Category: In a Cafe
“Dude, you are so domesticated.”
I smiled with a nod. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
I regarded my friend with a quizzical arch of the brow. “Your jealousy is so transparent.”
“I’m not jealous. What’s to be jealous of? Pssh. I’m not jealous.”
I grinned. “Okay, whatever you say man.”
He scooted his chair to the left, pushing his coffee mug with him. “Okay, let me tell you how lame being domesticated is.”
I waved him on. “Please, tell me.”
He cleared his throat. “First, it means your girl’s got you by the balls. You gotta do whatever she says now. Be at home by a certain time. No drinking late with your friends. No more parties and hangovers. No more—”
“Hold on man, I’m going to stop you right there. Do you honestly, seriously, in all sincerity, think I still want to be doing any of those things of my own volition?”
“Yea. Well… no? You don’t, I’m guessing?”
“Damn right I don’t. I’m too old for that crap. Hangovers? Dude. C’mon. Hangovers?”
“Well, I don’t mean hangovers are the goal, they’re just the end result of a good night…”
“A hangover for me is not the sign of a good night. Maybe when I was in college, but even then, I never aimed for a hangover. Who in their right mind aims for a hangover? I never did. And as an adult, definitely not.”
He rubbed his chin. “Okay…”
“And ‘got me by the balls?’ Really? Did you really just say that?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, sure,” I nodded slowly. “I know what you mean. Because I don’t go out and party all night long means my girl has me by the balls. That’s what you mean, right?”
“Yea…”
“And that presupposes that she ordered me to stay home. Hence the ‘by the balls’ comment, right?”
“Um…”
“So if I tell you I do not want to party all night long anymore, because I am a tired old man who needs his sleep, otherwise I’m a cranky bastard in the morning, does that constitute following an order by someone else?”
“Well, no…”
I sat back in my chair. “So what else you got, Sherlock? Tell me what else is lame about being domesticated.”
He shifted in his seat. Coughed. Cleared his throat again. “Fine. Point B, it means your ass no longer has freedom. You can’t just take off on a road trip, or hit Vegas for a weekend, or—”
“No more freedom. By that, I assume you mean I can’t travel on my own anymore, right?”
“Right, exactly. She either has to come along, or you can’t go at all.”
I studied the swirls of whipped cream on my mocha. “That’s not exactly true. Maybe for your past relationships, you’ve had that kind of restriction. For me, my fiancée doesn’t mind if I take off on a trip alone. She’s taken trips just with her friends, and so have I.”
He slumped forward. “Really?”
“Yea. To me, that’s a mark of a healthy relationship. Or, at least, what I want out of a relationship. Some people prefer tighter interaction. Others, looser. She and I both feel it’s important to have our own lives, as well as a life together.”
“Well, okay…”
“Then there are times when I genuinely want her along. I have fun with her. That’s why I’m marrying her! So why would I want to do all of those things alone, when I can have this wonderful, funny, beautiful person with me too?”
“Dude, you’re going to make me sick.”
I took a gulp of frothy mocha and wiped my lip. “Okay, okay. So moving right along. Are these your reasons against domestication? Seriously? You know, you’re just talking about relationships in general. Neither of these points has anything to do with being domesticated.”
He snorted. “That’s where you’re wrong! Domestication is the process of taming. You’re getting tamed, dude. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Tamed?”
“Yea. Like, you once could do all this wild stuff. Now, you gotta be—excuse me, want to be home by a certain time, and stuff like that.”
“Oh, so you’re lambasting the process of getting older, as opposed to being in a relationship?”
He scratched his head. “What? No. Don’t confuse me. No, I ain’t talking about… no, not about getting older. I mean, you’re getting domesticated, like, you got a girl now, you’re settling down, you can’t do the same stuff you once did…”
“As we get older, none of us can do the same things we once did. You can’t sit in a high chair anymore and be spoon-fed by your Mom, for instance. Well, maybe you do, but not the average adult.”
“Funny. What I mean is, and this is reason number three: You’re not having any more fun.”
“Okay, now you’re lamenting the process of getting older, not domestication. Though perhaps you’re drawing parallels between the two.”
