FiFi The Hut
I'd blame Finn for this. I'm an artist not a writer, but when boredom calls it calls.
“You’re kidding me! People, in my section, on a Saturday night, in the second most popular restaurant in this city? Why must you toy with me so, Carla? Why?”
She smiled and shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite.”
“I’m everyone’s favorite, baby! I’ll head over there in a minute, they should be going to commercial soon.”
“You’re a number one fan now, aren’t you?”
“Not everyday your baby sister could be the next American Idol. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time to stand here and shoot the shit with you. I have a table to acquaint myself with.”
“Context doesn’t matter, you’re still putting a dollar in the jar for that, Sebastian!” He took a dollar our of his pocket, placed it in the jar aptly labeled “Put Your Cash Here Or Have Your Mouth Washed Out With Soap”, and grabbed a pitcher of water.
“Is that even English anymore? Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed…”
“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. Looks like our little girl is in the middle of her own personal production of Fiddler on the Roof!”
“More like matchmaker, matchmaker, give me a gun. Christ, at least the guys in that movie couldn’t be Jabba the Huts stunt double.”
“Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed.”
“Bella, shut up already. It’s English!”
“Sorry, Yule. So, what are you going to do?”
“She’s going to marry the fat pig and then suffocate under all the rolls while they consummate.”
“You’re disgusting Marty, but I don’t expect anything less from a pre-op tranny.” Bella lifted her empty glass as if to make a toast.
“ I get my tits on the 20th, you bitches are jealous!”
“Hey you!” Sebastian looked at Yule and pointed at himself, slightly perplexed. “Yea, you. Why don’t you actually step close enough to use that pitcher and fill our empty glasses, maybe tell us about your specials, and stop listening to our conversation. Goddamn nosy waiters! Do something useful, don’t just stand there and eavesdrop.”
“I know it’s hard to believe that I wouldn’t want to stand around and listen to you girls talk about tampons, or clothing, or how fat you are, but I was actually looking at the TV over there.” He picked up Marty’s glass and began filling it. “My sister is on American Idol and since some of us have to work,” he began filling Bella’s glass, “I have to watch her while I’m here.” He grabbed Yule’s glass.
Yule looked at him while she placed her head in her hand. “I’m sure she’s happy she got the talent of singing and not the talent of filling glassware. You win some you loose some.”
Sebastian stared intently at her with a smirk. “That’s certainly true, but, coming from a girl sitting at a table with a man in drag who has probably done nothing more than mooch of mommy and daddy for a living, I’ll take it with a grain of salt.” He began to poor.
“You fucking idiot,” Yule screamed as she leapt up from her seat, “my God, you can’t even poor water into a fucking glass correctly.”
“It’s just water.”
“Don’t ‘It’s just water’ me, my vagina feels like it should be the victim of global warming right now!”
He laughed. “I’ll go get you some napkins.” As he walked toward the kitchen a wave of certainty bitch smacked him across the face. He was certain that it was fate’s hand that brought her into the restaurant that night, and that it was the divine hand of destiny that had her seated in his section. Sure, spilling water wasn’t the best way to get a woman’s attention, but attention is attention. If celebrity’s can believe it while they’re staring at a picture of their nostrils laced with Coke, he could believe it. He was approaching the table again, equipped with a stack of paper napkins and no less than four clothe napkins, when he honed in his highly tuned waiter ear to pick up what the ladies were talking about.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?”
“Work, and my parents just got a place at Bentley Square so, naturally, I have to help them move.”
A week later, he was sitting on a bench across from Bentley Square watching her approach him. He knew she didn’t remember him, and he was determined to keep it that way. It’s not often the prongs of love-at-first-sight gouge out every ember of who you are and make you want to start anew so you can at least have a shot with this new found object of affection, but when it happens you best believe no one can resist, and that no one included Sebastian.
_____________
Yule he said, and he repeated it to add some extra oomph to this whole situation, which, if you ask me, is just overkill. You’d be hard pressed to find more of an absolute wanker. Fydor took pompous narcissism to levels that not even Julius Caesar could ascertain. Don’t believe me? Well, lets just put it this way: At the age of six, when our families went on summer vacation together, he picked me up, waved me around, and wound up tossing me to my plummet of about sixty feet, all because there was a bee buzzing in his vicinity. Yes, even at the tender age of six years old this boy possessed a self-love that was incomprehensible and destructive to anyone who came near him. And now? Now I sit across from him at, what else, a Russian restaurant trying my hardest to explain to him why he and I will never work. Of course, he can’t comprehend why a woman wouldn’t want him and all his three-hundred twelve pounds of Gorbachev looking glory. He is his only fan.
Yule. He says it one more time. Leave it to my father who can’t even read English, let alone write it, to change your name from Julia with a twist to the quintessential term for all things Christmas related. Happy birthday, Jesus, now stop ruining my goddamn name and giving people reasons to put disgusting decorations on everything they own.
“I need to go.”
“Go where?”
