Kate and I took my agent to lunch yesterday at a Mexican place owned by a man who appears to despise both food and humanity.
He stations himself at the door like a reluctant bouncer and escorts diners to their tables while delivering his standard welcome speech:
“I don’t know why you came here. The food is terrible. And frankly, I don’t care if you tip.”
He owns the restaurant.
Most of the regulars are in on the joke.
The newcomers look like they’re being detained.
The place was packed—rain and high winds had driven everyone indoors—and morale was surprisingly high.
Especially at a nearby table where two adults were supervising what looked like five or six girls, maybe eight or nine years old. A coven. A giggle coven.
One of them became fascinated with my newly emerging beard. She pointed at me, whispered something to the others, and suddenly the entire table collapsed into hysterics. Full-on, uncontrollable, secret-sharing laughter. I had clearly become folklore.
As they were leaving, I smiled at the ringleader and said, “I’ve never seen so many good-looking little boys.”
Silence.
You would have thought I’d just stolen her wallet and blamed it on inflation.
“We are NOT boys, mister.”
“Oh?” I said. “You look like boys. How do you know?”
All the girls erupted—screaming, protesting, litigating—while I laughed and waved as they marched toward the exit.
The original girl stopped dead in front of me and locked eyes. If she’d been carrying an axe, I’d be typing this with my feet.
She walked about ten feet, then turned sharply back toward me, raised her clenched fist, and pumped it in the air like a revolutionary.
I mirrored her move and glared right back.
No one—no one—knew what was happening. Kate and my agent exchanged looks that suggested they were mentally drafting my apology tour.
The girl grimaced, leaned in, and goes, “Mister… this is not going to end well for you.”
Then she grinned and skipped into the rain.
No one stopped laughing for the next five minutes.
I suspect I have made a powerful enemy.