new here, in this neighborhood. Been here about a month. I don't know any of my neighbors yet, which is sort of unusual for me. I'm the kind of person that says "Hello" to the random people that live in my building. I smile and make small talk. I want them to like me. I want to like them. I've yet to make these connections in this place. I believe that I can trace it to one bizarre, five minute episode that's so typical of the bizarre, five minute episodes that seem to happen to me.
I'd been here about a week, and a shit ton of boxes and other moving detritus had piled up in my apartment. I'd been putting off taking it to the dumpster because, frankly, I didn't know where the dumpster was. One evening after work I went out to find the dumpster, making concentric circles around the property until I finally found the goddamn thing. Turns out I've got to navigate any number of staircases and obstacles to get there, so there is no chance I'm carrying all that shit. I load it up in my car and drive over there.
I pull up alongside the dumpster and throw it all in. Recyclables and all. I don't even care. I'm systematically destroying the Earth to exact revenge on my one-time fiance, full-time conservationist, all-time hideous bitch goddess. This is immature and passive aggressive, but I can accept that. The emo record fuck-you sendoff never really got off the ground. This is my revenge. Forgive me. I feel better with every Budweiser bottle that explodes in the dumpster. Take that! And that!
With my chores/therapy done for the day, I get back in my car to drive home. The dumpster is situated on a kind of one-way street behind a row of buildings. It's fairly straightforward that you're supposed to drive FORWARD on one-way streets, but I look to my right and see someone driving BACKWARDS the wrong way, right at me. The car is moving slowly, I am in no real danger. I am, however, at a loss as to what to do. I can't go anywhere. My only choice was to drive backwards as well, and that wasn't in the cards. The dumpster sits at the corner of an 'L' shape in the street, like this:
| C |
| | |
| | |
| v |
| F |____________
|D_______________
I'm pretty proud of that drawing, by the way.
So the other person's car is 'C,' as in and they're closing in on me. The dumpster is 'D' because dumpster begins with a 'D.' I'm at 'F' which stands for 'Fucked' but was too long to fit in the drawing.
Now mind you, I'm not worried about getting smashed. I'm worried about an embarrassing situation involving my neighbors. I want to be friendly guy, not idiot who blocks the dumpster guy. But I really can't do anything, and at this point I can make out the driver in her rearview mirror. My luck, of course, is that she is an attractive young woman. I make eye contact with her. I know she sees me. She continues to back up. I gesture fairly calmly. I make the universal sign for "I'm terribly sorry and somewhat embarrassed, but you see I'm stuck here and I am uncertain what to do. You are going the wrong way, but I'm new here and you're cute and I am totally willing to be the bad guy if it means I turn out to be the nice, understanding guy who admits when he is wrong. But, regardless, I don't know what to do right now so please don't hit my car." She can't decipher the message, she continues to back up.
She's closing fast now, and my sign language picks up in intensity. I gesture wildly. I put my hands up. I even honk my horn. She keeps backing up. Ten feet, five feet, three feet. At this point my mouth just hangs open. She drives directly into my car. She's hit the front, passenger side.
I get out of the car. I'm awestruck. I'm incredulous. I'm dumbfounded. I'm embarrassed for the both of us. I am not, however, angry. The damage, if any, is probably minor. My car is nice, but it's nothing insurance can't fix and I'm not the guy who cares about that kind of thing. I am, however, the kind of guy who appreciates that misfortune is sometimes awfully funny. I walk around my car to check things out. She gets out of her car.
There is no politically correct way to put this. She has some sort of physical disability. She has a pronounced limp. She also has one of those little mini-arms, sort of like a tyrannosaurus rex. Some might call that description 'insensitive.' I call it 'apt.' I am immediately ashamed. This is a woman who probably has enough shit to deal with on a regular basis, and now this has happened. I immediately feel sorry for her. I smile. I beckon to her. My expression says, "It's ok, fucked up shit happens sometimes. I forgive you." She walks (more like waddles) right up to me and says (more like slurs):
"Why didn't you move?!"
I almost ask her to repeat herself. Are you kidding? You can't be serious! "I had nowhere to go, I thought you saw me" is my only defense. "I did see you, I thought you would know to move." Know to move! I don't know what to say. I have a million plausible defenses, none of which I feel like employing. I feel like a heel. Three minutes ago I'm thinking "Don't hit my car, cute new neighbor" and now I'm thinking "Goddamn T-Rex just rolled me on purpose." I hate myself for being so shallow. I hate her for being so stupid.