“Somewhere else. I’m sure sitting here watching you get fatter is something most women delight in, but I’m two steps from vomiting and there’s no way to take two steps back.” I'm thinking 'cause opposites attract and you know! it ain't difference just a natural fact...
“You’re so feisty, that’s why I adore you so.”
“No, you adore me because my father promised your father that you and I would get married one day.”
“It’s how things are, Yule.” I’m digging my nails through my jeans straight through to my thighs at the sound of him, yet again, saying my name.
“Look Fifi, it may be how things are for you, your father, and my father, but it’s not how things are for me.”
“My name is Fydor, not Fifi, and I just can’t understand how you can sit there and say you have no attachments to me. Don’t you remember being kids? We were inseparable.” Visions of him egg-tossing me sprang to the cinema scream of my memory.
“Fifi, our parents are friends and live next door to each other. I think you’re confusing constantly having to be around each other with a genuine like and desire to be around each other.”
“So you feel nothing for me? Not even sexually? How can this be?”
“Okay, I’m leaving.”
I’m somewhere in between realizing that these news shoes I just got are pretty comfortable and running through how many calories I’ve eaten today, when I realize I’m about two blocks from my parents house. I stop, already set up for the pivot and turn, and just as I’m about to flawlessly implement my bastard intuition starts whispering in my ear: You went this way for a reason, why not see what it is? Curiosity killed the cat, and now it’s going to kill my ability to even have a shot at living happily ever after. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. It’s not like this is something I can assume the position of daddy’s little girl for and combat every time I flutter my eyelashes. This isn’t like asking for twenty bucks. This is asking my dad to give the finger to tradition and let the family take on a new tradition-an American tradition.
I’m approaching Bentley Square and all I can see is this guy staring at me. I do a subtle check and make sure no boobs are hanging out or camel toe is showing and I’m in the clear. So what is he staring at? I assume it’s just one of those things—like those paintings where no matter where you stand in a room, the eyes are always on you—and keep walking, but the closer and closer I get the more and more I realize that he’s blatantly staring at me. I’m about fifteen feet away from him and say “Unless there’s something gigantic hanging out of my nose that’s Technicolor I suggest you stop staring at me.”
He blinks, finally, and I know I’ve seen this guy before. He’s voicing his apologies when I realize where I’ve seen him.
“You’re a waiter at Fusion aren’t you?”
“Yea, I am. Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. I saw you and I was trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before.”
“Just tell me you didn’t bring any cold water with you so you can refresh your memory.”
“You’re kidding me! People, in my section, on a Saturday night, in the second most popular restaurant in this city? Why must you toy with me so, Carla? Why?”
She smiled and shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite.”
“I’m everyone’s favorite, baby! I’ll head over there in a minute, they should be going to commercial soon.”
“You’re a number one fan now, aren’t you?”
“Not everyday your baby sister could be the next American Idol. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time to stand here and shoot the shit with you. I have a table to acquaint myself with.”
“Context doesn’t matter, you’re still putting a dollar in the jar for that, Sebastian!” He took a dollar our of his pocket, placed it in the jar aptly labeled “Put Your Cash Here Or Have Your Mouth Washed Out With Soap”, and grabbed a pitcher of water.
“Is that even English anymore? Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed…”
“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. Looks like our little girl is in the middle of her own personal production of Fiddler on the Roof!”
“More like matchmaker, matchmaker, give me a gun. Christ, at least the guys in that movie couldn’t be Jabba the Huts stunt double.”
“Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed.”
“Bella, shut up already. It’s English!”
“Sorry, Yule. So, what are you going to do?”
“She’s going to marry the fat pig and then suffocate under all the rolls while they consummate.”
“You’re disgusting Marty, but I don’t expect anything less from a pre-op tranny.” Bella lifted her empty glass as if to make a toast.
“ I get my tits on the 20th, you bitches are jealous!”
“Hey you!” Sebastian looked at Yule and pointed at himself, slightly perplexed. “Yea, you. Why don’t you actually step close enough to use that pitcher and fill our empty glasses, maybe tell us about your specials, and stop listening to our conversation. Goddamn nosy waiters! Do something useful, don’t just stand there and eavesdrop.”
“I know it’s hard to believe that I wouldn’t want to stand around and listen to you girls talk about tampons, or clothing, or how fat you are, but I was actually looking at the TV over there.” He picked up Marty’s glass and began filling it. “My sister is on American Idol and since some of us have to work,” he began filling Bella’s glass, “I have to watch her while I’m here.” He grabbed Yule’s glass.
Yule looked at him while she placed her head in her hand. “I’m sure she’s happy she got the talent of singing and not the talent of filling glassware. You win some you loose some.”
Sebastian stared intently at her with a smirk. “That’s certainly true, but, coming from a girl sitting at a table with a man in drag who has probably done nothing more than mooch of mommy and daddy for a living, I’ll take it with a grain of salt.” He began to poor.
“You fucking idiot,” Yule screamed as she leapt up from her seat, “my God, you can’t even poor water into a fucking glass correctly.”
