Sarah: So how’s the packing going?

Couch Baron: Ugh. I just threw away twenty garbage bags of stuff.

Sarah: I didn’t know you had twenty garbage bags of stuff, much less to throw away.

Couch Baron: Neither did I.

Sarah: There’s a Jimmy Hoffa joke in here somewhere.

Couch Baron: Except it’s not a joke. I had to double-bag that guy.

Sarah: I hate it when that happens.

Couch Baron: God, me too. Goddamn dead smelly labor leaders.

Sarah: This is why I never pull my dresser out.

Couch Baron: Seriously. Anyway. What did you do today?

Sarah: Nothing. Well, I did stuff, just nothing exciting. Except can I ask you something?

Couch Baron: Oh, boy.

Sarah: “Oh, boy” what?

Couch Baron: Well, every time you ask me if you can ask me a question, we always have to take a long detour into the semantics of “hypothetical” when the question is about you in the first place, and I don’t see why you can’t just ask the question straight —

Sarah: It is not about me!

Couch Baron: Okay, then.

Sarah: It is about rice, in point of fact, Mr. Critical-Of-My-Conversational-Style…Guy.

Couch Baron: It’s about rice.

Sarah: Yes.

Couch Baron: Fine. What is your question about rice?

Sarah: What brand of rice do you use? At home.

Couch Baron: I don’t use rice at home.

Sarah: Oh. Okay, never mind then.

Couch Baron: Why?

Sarah: Okay, see, I experimented with making up my own rice dish, and the experiment kind of failed, and I’m trying to eliminate variables so that I can pinpoint the cause of the failure.

Couch Baron: So, you think the brand of rice had something to do with it.

Sarah: Maybe, I don’t know. I mean, one minute everything’s fine and the next thing I know it’s a gluey mess.

Couch Baron: Tell me you didn’t use Minute Rice.

Sarah: Oh God no, it tastes too plasticky. Hey, I thought you said you don’t use rice at home.

Couch Baron: I don’t, and Minute Rice is why.

Sarah: What happened?

Couch Baron: I’d made, like, a New Year’s resolution to cook more or whatever, so I’m in the kitchen with the Minute Rice, but then I had to run and get the phone, and when I got back after maybe thirty seconds, it had solidified into this grainy brick. I chiseled at it for twenty minutes and got maybe five grains off the top. Had to throw the saucepan away. It was all about Chinese takeout from then on.

Sarah: Fucking Minute Rice, man.

Couch Baron: No kidding. But you say it wasn’t Minute Rice.

Sarah: No. Carolina.

Couch Baron: Well, you got me.

Sarah: I mean, I used the right amount of water, I stirred it regularly, and it still turned into a taffy pull. And people wonder why I don’t cook.

Couch Baron: Oh, I know. I mean, the last time I checked, the purpose of cooking was to prepare food for eating, and the food that I prepare —

Sarah: — is inedible.

Couch Baron: Exactly. Wait, when have you eaten my cooking?

Sarah: I haven’t. You don’t cook.

Couch Baron: I know, that’s what I’m saying.

Sarah: No, but I’m saying that I hear you, because I’m the same way. I mean, I wish I could cook, and I have tried to cook, but after a while you just have to accept that your cooking sucks and start collecting menus.

Couch Baron: Ah, menus.

Sarah: “Ah, menus”? Ohhhh — I guess you threw all of yours away, huh?

Couch Baron: Yeah.

Sarah: That’s so sad!

Couch Baron: I know!

Sarah: You know what else is sad?

Couch Baron: That we think it’s sad that throwing away menus is sad?

Sarah: Yeah. That’s kind of sad, right?

Couch Baron: Well, not really. I mean, that sheaf of menus is one of those things I really identify with living in New York. Like, if you visit someone in Chicago and you want Chinese, they get out the menu and you pick what you want to eat. Here, they get out, like, twenty menus, and you have to pick a menu, and then you pick what you want to eat.

Sarah: That’s so true.

Couch Baron: Ordering in Mexican around here? Please.

Sarah: Really. “Okay, do we want the good Mexican, the cheap okay Mexican where you get lots of free chips and salsa, the cheap crap Mexican that only takes two seconds to get here, the medium-priced not-that-great Mexican with great sopapillas, the okay Mexican with cheap beer, or the new Mexican on Second Avenue?”

Couch Baron: Exactly. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a vegan burrito in this city.

Sarah: Doesn’t stop some people from trying.

Couch Baron: What? Oh yeah, ew. What was the name of that place again? “El Roachero”?

