Monday, August 21, 2006
Bruce's German Name
OK. So. OK.
Yes. I had too much to drink. But. I was – are you listening? This is important. I was in town at Special K’s, and you know what? It was her boyfriend’s birthday! Can you believe it? I couldn’t either! I said, “Hey, Special K! When did you get a boyfriend?”
“Oh, a long time ago,” Special K said.
“Did I know about him?” I asked.
“Naw, I don’t take him out.”
So, since her boyfriend was working, I took Special K out and got her drunk, then I drove her back to her place, she introduced me to her boyfriend, who finally got out of work. On his birthday. Isn’t that sad?
“Hullo, K’s Boyfriend,” I said.
“Hi, my name’s actually [something German sounding].”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Peals of immoderate laughter emerged from me and Special K. “You know, I’ve heard so much about you! Do you mind if I call you Bruce?”
More immoderate laughter; I think Special K decided I had far too much to drink and they took me home.
On the doorstep, I think I told Monsieur that I loved him, and asked him did he know she had a boyfriend? Because I didn’t. “Who knew?” I asked. Not Monsieur. I think I did a few lines from my favorite Kate Hepburn movies, too, which isn’t pretty.
OK so here is the thing I really noticed. You know, some people are cool, and some people know cool and think they’re cool, but they’re not cool. It doesn’t matter what Monsieur knows, because he is what he will always be. He’s gonna learn more and all, but it won’t matter because of who he is.
Special K is cool; she knows a lot of hip underground things, majored in garage bands in college, lived among all that all her life. I’ll say some thing sometimes that’s just painfully obvious to someone like her and she’ll make this “Um, hello! Duh? Who does not know that?” observation.
Monsieur wouldn’t say that; he’d let me talk and then he’d bring it out and then observe something else and there’s give and take – even though he’s a million semesters ahead of me in terms of book knowledge.
Plus! Plus! When I come home staggering between two of my ne’er-do-well friends, is there an argument? Or a fight, or sarcastuc reamerks? Nope, says I. He just takes me by my arm and puts me to bed. But first, he lets me do my Kate Hepburn impression, smiling at me indulgently.
“‘But Monsieur,’” I said, “‘There is a leopard on your roof and it’s my leopard and I have to get it and to get it I have to sing.’”
“So, you’re not going to, um, stop her?” says Bruce.
“’Oh Dexter, I’ll be yar now; I promise I’ll be yar,’” I say.
“I can get a bucket of cold water,” suggests Special K.
“No,” says Monsieur, “actually, I like this part. If we are lucky, she may segue into The Wind and the Lion.”
Have you ever noticed what a funny word that is? if you type it six times: Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur.
Anyway, it’s many hours later. I woke up to pee, and I thought maybe if I wrote this down, I’d remember Bruce’s real German-sounding name.
It didn’t work.