“Yea, um, exactly.”
“Well, I for one, relish the idea of growing older. I actually like to have more responsibilities, deal with new challenges, and adjust my life accordingly. For me, this is all very fun and exciting. I realize my sentiments are uncommon, but hey, that’s me.”
“I dunno man, that sounds crazy to me…”
“Sure. And that’s fine. You don’t have to like the process of getting older, or being in a relationship. Me, I love them. I love being in a relationship, I love being engaged, I look forward to a house and kids and in-laws and grandkids and all that. It’s not for everyone. There are a lot of people out there who don’t want this, and shouldn’t aim for this either. But I do. Each to his own, right? Each to his own.”
“I told you, man…”
I quizzically arched of the brow. “What?”
He shook his head. “You are so domesticated.”
I was minding my own business when seven words caught my attention:
“And then she went down on him?”
How fortunate. I’m on my laptop right now, trying to come up with something to write. Thank you sweet fate for offering this titillating story to me via eavesdropping.
“No, he did not.”
I inch my chair closer while keeping my eyes on my screen. Mustn’t be too obvious.
“Wait, how old is she again?”
My fingers tip-tap on the keyboard. I scramble to capture it all.
“Okay, but like, how old was she then?”
A quick glance around the cafe netted a few other eavesdroppers. How could you not eavesdrop on a conversation like this? She wasn’t being particularly quiet on her cell phone either.
“Ohmigod isn’t she worried about him getting shot or anything?”
Someone coughs and looks away. Our collective minds are bubbling with explanations. Maybe he was a drug dealer. Maybe he was in a street gang. Maybe…
“Wow, I didn’t know he made sergeant. Like, which precinct?”
Oh, okay, so he’s a police officer.
“Ohmigod she did not say that! Get out of here, she did not say that!”
What did she say? What did she say?
“Before she turned thirty? Seriously? So that’s why her wedding seemed so last minute. It was so rushed. Ohmigod did you see the centerpieces? They were so messy.”
Did this girl give this police officer’s baton a shining just to get married before she turned thirty? That’s determination. This girl sounds like once she’s focused on something, she won’t let go. Maybe literally.
“I know, like, there were pedals everywhere. They were dropping off everywhere.”
I like how this conversation just took a major detour. From sex to work to marriage to wedding. Just like the progression of a natural relationship, I suppose.
“Ohmigod he was so cute. Did you see him? He looked so adorable!”
Could be the best man. Or the little kid who walks down the aisle before the wedding party, whatever they call him.
“So is she, like, happy now that she’s married and everything?”
Ah yes, the most important question of the day. I lean closer.
“Oh. Ohmigod. Oh. Ohmigod.”
What? What?! Tell us! Prying minds want to know!
“Ohmigod. That poor thing.”
Dammit, tell us! You’ve carried us along this far, you can’t stop now. What happened to your friend??
“You know, I totally knew this would happen. Like, I know a friend whose sister dated a cop, and he would like, totally come home and beat on her. No, yea. Like, it’s a power trip thing or something. Yea. Totally.”
Oh. That’s pretty awful. I know not all police officers are like this, but it’s awful her friend is going through whatever she’s going through. Some of the other cafe patrons return to their lattes, having heard enough.
“Ohmigod! Get out! Oh, she is such a slut!”
Oh? The other patrons peek over again.
“That guy from her office? I think I met him. Ohmigod I totally met him! She did him? No way!”
Ooo, methinks this story is getting better again. This whole conversation is like a car wreck; you just can’t turn away, bloody bodies and all.
“Oh really? No, really?”
Suddenly, she gets up. Everyone shifts in their seats and pretends to be reading whatever is on their table. A laptop, a magazine, the logo on their cups. She seems oblivious as she shuffles out the door.
“And then she went down on him?”
That’s the last we hear of her titillating tale. And thus it comes full circle, back to the beginning seven words. Just like love and life. Thanks for the story! Hope things work out for your friend!
“Why do you think people are close-minded?”
I regarded the question like a fresh forehead pimple on a first date. “Because people are idiots, that’s why.”
“What a close-minded answer,” my friend answered.
I laughed. “Damn, you’re right.” I put down my mocha and shook my head.