Sarah: “I’m Never Going There Again-o”? God, that was disgusting.

Couch Baron: I thought it was kind of funny.

Sarah: “Today’s special: Paella con cucarachas“? No, not funny.

Couch Baron: Oh, come on — when the waiter tried to tell us it was actually a really really tiny crawdad? You didn’t think that was funny?

Sarah: Heh. Okay, that was sort of funny. But you know what was really funny? Was the look on Maria Jesús’s face.

Couch Baron: Oh man, yeah. I’d heard of people physically turning green before, but that’s the first time I’d actually seen it.

Sarah: That was awesome.

Couch Baron: I think that’s the only time I’ve ever written to Zagat’s, was about that place.

Sarah: Oh my god, me too! What did your entry say?

Couch Baron: I don’t remember exactly. But it was in all caps.

Sarah: Yeah, mine too. I think I tried to approximate a scream of primal horror.

Couch Baron: Totally. “Hmm. Capital E, seventy capital Ws…yes, I believe we’re done here.”

Sarah: Ha! Seriously.

Couch Baron: Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that I’m not going to miss that place.

Sarah: Girl, please. The owners of that place wouldn’t miss that place.

Couch Baron: “Sir, we’re terribly sorry but your restaurant burned down.”

Sarah: “Woo hoo! I mean, ‘Oh, dear.'”

Couch Baron: Hee.

Sarah: So what are you going to miss?

Couch Baron: God. Everything.

Sarah: Aw.

Couch Baron: No, seriously. The other day some buttwad poached a cab from me on Lafayette and I almost teared up.

Sarah: Aww! Your last cab-poachee experience.

Couch Baron: Yeah. I mean, I glared at the guy, but it was a wistful kind of glare.

Sarah: I’m sure people poach cabs in London.

Couch Baron: Yeah, but they’re all British about it. It’s not the same.

Sarah: No, I guess it isn’t.

Couch Baron: But to tell you the truth, I’m not really going to miss the kind of guy that poached the cab.

Sarah: Gel monkey?

Couch Baron: Total gel monkey.

Sarah: Blue shirt, black pants, trying really hard not to look too Jersey?

Couch Baron: And looked even more Jersey as a result? Yep, that guy. Oh, and he had one of those girls with him that took on more high heel than she could handle, so he had to tow her around by the hand.

Sarah: Oh, god. And she’s all, “That Guuyyyyy, slow dooowwwwwn!”

Couch Baron: And she’s flappin’ the teeny tiny purse.

Sarah: But he’s not really listenin’ to her, ’cause he’s on the cell. Gotta be talkin’ on the cell.

Couch Baron: Guffawin’ really loudly on the cell.

Sarah: Lettin’ the world to know that he’s got friends. Funny friends. Makin’ plans, talkin’ to friends.

Couch Baron: He’s talkin’, he’s poachin’. He’s multi-taskin’, That Guy.

Sarah: That Guy’s dance card? It’s a full one!

Couch Baron: Places to go!

Sarah: People to see!

Couch Baron: Can’t hang around! Got high-fivin’ to do!

Sarah: Got straight-man back-clap hugs to give out!

Couch Baron: Because heeeeee’s not gay!

Sarah: No sir!

Couch Baron: Just friends with those dudes!

Sarah: That’s right!

Couch Baron: And time’s a-wastin’!

Sarah: Gotta get uptown!

Couch Baron: Right now!

Sarah: No time for cab etiquette!

Couch Baron: No time at all!

Sarah: His friends ordered him a Heinie!

Couch Baron: And it’s not gettin’ any colder!

Sarah: Little Purse Girl wants to go dancin’!

Couch Baron: Heeeee wants to get laid, so heeeeee’s gotta go dancin’!

Sarah: Gotta make fists with his hands and do that thing that’s sort of the hustle, but not exactly!

Couch Baron: Gotta squint, too! Don’t forget the squinty thing!

Sarah: Gotta shrug his shoulders around!

Couch Baron: Gotta bob his head! Rhythmically!

Sarah: That Guy! Killin’ on the dance floor!

Couch Baron: ‘Cause he’s mixin’ it up a little with the running-man move!

Sarah: Gotta mix it up!

Couch Baron: Chicks dig it!

Sarah: Diggin’ it right now, those chicks!

Couch Baron: Go That Guy! Go That Guy! Go, go, go That Guy!

Sarah: Oh, That Guy. Is there anything he can’t do?

Couch Baron: He can’t make me like him.