“It’s just water.”
“Don’t ‘It’s just water’ me, my vagina feels like it should be the victim of global warming right now!”
He laughed. “I’ll go get you some napkins.” As he walked toward the kitchen a wave of certainty bitch smacked him across the face. He was certain that it was fate’s hand that brought her into the restaurant that night, and that it was the divine hand of destiny that had her seated in his section. Sure, spilling water wasn’t the best way to get a woman’s attention, but attention is attention. If celebrity’s can believe it while they’re staring at a picture of their nostrils laced with Coke, he could believe it. He was approaching the table again, equipped with a stack of paper napkins and no less than four clothe napkins, when he honed in his highly tuned waiter ear to pick up what the ladies were talking about.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?”
“Work, and my parents just got a place at Bentley Square so, naturally, I have to help them move.”
A week later, he was sitting on a bench across from Bentley Square watching her approach him. He knew she didn’t remember him, and he was determined to keep it that way. It’s not often the prongs of love-at-first-sight gouge out every ember of who you are and make you want to start anew so you can at least have a shot with this new found object of affection, but when it happens you best believe no one can resist, and that no one included Sebastian.
Yule he said, and he repeated it to add some extra oomph to this whole situation, which, if you ask me, is just overkill. You’d be hard pressed to find more of an absolute wanker. Fydor took pompous narcissism to levels that not even Julius Caesar could ascertain. Don’t believe me? Well, lets just put it this way: At the age of six, when our families went on summer vacation together, he picked me up, waved me around, and wound up tossing me to my plummet of about sixty feet, all because there was a bee buzzing in his vicinity. Yes, even at the tender age of six years old this boy possessed a self-love that was incomprehensible and destructive to anyone who came near him. And now? Now I sit across from him at, what else, a Russian restaurant trying my hardest to explain to him why he and I will never work. Of course, he can’t comprehend why a woman wouldn’t want him and all his three-hundred twelve pounds of Gorbachev looking glory. He is his only fan.
Yule. He says it one more time. Leave it to my father who can’t even read English, let alone write it, to change your name from Julia with a twist to the quintessential term for all things Christmas related. Happy birthday, Jesus, now stop ruining my goddamn name and giving people reasons to put disgusting decorations on everything they own.
“I need to go.”
“Go where?”
“Somewhere else. I’m sure sitting here watching you get fatter is something most women delight in, but I’m two steps from vomiting and there’s no way to take two steps back.” I'm thinking 'cause opposites attract and you know! it ain't difference just a natural fact...
“You’re so feisty, that’s why I adore you so.”
“No, you adore me because my father promised your father that you and I would get married one day.”
“It’s how things are, Yule.” I’m digging my nails through my jeans straight through to my thighs at the sound of him, yet again, saying my name.
“Look Fifi, it may be how things are for you, your father, and my father, but it’s not how things are for me.”
“My name is Fydor, not Fifi, and I just can’t understand how you can sit there and say you have no attachments to me. Don’t you remember being kids? We were inseparable.” Visions of him egg-tossing me sprang to the cinema scream of my memory.
“Fifi, our parents are friends and live next door to each other. I think you’re confusing constantly having to be around each other with a genuine like and desire to be around each other.”
“So you feel nothing for me? Not even sexually? How can this be?”
“Okay, I’m leaving.”
I’m somewhere in between realizing that these news shoes I just got are pretty comfortable and running through how many calories I’ve eaten today, when I realize I’m about two blocks from my parents house. I stop, already set up for the pivot and turn, and just as I’m about to flawlessly implement my bastard intuition starts whispering in my ear: You went this way for a reason, why not see what it is? Curiosity killed the cat, and now it’s going to kill my ability to even have a shot at living happily ever after. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. It’s not like this is something I can assume the position of daddy’s little girl for and combat every time I flutter my eyelashes. This isn’t like asking for twenty bucks. This is asking my dad to give the finger to tradition and let the family take on a new tradition-an American tradition.
I’m approaching Bentley Square and all I can see is this guy staring at me. I do a subtle check and make sure no boobs are hanging out or camel toe is showing and I’m in the clear. So what is he staring at? I assume it’s just one of those things—like those paintings where no matter where you stand in a room, the eyes are always on you—and keep walking, but the closer and closer I get the more and more I realize that he’s blatantly staring at me. I’m about fifteen feet away from him and say “Unless there’s something gigantic hanging out of my nose that’s Technicolor I suggest you stop staring at me.”
He blinks, finally, and I know I’ve seen this guy before. He’s voicing his apologies when I realize where I’ve seen him.
“You’re a waiter at Fusion aren’t you?”
“Yea, I am. Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. I saw you and I was trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before.”
“Just tell me you didn’t bring any cold water with you so you can refresh your memory.”
He smiled at me and at that same moment something inside me burst into flames.
Labels: fiction friday
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1 People Who Bitched:
I likey! One tip: In that long conversational exchange, you should identify who's talking. I couldn't tell if it was two people or five.
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