He smirked. “No really, what do you think?”
“You’re seriously wondering this?” I watched him nod once. “Well, I think it’s easy to be close-minded. It takes less effort. And many people prefer to take the path of least resistance.”
He scratched his chin and took a sip of espresso. “You’ve got a point there. Effort is a real turn-off.”
“Right. Thinking about every concept, every behavior, every statement, in a critical way requires active thinking. It requires questioning the underlying assumptions behind it. I don’t think many people want to or have the capacity to do that, and not always for reasons of their own.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think some people willingly opt for ignorance, though they don’t see it that way. Others may just be too tired to question everything and follow mental shortcuts, which sometimes mean accepting the assumptions in front of them. Ever read the book Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a book about the techniques salespeople use against unsuspecting prey. Many of its techniques are based on catching people at their most vulnerable, when they’re least likely to put up defenses. One of those moments is when they’re in a rush and busy thinking about other stuff. Their mental defenses are down. They don’t want to bother with anything except what they have to do. If you ask them for something seemingly innocuous and bother them enough, they’ll acquiesce. One example is Hari Krishnas at airports. Remember how they used to give you a flower in exchange for a donation?”
He scratched his head and sniffed his espresso. “Yea, I do.”
“Most people gave the Hari Krishnas a dollar just so they wouldn’t be hassled any further. It was the path of least resistance, a mental shortcut to get by an annoyance.”
“That certainly makes sense,” he replied between sips. “So you’re saying close-mindedness is related to this phenomenon somehow?”
“I suspect so. I would guess that close-mindedness, for some people, is just a mental shortcut. They are otherwise intelligent professionals going about their days. But when hit with something that’s not critical enough for their current cognitive load, they defer to blindly trusting the assumptions and opt for the mental shortcut. I don’t mean to equate close-mindedness with giving a donation to a Hari Krishna, but the mental workload is similar. And I’m sure I’ve been guilty of it—”
I caught my friend rolling his eyes with a grin. I smirked in reply and continued.
“—as have many people out there. It’s an unintended close-mindedness, if you will. Furthermore, the degree to which someone can maintain this cognitive effort and an open mind varies day by day, subject by subject. You might find yourself extremely open-minded about religion, but unconsciously close-minded about your annoying relatives who come over drunk every Thanksgiving.”
“Nice analogy there. So you’re saying close-mindedness is a form of mental laziness?”
I swirled my mocha and watched the chocolate syrup whirl. “In a way, yes, I guess I am. For some people. I think others actively choose to stick by the assumptions they’ve been taught, perhaps for traditional reasons, social reasons, whatever. But for some, yes, it’s a form of unconscious mental laziness.”
We sipped our drinks in silence. Across from me was a man reading the headlines off a stack of newspapers. He scoffed at something and shook his head, then relayed his thoughts to the barista with animated arms. The barista just shrugged.
“It’s the people who stick by their assumptions that bother me,” my friend suddenly added. “That kind of stubbornness is… inexcusable. It’s… it’s…”
I stared down at my cup and nodded. “I know, it’s tough to swallow. But they’re entitled to their opinion, right? They hold strong to their beliefs because they see strength in standing by a conviction. Resolve. Faith. Stubbornness. Call it what you will, but at the end of the day, aren’t you being close-minded about not accepting their views, just because you disagree with them?”
He shook his head. I drank my mocha, put it down, and took a second sip, and he was still shaking his head.
“Close-mindedness, to me, means someone is unwilling to look at alternatives and question the underlying assumptions of some belief,” he finally stated. “If they’ve thought it through and have formed a conclusion, that’s great. I’m happy for them. They have a conviction now. But if they reject every and any statement that may legitimately poke a hole in their argument, that’s close-mindedness. That’s going overboard. Someone can be convicted, yet still open to alternative views if a logical one presents itself.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” I toasted him with my cup. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s inexcusable. It’s downright ignorant is what it is.”
I laughed. “There you go, being close-minded about them again.”
“I guess,” he added, “I’m just close-minded about close-minded people.”
“How would you rate this year for you?” my friend asked. “From a scale of one to five: one being the worst, five being the best.”
