exile in Niceville
Before you ask, “is there anything nice about Boston?”, let me explain: Niceville is a mythical, metaphorical place. I’ve never been there. I’m not allowed.
Case in point: Blind date, circa early 1997. As usual, I’m a few minutes early, therefore I conspire to ease my nerves with a beer at the bar. Tonight’s victim is about ten minutes late. By mass transit standards this would be an on-time arrival. By my standards it’s just late enough to permit me to order a second beer. She is attractive but cheerless—evidently determined not to enjoy herself. She never removes her jacket. Before I can settle up my bar tab and request a table, she stops me cold: “I have to tell you something—nothing personal—but you’re really not my type.”
I was taken by surprise, therefore the best I could manage was “Why would I take it personally? I’m in awe of anyone who can discern someone’s type so quickly” I’d like to think that I spat the word type, but I might be romanticizing. In any event, the sarcastic tone was duly noted, and she quickly became annoyed with me for daring to be less than she had expected.
“Look—you seem to be a nice guy. Let me pay for your drink and then I’ll go. No hard feelings.”
A light went on. I knew that I had only a matter of minutes before she would settle up the tab and be gone from my life forever. I had to make them as miserable for her as possible.
I was in heaven. I don’t remember anything I said, but I remember her open-mouthed amazement at several of the remarks I made. It was pure instinct. Just as she had made up her mind to storm out without paying for my beer, the bartender got her attention and the bill was paid. She left without another word.
I stayed for another beer—maybe more than one. I wrote a long, angst-ridden poem that in retrospect was short on literary merit. I also wrote a rare, sarcastic haiku:
our first and last date —
at least she called me
a “nice guy”
Before you ask, “is there anything nice about Boston?”, let me explain: Niceville is a mythical, metaphorical place. I’ve never been there. I’m not allowed.
Case in point: Blind date, circa early 1997. As usual, I’m a few minutes early, therefore I conspire to ease my nerves with a beer at the bar. Tonight’s victim is about ten minutes late. By mass transit standards this would be an on-time arrival. By my standards it’s just late enough to permit me to order a second beer. She is attractive but cheerless—evidently determined not to enjoy herself. She never removes her jacket. Before I can settle up my bar tab and request a table, she stops me cold: “I have to tell you something—nothing personal—but you’re really not my type.”
I was taken by surprise, therefore the best I could manage was “Why would I take it personally? I’m in awe of anyone who can discern someone’s type so quickly” I’d like to think that I spat the word type, but I might be romanticizing. In any event, the sarcastic tone was duly noted, and she quickly became annoyed with me for daring to be less than she had expected.
“Look—you seem to be a nice guy. Let me pay for your drink and then I’ll go. No hard feelings.”
A light went on. I knew that I had only a matter of minutes before she would settle up the tab and be gone from my life forever. I had to make them as miserable for her as possible.
I was in heaven. I don’t remember anything I said, but I remember her open-mouthed amazement at several of the remarks I made. It was pure instinct. Just as she had made up her mind to storm out without paying for my beer, the bartender got her attention and the bill was paid. She left without another word.
I stayed for another beer—maybe more than one. I wrote a long, angst-ridden poem that in retrospect was short on literary merit. I also wrote a rare, sarcastic haiku:
Case in point: Blind date, circa early 1997. As usual, I’m a few minutes early, therefore I conspire to ease my nerves with a beer at the bar. Tonight’s victim is about ten minutes late. By mass transit standards this would be an on-time arrival. By my standards it’s just late enough to permit me to order a second beer. She is attractive but cheerless—evidently determined not to enjoy herself. She never removes her jacket. Before I can settle up my bar tab and request a table, she stops me cold: “I have to tell you something—nothing personal—but you’re really not my type.”
I was taken by surprise, therefore the best I could manage was “Why would I take it personally? I’m in awe of anyone who can discern someone’s type so quickly” I’d like to think that I spat the word type, but I might be romanticizing. In any event, the sarcastic tone was duly noted, and she quickly became annoyed with me for daring to be less than she had expected.
“Look—you seem to be a nice guy. Let me pay for your drink and then I’ll go. No hard feelings.”
A light went on. I knew that I had only a matter of minutes before she would settle up the tab and be gone from my life forever. I had to make them as miserable for her as possible.
I was in heaven. I don’t remember anything I said, but I remember her open-mouthed amazement at several of the remarks I made. It was pure instinct. Just as she had made up her mind to storm out without paying for my beer, the bartender got her attention and the bill was paid. She left without another word.
I stayed for another beer—maybe more than one. I wrote a long, angst-ridden poem that in retrospect was short on literary merit. I also wrote a rare, sarcastic haiku:
our first and last date —
at least she called me
a “nice guy”
posted by extraspecialbitter at 8:39 AM
1 Comments:
The sarcastic haiku is indeed rare! It's like a tiger salamander.
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