Sarah: Bah, me either. Stow it, That Guy.

Couch Baron: And get your own goddamn cab.

Sarah: And stop thinking you’re the only person ever hired by Salomon Brothers to answer a freakin’ telephone.

Couch Baron: And ease up on the cologne.

Sarah: And learn to dance. No, better than that. No, better. Okay, just stop dancing, because you look like Epilepsy Smurf.

Couch Baron: And stop fiddling all obviously with your Rolex knock-off so we’ll comment on it, because nobody wants to know how much money you make, because nobody cares.

Sarah: And confine adjustments of your nutsack to the bathroom, because nobody cares about that either.

Couch Baron: And force yourself not to “WOO” during Foo Fighters songs.

Sarah: And buy your own cigarettes, because I’m not a commissary.

Couch Baron: And take off that Guido pinky ring.

Sarah: And stop quoting The Matrix. You do not know kung fu, and even if you do, nobody cares.

Couch Baron: And don’t cut in front of me in line at the pizza place on Sullivan, because I waited patiently behind your girl-drink-drunk girlfriend for fifteen minutes because she drank one Smirnoff Ice that rendered her unable to form complete sentences like “plain slice, please,” and now it is my turn to get a piece of pizza, NOT YOURS, so get thee behind me, That Guy. No — no, seriously. Get thee behind me. In the line. Which you CUT INTO.

Sarah: And also? It’s a piece of pizza, not a Jell-O shot. You don’t have to stuff the ENTIRE SLICE into your mouth at once.

Couch Baron: It’s called “chewing.” Look into it. And quit hogging the oregano.

Sarah: And shut up.

Couch Baron: And get OUT of MY CAB! God!

Sarah: I hate you.

Couch Baron: Me? What did I do?

Sarah: You’re moving across the ocean and ABANDONING me with That Guy! How could you DO this to me?

Couch Baron: Oh, don’t even. You’d do the same in my shoes.

Sarah: Yeah, I know.

Couch Baron: All right, then.

Sarah: Does London have That Guy?

Couch Baron: Not really. Well, sort of. It’s different, though, because of the accent.

Sarah: Ah.

Couch Baron: And there’s less pizza-into-face-stuffing, generally speaking.

Sarah: Right. But what about chips-into-face-stuffing? That’s got to be pretty gross, right? With the mayonnaise and whatnot?

Couch Baron: Vinegar. They don’t do mayonnaise so much.

Sarah: Oh.

Couch Baron: Good try, though.

Sarah: “Good try” what?

Couch Baron: You know — trying to get me to not move because guys might be jamming fistfuls of mayonnaise-y chips into their pieholes.

Sarah: It’s a compelling reason. In my opinion.

Couch Baron: Strong effort.

Sarah: Thanks.

Couch Baron: Alas, it’s going to fall short.

Sarah: Dammit.

Couch Baron: I am going to miss pizza, though, definitely.

Sarah: London pizza is bad?

Couch Baron: It’s not New York pizza.

Sarah: Yeah. Even bad New York pizza still gets the job done.

Couch Baron: How was Toronto pizza?

Sarah: Good, actually. The Canadians would get all insecure about the pizza around me, like, “Well, we know it’s not New York pizza,” but the reason it’s not New York pizza is that it’s way less greasy, which worked for me.

Couch Baron: It is fairly difficult to fuck pizza up.

Sarah: It really is. Bread, sauce, cheese, done.

Couch Baron: But it’s not impossible.

Sarah: No. I used to think it was, but then…

Couch Baron: …then you ate Tiger Pizza. Good GOD that was horrible pizza. I found a piece of plastic in my slice once.

Sarah: I found a leaf. A whole one. How does that happen?

Couch Baron: It must have fallen in when they were mixing the concrete for the crust.

Sarah: For real.

Couch Baron: That crust is still kicking around my transverse colon.

Sarah: And the sauce didn’t help.

Couch Baron: What sauce?

Sarah: My point.

Couch Baron: I can’t believe we ate that crap.

Sarah: Okay, but we ate that crap stinking drunk. I knew people who ordered it sober. SOBER. Why would you do that? It’s a piece of driveway with cheese!

Couch Baron: I don’t know. And it’s not like Teresa’s was that much more expensive.

Sarah: And Teresa’s was good pizza! I always thought so, even when I worked there.

Couch Baron: But you didn’t eat it when you worked there.

Sarah: Sure I did. I had to.

Couch Baron: But I thought the pizza got spat on.