This story has no real ending. Turns out that, miraculously, her bumper has collided with my front tire, which was turned to the right in anticipation of, you know, driving the right fucking way down the one-way fucking street after I finished with the fucking dumpster. I have no damage. She has only minor damage, which she is kind enough to explain that she won't 'call the cops' about. I laugh at that. I've held in the laughter this long, I can't take it anymore. I laugh because the cops will hear the story and laugh. I will explain it, they will understand it, and somehow I will be charged with reckless driving and forced to pay for this. My premiums will go up. I will go broke. I will be forced to move into this fucking dumpster where parking is anything but ample.
In the days after this, I anticipate meeting new neighbors and explaining the story. We will laugh at the stupid lady that hit my car. I will regale them with my hyperbole and theatrics. I get no such opportunity. I've been ostracized. From that day forward I have not encountered anyone. Turns out the joke is on me. I reckon that T-Rex is the hub of the community, and I've been blacklisted. Ah well, what can you do? Nothing really, except WALK to the fucking dumpster from now on.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Friday, May 27, 2005
...and THAT'S why I will never go to Hooters again.
OK look don't tell anyone, but I've become a square. Not that I was ever the paragon of cool, but I'd like to think that at one point in my life I was at least somewhat with it. Lately, that's not so much the case. This fact is put on painful display at work, where I have recently joined a firm whose entire staff appears to be younger than me. I just turned 30, and I'm over the hill. My problem is compounded because I cannot relate to the people that I work with. They're nice enough, but they're shopping for minivans and starter homes. Just take this example: my boss (who is a solid four years younger than me) has not only never heard of the 9:30 club, she also met her husband-to-be at the Shark Club in Centreville. Needless to say, these people can't understand the aging rock and roll hipster vibe I'm trying to cultivate.
Of the people that I have met at my new job, I feel closest to my colleague Jessica. I've begun a campaign to try to convince her that, if I had it my way, I wouldn't be wearing Dockers and talking about public policy. I'd be wearing jeans and talking about public policy. She's not buying it. Can't say I blame her. I don't have much evidence to the contrary. That is, I didn't until last weekend.
A few Fridays ago your Washington Wizards defeated the Chicago Bulls at MCI Center, and boy did we get drunk at the game. Stumbling out of the arena with my best friend Ed, drunk with victory and full of seven dollar Budweisers, we decided to get another drink at a bar in the neighborhood before heading back uptown. Of course the bars were packed with fans, and we mostly wanted some space so we could talk about the game. We needed a bar that wasn't so crowded, where we could drink on the cheap and pat each other on the back for being such great fans. Unfortunately, the only bar that fit this description was Hooters.
We loved the irony. We loved the juxtaposition of two guys who just know they're too cool for Hooters surrounded by a bunch of guys that think Hooters is too cool for these two dorks that just walked in. We sit down, we order a beer, we laugh, and we have a good time. For ten minutes. Then it just gets depressing. Look, Hooters just sucks. I doubt I need to get into why. I had never been, but now I have. Hooters may as well be Studio 54 when you're a kid in the suburbs. Then you grow up and find out it's Ruby Tuesday in hotpants. Sigh. Nothing remarkable happened.
Until Monday morning.
I finally had a story about a crazy thing I did. I went to Hooters! People in the suburbs have heard of Hooters! It's almost like a strip club, only the women are wearing clothes and they've got buffalo wings! I couldn't wait to tell Jessica. I log on to our network and bring up our corporate instant messenger program. I pick out Jessica's name, and I send her this message:"I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do you think of that?"
Total and complete lack of response from Jessica.
This should have been a bombshell, this should have been instant punk rock credibility. See?! I'm whimsical! I can stare at half-naked 19 year old girls any time I want! But no, silence. I start to panic. Maybe Jessica works at Hooters? Maybe she had a bad Hooters experience? Wait a minute, what's a good Hooters experience? Anyway, something was amiss.
Then I take a closer look at the "To:" field.
FUCK! I sent this to the WRONG FUCKING JESSICA! This Jessica is a complete stranger. Their last names are remarkably similar, but they are indeed different. I'm new in the company, I want to make a good impression, I'm supposed to be the straight and narrow guy. The sweat comes in rivers. I re-read what I wrote. Dear God, I've just typed the creepiest pickup line in history: "I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do YOU think of that?" Insert smarmy glance and improper touching. Oh shit, I'm dead. I'm fired. I'm going to get sued for sexual harassment. I'm going to get blackballed. I'm going to have to move in with my mother and get registered as a sex offender.
While I'm acting out the final, miserable years of my destroyed life in my head, the Other Jessica still hasn't responded. I type a series of apologies. Still nothing. I confess to Real Jessica, who might be the first person in history to type "LMAO" while she is actually doing it. She tells me not to be embarassed- if anything she should be embarassed, because Other Jessica is going to think that Real Jessica is the kind of girl who thinks going to Hooters is hot. That's a fair point. But I'm not fucking embarassed, I'm paranoid! Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Still nothing from Other Jessica.
