This Actually Happened Last Week

Just like Liza Minnelli manifests around gay (at least according to the cinematic atrocity that was Sex and the City 2, a film I have seen no less than 13 times, whatever) ridiculous manifests around me. 

Last Wednesday evening I set out on the dual mission of rooftop champagne with friend followed by a late date with IA.  In spite of technically living in Brooklyn, it is surprisingly and delightfully easy to catch a cab in my neighborhood.  However, having them pull up directly outside my front door is a luxury for which I’ll hurl myself into the street.  Caught up in the satisfaction of not having to hunt down a ride, I failed to notice the exceedingly shellacked gentleman also trying to make his way to Mannahatta.   It properly scared the proverbial shit out of me when all of a sudden he was there, keeping me from closing the taxi door.  

So it’s not like he was a face-eating hobo zombie on bath salts or anything.   He actually seemed perfectly nice.  He was just a clean cut sort of dude who was wholly obliterated.  He was also wearing one of those “hello my name is” stickers and it said, “fucks on the first date” in the white part.  He begged me to take him to the city with me, pleading that he was so drunk (umm, yeah) and was desperate to get back home.  He offered to pay for the cab.  I said I’m perfectly capable of covering cab fare to the Flatiron.  Anyhow, after a lot of nonsense back and forth and a lot of Jim Halpert looks from the driver, I said, “Fine! Don’t touch me! Don’t barf on me! And we drop me off first!” 

We set off.  Here’s the conversation that ensued en route to the bar:

FOTFD (fucks on the first date): You’re so beautiful.  Who are you texting?

Me:  A guy I'm seeing.  Not that it’s any of your business. Please stay on your side of the cab.

FOTFD:  I’m so drunk.  I’ve been drinking all day.  I’m so drunk. He’s not going to answer you. 

Me: No one is debating that.  And he’s actively answering me.  He thinks I should get out of this cab.

FOTFD:  Come on, you’re beautiful.  I’m a nice guy.  I want to be your friend. Here’s my phone.  Put your number in it.

Me:  I’m definitely not giving you my number. 

FOTFD:  Fine, give me your email.

Me:  No, I don’t have an email that doesn’t include my full name.  It’s fine.  We’re just sharing this cab. That's all.

FOTFD:  I’m a nice Ohio guy.  Come on.  I’m a TV producer. 

Me:  I’m sure you are a perfectly lovely person.  Who do you work for?

FOTFD:  MLB.  We’ve been so busy with the All Star game and we finally had a day off.  I’ve been drinking all day.

Me:  Again, I totally believe you there.  And I work with their ad sales dept.

FOTFD:  See?  Let’s be friends.  I’m a nice Ohio guy.  Where are you from? 

Me:  I’m from Florida.

FOTFD:  Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnn, fuck Florida.  Everyone is racist down there. 

Me:  Right.  There are a lot of racist people there.  Also, I don’t live there.  I live here.  I have for nearly eight years.  I have no plans to return. 

FOTFD:  Noooooooooo I bet you’re just as bad as everyone else. 

Me:  I assure you I am not.  I really don’t give a shit who or what anyone is. 

FOTFD:  Look at my arm next to you.  We’re not the same. 

Me:  Anyone with functioning eyesight can see that.  I assure you I am not a racist person. Not in the least. 

FOTFD:  Touch my arm.  Touch a black man.

Me:  OK.  …oh hey look.  Nothing happened.

FOTFD:  Fuck Florida. 

Me:  OK.

This went on for a while longer while he simultaneously tried to convince me he was going to see his girlfriend and assured me he wanted my friends to be friends with his friends.  Right, I don’t get it either.  Around this time, I got a text asking me to stop off for ciggs before heading up to the roof.  I saw a Duane Reade and screeched for the cabbie to pull over and let me out.  Just as fast as I’d hurled myself into that cab, I launched my ass out of it.  I’d had enough.  FOTFD hadn’t.  He leaned across and grabbed my arm imploring me to not go.  The cabbie meanwhile was alternating between having unspoken, judgmental conversations with me through the rear-view mirror about being irresponsible and looks that said, “Please don’t leave me with this loon.”  

In the end, I got a free inter-borough cab ride, addressed race relations and gave him some rep’s biz card so that we could be friends in the future.  You’re welcome. 

Vennifer.