I scratched my chin and cleared my throat. Then I gave my answer.
“Five,” I replied.
He sat back in his seat. “Five? The best? Really?” He clutched his espresso and regarded me through the hot rising vapors.
I nodded. “I would give 2008 a five because this was a year of new starts and new challenges. Despite the poor economy and layoffs, there’s been a lot of new hope too. And I don’t just mean a new presidency. For me, personally, there’ve been a lot of positives.”
I picked up my mocha and took a sip. He echoed with a sip of espresso. For a brief moment, we savored our drinks and pondered the question. Then he put his cup down and waited for me to continue. I cleared my throat again.
“First of all, I started a new relationship. It wasn’t always easy, but it’s been going really well. I’m totally happy and excited about it. Heck, I kind of feel like the luckiest guy in the world to have met her. And it happened all because of chance. Or perhaps fate. That in itself could give 2008 a high score.”
He nodded. “True, you’ve been very lucky in the romance department.”
“Career-wise, starting a new business has been exciting as hell too. Frustrating as hell sometimes, but mostly exciting. I’ve made some mistakes, but they’re great lessons learned. I actually look forward to, and expect to make many mistakes. Each one is going to make us that much stronger, especially in this economy. While other people are scared off by such risks, we’re facing them head-on and still making a profit.”
“That’s fantastic! Not many people can do what you’re doing.”
“And don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m not struggling or scared at all. There are days when I wake up wondering if this is going to be sustainable in the long run. But that’s what I wanted to worry about when I quit my full-time job. I wanted the fear of having no steady paycheck to propel me forward. Having no cushion is a tremendous motivator for making immediate profits, let me tell you.”
He shook his head. “I’ll bet.”
“Investment-wise, not all of them have panned out. My portfolio has taken a dive, like most other people. But I still have a few hopeful investments out there. The market will swing back up again too. While there’s been lots of stress around my investments, overall, I’m pleased with my positions.”
“That’s very optimistic of you. A lot of people feel quite differently about that.”
I shrugged. “Yea, I know. Perhaps my rating for this year isn’t just due to the excitement of these new starts and challenges. It’s also due to my general outlook on life. I tend to be optimistic about a lot of things. For me, mistakes don’t get me down as much as others, because I see them as ways to strengthen myself. And where others see problems, I see opportunities. Ultimately, I think life is all about what you make of it. You can choose to be pessimistic about it, or optimistic about it. You can choose to be pushed around and react to the world, or push back and shape the world.” I stared at my mocha. “I’m beginning to sound full of myself, aren’t I?”
He smiled. “I think your view is refreshing. It’s a very hopeful view. In these dark days, it’s nice to see something with some light in their eyes.”
I quietly took a slow sip, savoring the sweet mocha on my tongue. “I’m not saying it’s easy to always stay positive. But once I push my mind into that direction, it’s really easy to continue with that attitude. It’s like a muscle; the more I think this way, the easier it is to see all the possibilities out there. The more I work it, the stronger it becomes. Hmmm, I’m not sure if that analogy totally works.”
He took another sip, then held his cup and paused for a moment. “You know what you should do? You should write about this.”
I smirked. “How do you know I wasn’t already going to?”
He chuckled. “You saw an opportunity for a story and you went for it. Very opportunistic of you.”
We laughed and savored the last few drops of our drinks. Then we put our cups down for a reflective moment. I cleared my throat. “So how would you rate this year?”
“Hey stupidhead, that’s my cup of latte!” Leslie shouts.
The guy looks down at the latte, snorts, and takes a gulp. “I don’t see your name on it,” he huffs. Fuming, Leslie starts to wave her hands through the air.
“Fine. Want to mess with me? You’re going to regret it.”
The guy smirks and takes another gulp. Cafe patrons go “oooooo” and take two steps back from the counter. A barista makes a tiny yelp and dives behind the cash register.
A delicate shimmer appears above her hands. The air crystalizes and sparks dance around her fingers. A low hum starts to drum our ears.
The guy blinks and stops drinking. The latte starts to quiver in his hand. He takes a step back.
“Oh man, that guy is totally dead,” someone in the crowd whispers.
