That Guy

December 3, 2003

After dinner, Brian and I went for a coffee and some dessert. We walked to a little place in his neighborhood where a cute Italian girl works as a cashier. I had been with Brian when he'd met her at a restaurant a few months ago. She and a friend of hers had been sitting at the next table, and by the end of our meal, Brian had gotten her phone number.

"I work at the coffee shop around the corner," she had told him in her adorable broken English.

He was fired up about meeting her, but when he passed by the coffee shop a few days later and saw her for the second time, he had second thoughts. He didn't go inside, and he never called. So as we walked toward the corner, he said: "Dude, we can't go to that coffee shop if that chick is working."

"Why not?"

"Because I never called her. I don't want her to see me."

"That was months ago; she probably doesn't even remember you."

He walked ahead of me and peeked through the foggy glass door. "Cool, she's not here," he said, and in we went.

But as we walked over to the counter, she came out from the back room and saw us. Judging by the look she gave him as she took our order, it seemed obvious that she did, in fact, remember him. Her diamond nose piercing sparkled through bleached hair as she hunched over the counter to write the check. Her chipped red nails matched the two red plastic bracelets that were making a dull clank against the wooden countertop. She was hot in my book -- even better than I remembered. "Why didn't you ever call her?" I asked as we sat down by the window.

"I don't know. She's kind of weird. For one thing, when I came by that night, she was wearing huge earrings that looked like styrofoam Christmas ornaments. They were bogus. And besides," he said, "she has a beat ass."

We ate and talked and drank our coffees, and when we finished, Brian pulled out some money and handed it to me. "Here, man. You have to pay. I don't wanna have to go up there."

I took the money and went to the counter. I said hello and smiled and tried to be my usual charming self, but she was having none of it. She turned to face the cash register, and I looked at the dimples in her back that rested just above the waistband of her worn-out, low-cut jeans. I looked at her ass and tried to figure out what Brian didn't like about it.

She turned around, gave me my change, and I went back to where we were sitting. "I don't know, man. I don't know what you were thinking. I see nothing wrong with her at all. And her ass looks great to me."

"Well, then put in the call, dude. It's all you."

"I don't think so. Did you see that icy glare? She's still pissed that you never called her. She thinks I'm just your jackass friend, which, come to think of it…"

He laughed. "Yeah. Sorry, dude."

As we put on our coats, he asked if I'd ever read any of Sylvia Plath's poetry.

"Nope. Why?"

"Because, since I might be moving, I'm getting rid of a lot of shit -- books and stuff. I came across an anthology of hers. It's not bad."

A girl who had been sitting next to us, busily writing in a notebook, perked up. "I'm writing a paper on Sylvia Plath," she told us. "If you're getting rid of the anthology, I'll buy it. Can I give you my email address?"

Brian took her info and told her he'd give it to her for free. And then they talked about poetry for a little while. I just sat dumbly as she told him how she'd never met a guy who liked Sylvia Plath before. After she had gone, Brian turned to me, laughing and said: "Dude, how classic is that? Here I am sitting in a coffee shop talking about poetry with some chick. It's such a cliche. I've become that guy."

I shrugged and asked him if he wanted to go somewhere else.

"Nah, dude. I gotta go home. I wanna watch the Paris Hilton show."

I shook my head and told him, "Don't worry, you're not that guy -- you're that guy."