100!

100 posts. Wow. All of them are dynamite, I'm sure.

Since this is my 100th post, it's only appropriate I talk about something awkward that happened to me today.

My new landlords are Hasidic Jews. I met them on the front the stoop of our apartment building. I grinned hard as they approached and stuck out my hand. They were smiling, but when they saw my outstretched arm, their smile quickly faded from their faces. I sensed something was wrong, yet this only strengthened my resolve to shake their hands. Reluctantly, one of the landlords shyly stuck out his hand. I shook it. It was no better than a wet noodle. Disgusted, I didn't try to shake the hand of the other landlord. They remained friendly during the entirety of our transaction, but this bothered me. I pay them, or more accurately at the moment, my parents pay them rent. Couldn't they have the decency to shake my hand?

Only later did I find out that Hasidic Jews don't shake hands for religious reasons. And I thought I was well versed on these type of things. Smooth, Brett.

I like Tom Waits. I dig this old throwback stripper cartoon.




I tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past.
--Tom Waits

This is what a recession looks like.

"Ahem," the waiter coughs.

I snap back into reality and scan the table. Todd stares at me; his omnipresent, dumb grin tattooed in place. To his left, Tessa gazes up at the waiter. Or maybe, at a fan above the waiter's head. Cynthia nervously squeezes my knee. She coughs.

"Sorry," I say. I shake my head fast and squint my eyes, faining concern. Since I haven't a clue as to what the waiter wants, much less why he is talking to me, I hurriedly grasp at objects on the table. My half empty plate. Cynthia's empty wine glass. My half-cocked facade quickly runs thin. I run out of objects to grab at. I almost begin to paw at Cynthia's broach. It is obvious to the waiter, the table, and to myself that I am confused.

"The bill, sir" he sighs. "You forgot to sign the bill."

I look down at the table. Sitting directly in front of me is a small, black folder. Presumably, if I understand the waiter correctly (I'm not sure I do), the bill for our meal sits in the folder, waiting to be signed. If this is true, it means I was daydreaming about the detestable Todd Jordan for an extended period of time. Was I quite caught in my daydream that I didn't notice the waiter pick up my card and then bring the bill back to the table? Hadn't I talked to Cynthia in the last ten, fifteen minutes? Had I chewed the fat with Todd? Or, as is most likely the case, I stared at Tessa's upper thigh, and relished in thoughts of hatred for Todd while Cynthia babbled at my profile.

Whatever, I could bet with reasonable certainty that anything occurring in the last 15 minutes is, or was, of little consequence to me.

I sign the bill and hand the black envelope to the waiter. He nods and walks off. I frown; confused.

"Why did he come over here?" I ask. "I mean, shouldn't he just wait for me to sign the bill? He rushed us." I focus my eyes in contempt towards the waiter, who is now serving creme brulee to a young, awkward looking couple. A blond haired girl with fair skin watches as the waiter places a tiny dessert bowl on her table. She smiles at her date and absent mindedly pulls the dessert closer towards her. She immediately throws her hands up in revolt and lets out a meek cry when the small bowl burns her hands. The girl's face flushes red. Her date, a chubby 20-something who seems as confident as a junior varsity lineman, blushes and laughs with the girl. I imagine that tonight is the couple's second date. They met at work. She is the receptionist and works through a temp agency. He is a junior salesman. His father used business connections to help his son get a job directly out of college. One Friday, a group of co-workers went to a bar in the East Village and they ended up talking about movies from the 80's most of the night. Sixteen Candles, the Brat Pack, and The Corys. What happened to Molly Ringwald? The blond girl and the chubby man kissed like drunken fools when they shared a taxi back to Brooklyn. They never talked about that night again, but he sent an email the next week and asked her to dinner at a posh restaurant.

The awkward couple laugh for a long time and they never look directly at each other. Maybe, they met on an Internet dating site.

"Why would he rush us for the bill?" I continue. "Let me tell you," I say, turning my attention away from the couple. "It didn't help his tip," I chuckle.

Todd laughs. "You called him over here, you fool," he says. "You asked him to pick up the bill; said you wanted to get out of here," claims Todd. "Fuck Mitch, poor kid probably makes next to nothing," finishes Todd.

I can't decide if the couple met at work or through the Internet.

Tessa and Cynthia grab their bags. Todd and I stand up. When Cynthia stands up, I grab her left hand and put my other hand on her lower back and lead her towards the door. A black, Kate Moss Drape desperatly tries to cover her slender torso. Black heels match the top. Beige pleated capris compliment her red nailpolish. I smuggley nod at the young couple as we pass them. The girl looks away, intimidated by my tall, attractive Cynthia. I help Cynthia with her hip length, double breasted cape before we exit the restaurant. From behind, I admire Cynthia's shapely shoulders only for a moment. Mostly, I watch as Todd assists Tessa with her coat.