Leslie’s hands glow. The shimmer intensifies. Sparks begin whirling around in some kind of cosmic pattern.
“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” whimpers the guy. He drops the latte all over his khakis. Brown on brown, how pretty.
A shape emerges from Leslie’s hands. It’s long and pointy.
“Magic Missile!” Leslie chants. The missile leaps from her hands and strikes the guy squarely in the chest, causing 1d4+10 of damage. His body flies across the room and crashes into the wall. Sparks and flames lick his flesh. Shrieking in agony, he collapses to the ground. His tattered clothes trickle with smoke.
“What did I tell you, huh? What did I tell you, stupidhead?” Leslie jeers. “Mess with me, and you’ll regret it.”
You know what I love? Liquid Cocaine.
Back at my previous job, there are cozy cafes that serve up free espressos, cappuccinos, lattes, chai teas, and more. Every so often, the baristas would concoct special drinks with different blends of syrups, like the Mint Chocolate Chip (mocha with mint syrup) or the Strawberry Shortcake (macchiato with strawberry syrup and whipped cream).
Some were delicious. Some were, um, not so delicious. But at least you could get a different special drink every once in a while.
To be honest, I’m not a huge coffee fan. But I am a huge sugar fan. I have a sweet tooth the size of Donald Rumsfeld.
So after conveying this to a friendly barista, she decided to mix me a true delight for my senses. She dubbed it: Liquid Cocaine.
Here’s how you make one:
- Start with a mocha
- Add ice
- Add sweetened condensed milk
- Add caramel syrup
- Add butterscotch syrup
- Add french vanilla syrup
- Add english toffee syrup
- Stir
- Top with whipped cream
- Decorate with caramel syrup swirls
This drink is an utter pleasure that fills me with delectable bliss, like I’m being cradled into Angelina Jolie’s bosom (or lips, ‘cuz they’re both equally pulpous).
Then I dart off in a sprint around the office campus at around 50mph, break into a disturbing rendition of the foxtrot on the quad, and collapse in a muddled mess on the soft wet grass. Smoke lazily snakes out my ears. If you look closely, sparks sizzle from my eyes.
Gosh how I love them Liquid Cocaines.
“I just don’t get chicks.”
With a coffee in hand, I leaned back and regarded my friend. “C’mon man, who really ever gets chicks?”
“Did I tell you about that date I had last weekend? It was with this girl I really liked, but throughout the date, she didn’t seem that interested in me?”
I nodded.
“Well, I asked her out again just for the heck of it.”
“And?”
He shifted in his seat. “And she said, ‘Sure! I had a great time and would love to.’”
There was a pause. Then: “Oh wow, really?”
He nodded. “I really don’t get chicks. At all.”
“So, then, uh, what made you think she wasn’t interested originally?”
He sat back in his seat and sighed. “Let me count the ways. First, she said she already ate dinner and wasn’t hungry. Then, when I asked if she wanted dessert, she said ‘No.’ Then I had to go to the bathroom, and she was on her Blackberry before I even got to my feet. Then she looked at her watch and said, ‘Wow, it is late. I think I should be going now.’ And it was 9pm.”
I scratched my chin and hmm’ed.
“Then I walked her to her car and asked her what she had planned for the rest of the night. She said, ‘Oh nothing. Just going to chill and watch TV.’ Finally, she gave me a junior high school dance hug and that was it.”
“What?!” I jumped in my seat. “Ouch man.”
“Right?”
“That totally sounds like she’s not interested.”
“I know!”
We both sat there in silence, staring at our stale coffees. A fly buzzed by. Somewhere, outside, a car honked.
“So do you think she was lying about having a good time? Maybe this is just a pity second date?”
He shrugged. “Do girls even do pity dates?”
“Sure, why not. Or maybe she’s just clueless about dating? And doesn’t know how to show interest or anything?”
Another shrug. “I really don’t know. In fact, I almost didn’t email her again for this second date.”
“Hmm. So why did you?”
“She gave off such mixed signals. During the date, we had great conversation and lots of common interests. Sometimes our conversation flowed nicely. We have a lot of similarities. But towards the end, she just seemed like she was in a rush. Like she had other things on her mind.”
