july 3 2000

the july 4 excursion, part II:
part I was present tense; i fully recognize this. but it's also three days later, and i'm just trying to recap without sacrificing too much tone. if dem cyaan deal widdit, we nah matter dat. so on the drive from the train station, we stopped at a pasta-pizza place in new lebanon, new york--"frescoe's." actually, maybe it's "frescoes," because an italian restaurant should probably name itself after something, you know, renaissancey, instead of after a grapefruit soda. a chalkboard immediately inside the door said:

soups du jour: [note: i'm thoroughly tempted to write "soup du jours," but that's not what it really said. all in the name of verisimilitude]
italian sausage
cold strawberry soup

such that the single use of the word "soup" implies a single very repulsive concoction. no one ordered it. the meal was unexceptional, save for when i got up to go to the bathroom. this isn't something i would normally share, except that the walls of the bathroom were festooned with those multi-picture frames. it's not even that the walls of the bathroom were festooned with those multi-picture frames, it's that the pictures all involved employees and regulars of the restaurant. it's not even that, really. but picture a restaurant in rural upstate new york where all the employees and regulars have big walrus mustaches but aren't in the village people. now imagine walking into a bathroom and seeing dozens of pictures of these same men, "guys' guys," if you will, wearing dresses and/or fake breasts and groping each other and/or waggling their tongues lasciviously at each other and/or the camera. the sensation was somewhat akin to turning on the nashville network to watch your favorite bass fishing show, but seeing all the flannel-clad coors light fans making out in their rowboats.

we tried to shake off the vague unease that the images left in our heads, so we headed back to kay's to drop our bags off, lie around for a half-hour, then go to one of the two bars in town. well, there are technically five, but there are only two worth going to, although one of them is so faux-mediterranean and "bistro" that it doesn't count. plus its bathrooms are utterly permeated with the smell of cumin (which i used to think was just "ass") from the kitchen. yeah, so the other one, that's where we went. and it's where i ran into a bunch of people i hadn't seen in far too long, and where i began playing darts, and where i unwittingly became quarry for an underage nymphet. 

not that i knew that at the time. i was just throwing triple-20s and minding my own zip code when she walked through my friends to me and asked if she could play too. get a partner, said proven, and you can get winners. lo and behold, as soon as a our game finished, there she was. at this point, i'd like to send a fat finger out to the three people who melted away as soon as she came back ("well," said jeff, "she made it pretty clear that she wanted to play with you."). we traded names, started to play, and homegirl turned into thuggette of the month. some highlights from the ensuing banter:

 her:  i hope bitches don't try to start shit up in here. bitches be hatin' on me." [it was at this point that she showed me a scar on her shoulder that she had gotten in a fight the fortnight previous.]
 me: ...
 my brain: this girl is tripping.

 her: you ever hear of s.o.c.?
 me: no, that a club?
 her: nah, nah.
 me: that a set?
 her [conspiratorially]: nah, nah, that's my fam. 
 me: ...
  my brain: someone's been watching too much rap city on BET, kid.
 her: we stay drunk. shit, i had a liter of southern comfort and a half liter of captain morgan before we even rolled up in here.
 me: damn, how old are you?
 my brain: damn, how old is she?
 her: 20.
 me: ...
 my brain: who the fuck is this girl?

 her: i want to give you my number.
 me: i'm not stopping you.
 my brain: yo, you're not really about to call this girl, are you?
 me, to brain: relax, kid.
 me: so who you stay with?
 her: just me and my babies. (no, not baby. babies. like plural).
 my brain: daaaaaaaaamn!
 me: uh. how many babies you got?
 her: two.
 my brain: daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn!

20 years old, two babies at home, drunk as hell. just ridiculous. it wasn't even darts, seeing as how she was too drunk to do much but press herself into me and play with her tongue stud like she was doing something for me. too sad to be flattering.

to recap: italian sausage cold strawberry soup. we stay drunk. thank you.

p.