A cramped encounter
Andy is honest, thoughtful, and generous. He’s full of more love than almost anyone I know. To top it off, he’s a genuinely happy person. So when I saw him trade verbal blows with a stranger yesterday, it was jarring and awesome in a pass-the-popcorn way.
We eat at this Indian diner on Houston Street a lot. It’s dirt cheap and that means the owners make certain sacrifices to keep their business running. The most noticeable sacrifice is the size of the place – it’s a glorified hallway, just wide enough for two people to walk past each other, knock shoulders, and apologize. It only takes about four people in the place to feel a little crowded. But we ignore this. It’s full of character and the cashier always recognizes us, throwing a little extra spice in our tea for free.
A nasty exclamation point of a girl made her way past Andy in an effort to leave the store. Remember: it’s a small space. We had to shuffle around for a few seconds to make room, and she got testy. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m trying to get…excuse me.”
Now, “excuse me” certainly means “excuse me.” But sometimes it also means “fuck you.” And this girl’s tone reeked of it. Short, exasperated breaths at the end of her words. Symptoms of a mild meltdown. Sure, Andy and I are a couple of weirdos, but why do you have to stress us out in this great place that sells chickpeas for three dollars? Andy yelled after her as she plodded out the door.
“Come on, lady. You’re not that hot!”
I’m from Virginia, a state that isn’t necessarily known as a hotbed for technological development unless you count the first guy to catch a fish with his hands. Pretty sure that was us. Either way, it’s nice to know that my home senator, Mark Warner, is decidedly against SOPA and PIPA.