“Ah. Maybe she did have other things on her mind then. Maybe she had to rush home to call up some other guy she’s dating too?”
Another shrug. “Who knows?”
I swirled my coffee around. “Or maybe… she has a yest infection or something. And was really itching and had to go home to get some powder.”
“Or maybe it’s PMS.” We laughed. “There are so many possibilities.”
“True. You’ll never know for sure until you do this second date with her. You’ve already seen how some girls act totally differently on a second date. Maybe she will too.”
“Yea.”
We slowly sipped our stale coffees. The sounds of traffic rattled the windows. Somebody coughed.
“But there is a great moral to this story.”
My ears perked up. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Don’t try to guess what is going on in the mind of someone you’ve only known an hour. The human mind wants to fill in the details. To make the unknown, known. But in reality, there are just too many possibilities… To many unknowns… And too many assumptions.”
“Wise words, man. Wise words. Is that your key to understanding chicks?”
“No. That’s my way of trying to understand anyone. But chicks in particular… I just don’t get chicks.”
“Why are people always trying to brag about how bad their eyesight is?”
Ken adjusted his glasses and shrugged. “People brag about their eyesight?”
My arms flailed about furiously as I nodded. “Hells yea. People are always saying, ‘How bad is your eyesight?’ ‘Well, mine is worse.’ ‘Oh yea, I can’t even see that sign over there. I’m as blind as a bat.’ I’m so sick of that.”
“Ah, I know what you mean. Everyone seems to do that, huh? Maybe…” he looked out the window thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s because people are competitive, and once you start talking about eyesight, trying to one-up each other becomes a competition.”
“Competition, huh? That’s lame.”
Ken took a slow sip of his espresso. He put his cup down and cleared his throat. “So how bad is your eyesight?”
I cast him the People’s Eyebrow. “You’re going to ask me that too?”
“No, no, no, I don’t mean to sound competitive about it. I’m not going to brag about how bad my eyesight is.”
I crossed my arms. “Good.”
“Even though…”
I groaned.
“Even though, my eyesight IS pretty bad, you know.”
“Here we go again,” I muttered. My eyes rolled so far in the back of my head that I could see my brains throbbing in exasperation.
“Really. Take a look at my glasses. Here, take a look.” He handed me his glasses. I peered through them, and then directed sunlight through the lens. We sat in silence as a napkin began to smolder.
I tossed the glasses back to him. “Yea, okay, you’re pretty blind.”
“So how blind are you?”
I looked out the window. There were signs everywhere: traffic signs, billboards, store logos. “I probably couldn’t read any of those signs without my contacts.”
Ken squinted out the window. “I can kinda read Starbucks right there. You really can’t read that?”
“Without my contacts, probably not.”
“Bullshit. What’s your vision?”
I sighed. “Are we really doing this?”
“C’mon man, that’s bullshit. My vision is like 20/100. Twenty to fricken a hundred. How blind is that?”
I swirled my white chocolate mocha around. Ken put his glasses back on and studied me.
“C’mon, what’s your vision? You can’t be worse than me.”
“Dude, what was I just saying? You’re really bragging about how bad your eyesight is? Really? Why don’t you brag about something else. Like how good your jump shot is, or how much money you make. Hell, brag about how you know everything about cars, anything. But don’t brag about how bad your eyesight is. That’s like bragging about how small your dick is.”
He shook his head. “You’re just bitter because your eyesight isn’t as bad as mine and you know you’re losing.”
I took a slow sip of mocha. As I carefully placed the cup down, I exhaled all the exasperation in my brain. “You know that big E in the eye doctor’s examination room?”
“Yea?”
“Without contacts, I can’t see that.”
Ken blinked. “What?!”
“That big E represents 200 feet.”
He blinked again.
“That means my vision is worse than 20/200. My eye doctor told me he doesn’t have instruments that can measure exactly what my vision is. All he knows is, my eyesight is worse than 20/200.”
Ken sat up in his seat for a moment. His mouth was agape. Slowly, he slumped into his chair with sagged shoulders. He took his glasses off, cleaned them, and put them back on again.