I have to do something. I have to head this off. I have to act proactively, swallow my pride, and just admit to being a fucktard. I can do this. I take deep breaths. I ask my boss (Mrs. Shark Club) if I can speak to her in private. She agrees. She looks concerned. I blush. I confess. She listens. She can't hold it any longer. She giggles. She laughs. She howls. "I already know Bryce, everyone knows. She didn't respond to you because she was telling everyone what an idiot you are. Don't worry, it's fine, she thinks it's kind of funny."
So now I endure Hooters jokes at work. I'm not sure if I prefer these to the square jokes, but they certainly take the attention off my Dockers.
Of the people that I have met at my new job, I feel closest to my colleague Jessica. I've begun a campaign to try to convince her that, if I had it my way, I wouldn't be wearing Dockers and talking about public policy. I'd be wearing jeans and talking about public policy. She's not buying it. Can't say I blame her. I don't have much evidence to the contrary. That is, I didn't until last weekend.
A few Fridays ago your Washington Wizards defeated the Chicago Bulls at MCI Center, and boy did we get drunk at the game. Stumbling out of the arena with my best friend Ed, drunk with victory and full of seven dollar Budweisers, we decided to get another drink at a bar in the neighborhood before heading back uptown. Of course the bars were packed with fans, and we mostly wanted some space so we could talk about the game. We needed a bar that wasn't so crowded, where we could drink on the cheap and pat each other on the back for being such great fans. Unfortunately, the only bar that fit this description was Hooters.
We loved the irony. We loved the juxtaposition of two guys who just know they're too cool for Hooters surrounded by a bunch of guys that think Hooters is too cool for these two dorks that just walked in. We sit down, we order a beer, we laugh, and we have a good time. For ten minutes. Then it just gets depressing. Look, Hooters just sucks. I doubt I need to get into why. I had never been, but now I have. Hooters may as well be Studio 54 when you're a kid in the suburbs. Then you grow up and find out it's Ruby Tuesday in hotpants. Sigh. Nothing remarkable happened.
Until Monday morning.
I finally had a story about a crazy thing I did. I went to Hooters! People in the suburbs have heard of Hooters! It's almost like a strip club, only the women are wearing clothes and they've got buffalo wings! I couldn't wait to tell Jessica. I log on to our network and bring up our corporate instant messenger program. I pick out Jessica's name, and I send her this message:"I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do you think of that?"
Total and complete lack of response from Jessica.
This should have been a bombshell, this should have been instant punk rock credibility. See?! I'm whimsical! I can stare at half-naked 19 year old girls any time I want! But no, silence. I start to panic. Maybe Jessica works at Hooters? Maybe she had a bad Hooters experience? Wait a minute, what's a good Hooters experience? Anyway, something was amiss.
Then I take a closer look at the "To:" field.
FUCK! I sent this to the WRONG FUCKING JESSICA! This Jessica is a complete stranger. Their last names are remarkably similar, but they are indeed different. I'm new in the company, I want to make a good impression, I'm supposed to be the straight and narrow guy. The sweat comes in rivers. I re-read what I wrote. Dear God, I've just typed the creepiest pickup line in history: "I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do YOU think of that?" Insert smarmy glance and improper touching. Oh shit, I'm dead. I'm fired. I'm going to get sued for sexual harassment. I'm going to get blackballed. I'm going to have to move in with my mother and get registered as a sex offender.
While I'm acting out the final, miserable years of my destroyed life in my head, the Other Jessica still hasn't responded. I type a series of apologies. Still nothing. I confess to Real Jessica, who might be the first person in history to type "LMAO" while she is actually doing it. She tells me not to be embarassed- if anything she should be embarassed, because Other Jessica is going to think that Real Jessica is the kind of girl who thinks going to Hooters is hot. That's a fair point. But I'm not fucking embarassed, I'm paranoid! Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Still nothing from Other Jessica.
I have to do something. I have to head this off. I have to act proactively, swallow my pride, and just admit to being a fucktard. I can do this. I take deep breaths. I ask my boss (Mrs. Shark Club) if I can speak to her in private. She agrees. She looks concerned. I blush. I confess. She listens. She can't hold it any longer. She giggles. She laughs. She howls. "I already know Bryce, everyone knows. She didn't respond to you because she was telling everyone what an idiot you are. Don't worry, it's fine, she thinks it's kind of funny."
So now I endure Hooters jokes at work. I'm not sure if I prefer these to the square jokes, but they certainly take the attention off my Dockers.
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