Fallibility
So I was out to dinner with Beverly on a Saturday a couple of weeks ago. We went to some trendy, overpriced place in mid-town Manhattan. We were celebrating the second anniversary of our third trip to Mexico. How she kept track of such things I’ll never know.
“Remember how I was sick for four days?” she asked.
"Were you sick on that trip?"
The truth was, she got sick every time we went to Mexico. My memories of that country center around my girlfriend—the object of my sexual desires—oozing partially digested food and mucus from every orifice that mattered. For all intents and purposes, I’m now clinically impotent in the country of Mexico.
Bev and I got along well. We had similar senses of humor, tastes in food and best of all she did some really special things in bed--like not sleeping in mine. None of my male friends could believe I managed to pass a "no sleep-over rule" and still hang on to the girl. It really wasn't that tough. However, I had to agree to bring her to trendy, over-priced restaruants in Manhattan for dinner every Saturday night as "compensation". I'm much, much poorer with Bev but I still think I'm getting the better end of the deal.
"So I was thinking next week we'd try Per Se." she said.
Per Se was the most expensive restaurant in Manhattan but it was a special occassion. We were celebrating the sixth time we'd eaten at Per Se. This year. So much poorer.
When the appetizer plates were cleared, I excused myself and made my way to the mensroom. I pushed open the door and was slapped senseless by a stench of Biblical proportions. It smelled like all four horses of the Apocolypse had taken up residence in the mensroom and had been eating nothing but Indian food and asparagus for a month.
As I wiped the tears from my eyes and stumbled towards a urinal, I noticed only one of the stall doors was closed. Looked a little small for four full-grown horses but... Just before the toilet flushed, I heard a voice mumble "Jesus Christ". Thinking nothing of it, I finished my business and made my way to the sink. As I dried my hands, an older, familiar-looking gentlemen came out of the closed stall and walked toward me. I followed him in the mirror trying to place him. Squat face and sharp teeth. I stared a little too long and a little too obviously. The reflection of his eyes met mine.
"What are you staring at asswipe?" he asked.
Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I chose not to respond. My eyes went back to the sink and the clean-up at hand. He passed behind me and left the mensroom. Without stopping. Smelly-Old-Man didn't wash his hands. I'd always been the anal type when it came to mensroom door handles. Always used hand towel to open the door--sometimes balling the towel up and sticking it in my pocket if there was no where to dispose of it discretely.
I was having a moment of full on anal-retentive justification when it came to me. Smelly-Old-Man was Pope Benedict XVI. I hadn't recognized him without his white robe and mitre. It took me a minute or two to regain my composure. I was—after all—raised as a Catholic. Being called an “asswipe” by the Pope wasn’t exactly the type of thing grade school catechism prepared you for. I'd have to check the rulebook when I got home. It was possible I'd just been excommunicated. Still, I couldn’t help but feel slightly amused by the absurdity of the situation. I caught myself wearing a half grin in the mirror as I exited the mensroom.
On my way back to Bev, I scouted the restaurant for His Holiness’s table and found him tucked away in a back corner yucking it up with Boutros Boutros-Ghali and Mayor Bloomberg. Just as I was about to sit down, Diddy arrived at the Pope's table and leaned over to kiss his ring.
Maybe there is a God after all.
“Remember how I was sick for four days?” she asked.
"Were you sick on that trip?"
The truth was, she got sick every time we went to Mexico. My memories of that country center around my girlfriend—the object of my sexual desires—oozing partially digested food and mucus from every orifice that mattered. For all intents and purposes, I’m now clinically impotent in the country of Mexico.
Bev and I got along well. We had similar senses of humor, tastes in food and best of all she did some really special things in bed--like not sleeping in mine. None of my male friends could believe I managed to pass a "no sleep-over rule" and still hang on to the girl. It really wasn't that tough. However, I had to agree to bring her to trendy, over-priced restaruants in Manhattan for dinner every Saturday night as "compensation". I'm much, much poorer with Bev but I still think I'm getting the better end of the deal.
"So I was thinking next week we'd try Per Se." she said.
Per Se was the most expensive restaurant in Manhattan but it was a special occassion. We were celebrating the sixth time we'd eaten at Per Se. This year. So much poorer.
When the appetizer plates were cleared, I excused myself and made my way to the mensroom. I pushed open the door and was slapped senseless by a stench of Biblical proportions. It smelled like all four horses of the Apocolypse had taken up residence in the mensroom and had been eating nothing but Indian food and asparagus for a month.
As I wiped the tears from my eyes and stumbled towards a urinal, I noticed only one of the stall doors was closed. Looked a little small for four full-grown horses but... Just before the toilet flushed, I heard a voice mumble "Jesus Christ". Thinking nothing of it, I finished my business and made my way to the sink. As I dried my hands, an older, familiar-looking gentlemen came out of the closed stall and walked toward me. I followed him in the mirror trying to place him. Squat face and sharp teeth. I stared a little too long and a little too obviously. The reflection of his eyes met mine.
"What are you staring at asswipe?" he asked.
Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I chose not to respond. My eyes went back to the sink and the clean-up at hand. He passed behind me and left the mensroom. Without stopping. Smelly-Old-Man didn't wash his hands. I'd always been the anal type when it came to mensroom door handles. Always used hand towel to open the door--sometimes balling the towel up and sticking it in my pocket if there was no where to dispose of it discretely.
I was having a moment of full on anal-retentive justification when it came to me. Smelly-Old-Man was Pope Benedict XVI. I hadn't recognized him without his white robe and mitre. It took me a minute or two to regain my composure. I was—after all—raised as a Catholic. Being called an “asswipe” by the Pope wasn’t exactly the type of thing grade school catechism prepared you for. I'd have to check the rulebook when I got home. It was possible I'd just been excommunicated. Still, I couldn’t help but feel slightly amused by the absurdity of the situation. I caught myself wearing a half grin in the mirror as I exited the mensroom.
On my way back to Bev, I scouted the restaurant for His Holiness’s table and found him tucked away in a back corner yucking it up with Boutros Boutros-Ghali and Mayor Bloomberg. Just as I was about to sit down, Diddy arrived at the Pope's table and leaned over to kiss his ring.
Maybe there is a God after all.
posted by dp at
2:59 PM
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