I took a few more sips and leaned back, staring out the window the whole time.
Ken shook his head. “Shoot. Okay, you win. Your eyesight is fricken bad. You’re as blind as a bat. Worse. You’re blinder than a bat. You’re… you’re just fricken blind.” He threw his hands up. “You win.”
As I looked out the window, I grinned. Yes, I won!
“Are you guys talking about masturbation?”
Lisa and I glanced at Ken. His eyes were dancing in their sockets.
“Sorta,” I smirked. “We were talking about that Seinfeld episode where Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer have a contest about…”
“The master of your domain episode!” Ken scooted his chair closer. “I loved that episode!”
“I can see that,” Lisa stated.
“So what are you guys talking about?”
I leaned back in my chair. “It was supposedly based on a real contest that Larry David had done.”
“Who’s Larry David?”
“One of the main writers of Seinfeld,” Lisa added. She took a sip of her coffee.
“It’s true though.”
I regarded Ken with an upturned eyebrow. “What’s true?”
“That if we didn’t masturbate for a while, we’d get cranky.”
“Ha!” Lisa snorted. Some coffee squirted out of her nose. Ken and I hollered as she wiped her nose and mouth. “Bastards…” she muttered.
I took a sip of my mocha carefully, as to not follow in the same fate. It was hot, but oh-so-yummy; I couldn’t resist drinking it despite burning my tongue.
“That’s not true,” Lisa finally managed to utter.
“Sure it is.” Ken gestured toward the rest of the café. “Everyone here has to masturbate regularly, or else they’d build up stress with no method of release.”
“I don’t think everyone out there actually masturbates. What about nuns?”
“I’m sure they do it.”
“What about priests?”
“Everyone. Everyone’s got to spank the monkey once in a while.”
I laughed. “I kind of agree with both of you.”
Ken nodded. “Yup. Flog the log.”
Lisa shook her head. “How can you agree with both of us?”
“Grease the pipe,” Ken continued.
“Well, I do think that masturbation is a good method of stress relief, but I also think that there are people who probably don’t masturbate, because of their religious or cultural beliefs.”
“Honk the horn.”
“Yea, see,” Lisa nodded. “Like priests and nuns.”
“Love the Muppet.”
“Although,” I injected. “I think just about everyone has masturbated at least once in their lives, either intentionally or accidentally.”
“Milk the moose.”
“I disagree.” Lisa folded her arms. “Just like you said, some people wouldn’t do it because of their religious or cultural beliefs. I think those beliefs are so strong that they’d never even entertain the notion of masturbating.”
“Do the Han Solo.”
I put down my coffee. “But what about when they’re young? Puberty’s hitting them. They’re confused, going through changes, growing hair in funny places. Before they even know what they’re doing, I’ll bet they’re noticing that a bit of rubbing feels kinda good.”
“Beat the bishop.”
“I think those cultures teach children that masturbation is wrong at a very early age. So they know not to do it.”
“Choke the chicken.”
“No way!” I shook my head. “That’s like teaching sex ed. Cultures like that wouldn’t do that.”
“Yank the yo-yo.”
“They do. They educate their followers about all kinds of carnal sins at an early age, to prevent the very kind of experimentation that you’re talking about.”
“Whack the weasel.”
“I dunno about that. I highly doubt that. Where are you getting your information from?” I asked.
“Twist your crank.”
“I don’t know. Where are you getting YOUR information from?”
“Whip the one-eyed trouser snake.”
Lisa and I both stopped. We turned towards Ken and watched him in silence. Somewhere, outside, a tumbleweed rolled by.
“Tenderize the tube steak.”
“Slap the salami.”
“Tug the slug.”
“Pump the python.”
“Jerk the gherkin.”
“Where the hell are you getting all of these from??” Lisa demanded. Her nostrils flared.
“Oil the glove.”
“He’s starting to scare me,” I mumbled. Lisa nodded and we scooted our chairs away from him. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Pet the lizard.”
“Mangle the midget.”
Lisa and I looked at each other. Without a word, we picked up our cups and backed away from the table. Ken just kind of looked into space with a daze.
“Play a little five-on-one.”
“Pound the flounder.”
“Let’s never talk about this again,” I told Lisa.
She nodded frantically. “Yes, never. Ever.”
“Lubricate the love monkey.”
“Slap the purple-headed yogurt pistol.”
We walked out of the café without looking back. If other patrons were looking at us, I we didn’t notice; we just aimed for the door and marched. I think Ken continued his list alone. How, ahem, apropos.
Categories:
Adulthood,
Childhood,
Conversations,
Getting Older,
High School,
In a Cafe,
Kids,
Life,
Parenthood,
Psychology,
Values“I intend to live forever. So far, so good.”
- Anonymous
“I look forward to growing old.”
“Are you insane?” Lisa gasped. She regarded me like a little puppy that just ate his own poop.
I shrugged. “Why, you don’t at all?”
“I repeat: Are you insane?” She waved her hand dismissively. “You know what? Don’t even answer that.”
“Insane in the membrane,” I said in a small voice. She ignored me.
“I would love to be a kid again. To have no responsibilities, no worries, no stress. To wake up and be able to watch Saturday morning cartoons.” She looked out the window and sighed. “Life was so much easier back then.”
I leaned back and took a sip of hot mocha. “Was it really? As a kid, weren’t you in a rush to grow up and be an adult, so you could drive and drink and do grown-up things?”
“Well, sure, every kid wants that. But they don’t know any better.”
“And as a teen, weren’t you always stressed out about something dumb? Like over who you liked or who to take to the prom or final exams?”
Lisa pushed her macchiato aside. “Childhood is an idyllic time. Who to take to the prom is such a smaller thing than say, a mortgage you can barely meet. Right? Even someone as insane as you can agree with that.”
“Sure, but not to the kid at that time. When you’re a kid, every little problem seems like the end of the world. And that’s a lot of stress.”
She deflated into her chair. One listless hand picked up her macchiato and swirled it. “Still, I can’t help but think back to being a kid and missing those days.”
I took another sip of hot mocha. It was cooling off now. “I know what you mean. Relative to adult problems, kid problems are much, much smaller.”
“So,” she put her macchiato down, “why do you look forward to growing old?”
“You’re going to think I’m even more insane than you already do.”
“Impossible. I already think you’re damn insane. But go on.”
“Okay.” I cleared my throat and sat up straight. “I look forward to the extra responsibilities. Like: immediate and extended family; house and mortgage; potential businesses and investments. I look forward to being able to do more things, to understanding more about life, and to being responsible for bigger issues.”
Lisa arched one eyebrow. I continued. “I have these big goals of changing the world, right? Changing the education system, starting socially-beneficial companies, etc, right?” She nodded. “Those are my stretch goals. My realistic goals are to have a good family, to be the kind of grandfather who tells his grandkids lots of stories, and to be a writer.”
Lisa scratched her head. A loose strand of hair dangled and she tied it back up. I continued. “Personally, I didn’t like a lot of my childhood. I spent most of my energy trying not to be made fun of by racists. But it’s taught me to be much stronger. And I’ve found that each successive year that I live has been better and brighter than the last.”
I leaned back and shuffled in my chair. “Whoa, I feel like I just took a major dump.” She swirled her macchiato, then took a sip. I could tell she was digesting. Outside, a group of kids wandered by, followed by a loner. He looked at me and scurried off.
“You’re certainly one goal-oriented guy,” she declared. “I guess can see why you look forward to growing old too. People who have rough childhoods, then go on to make something of their lives, tend to look to the future.”
“It’s not that I had a rough childhood though,” I added.
“Right, right, I know. I don’t mean you had a bad one. But you didn’t have an idyllic one, at least. And since you’re someone who actually sets goals and achieves them, each successive goal you reach must feel great.”
I blushed. “Well, I…”
“Plus, and most importantly,” she started. I waited on the perch of my seat as she leaned forward and looked me straight in the eye. “You’re insane.”
“In the membrane,” I whispered.
She groaned. “And plus, who the hell doesn’t look back fondly at childhood and playing with toys and watching cartoons and having no worries?”
“What? Didn’t you just say…”
“Don’t even answer that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Insane people never know when they’re insane. Tell that to your grandkids.”