Sarah: We only ate from the “display pies,” those didn’t get spat on. And we didn’t do the spitting so much. Mostly it was stuff that fell on the floor that we’d put back on the pie, but even that was more being in a hurry than malicious intent.

Couch Baron: So you never spat on Naked Guy’s pizza.

Sarah: Hell no! Tipped like a champ, Naked Guy. My boss wanted to go over there with me and kick his ass, but he was really nice and everything. He was just, you know. Naked.

Couch Baron: That’s so bullshit, though. I mean, it’s not like Naked Guy didn’t know you’d be dropping by. He called you. He couldn’t put on a pair of shorts for two minutes?

Sarah: Well, there’s no denying it was weird, but — I don’t know. He didn’t have an erection or anything, and he didn’t leer. He just didn’t have any clothing on.

Couch Baron: I still think it’s out of line.

Sarah: Dude, say that when you live on tips. It didn’t bother me. Those fucknuts in Blair Tower who would make me huck five pies and seven bottles of Coke up all those stairs and then round up to the nearest dollar? That’s gonna get some lint on the pepperoni.

Couch Baron: That Guys in the making.

Sarah: Literally.

Couch Baron: So you linted those guys.

Sarah: I went with more of a “tip the box forty-five degrees so the cheese all slumps onto one side” approach most of the time. I only put things on the pie that weren’t supposed to be there twice.

Couch Baron: Ha! Those poor customers.

Sarah: Oh, that’s the best part — same customer both times.

Couch Baron: Oh, no. Anyone I know?

Sarah: Do you remember Mad Anthony?

Couch Baron: That kid with the hair who walked like a marionette?

Sarah: Yeah, him. Well, he lived on the top floor, which didn’t help, but the real problem was that he always ordered the same thing and it always came out to $14.95. That’s fine. But he’d hand me fifteen bucks while I’m still holding the food and then he’d STAND there with his HAND out waiting for me to fish through my pockets for a fucking nickel while I’m trying to balance all this food. Like, you can let me struggle with the food, OR you can expect me to come up with small change, but NOT BOTH. And then he’d yell “OKAY” at me really loudly because I think he thought I didn’t speak English. And THEN he’d take the food, FINALLY, and then he’d slam the door in my face.

Couch Baron: I think I had a French class with that guy one semester. Not so much with the social graces, young Anthony.

Sarah: Yeah, no shit — like, there’s a pill for that, Mad Anthony, please take one. Anyway, one night it’s super-busy and we’re all running around and here’s Mad Anthony on the phone with that stupid ham-and-pineapple shit and I just wasn’t in the mood, so I found a really tiny feather on the ground outside and tucked it under the cheese.

Couch Baron: Wow. Did your boss know?

Sarah: My boss held the cheese up for me, man.

Couch Baron: You’re kidding me.

Sarah: Nope. Mad Anthony had called one time and bitched his ear off because we’d stopped carrying Cherry Coke, so my boss was not Mad Anthony’s biggest fan.

Couch Baron: Did Mad Anthony have a biggest fan?

Sarah: Mad Anthony always had a girlfriend. Explain that to me.

Couch Baron: I really would rather not.

Sarah: And I do not blame you. So anyway, the other time I took a cookie and hacked the chocolate chips out of it and hid them in his pie.

Couch Baron: HA HA! Oh, man. So what did he do?

Sarah: I don’t think he did anything. He would call to complain a lot all “where’s my pie, I ordered it five whole minutes ago,” but he never phoned that stuff in. I feel kind of bad about it now.

Couch Baron: Don’t. Mad Anthony could have saved himself.

Sarah: It only cost a nickel.

Couch Baron: “A nickel?”

Sarah: “Shhhhhhh.”

Couch Baron: Heh.

Sarah: Good times.

Couch Baron: The best.

Sarah: Still moving?

Couch Baron: I signed a lease. So. Yes.

Sarah: Okay.

Couch Baron: I’ll come back and visit.

Sarah: Oh, I know.

Couch Baron: And you’ll visit me.

Sarah: Sure.

Couch Baron: I know it’s not the same.

Sarah: No, it’s not.

Couch Baron: And think of it this way — you’ll have one less person around to remind you of The “Tragedy” Incident.

Sarah: Oh, for fuck’s sake — you’re the ONLY person who EVER reminds me of The “Tragedy” Incident! And I wish you’d stop!

Couch Baron: Oh, have a sense of humor about it. So your ex-boyfriend caught you frugging to a Bee Gees song — so what? It’s his own fault, he should have called before coming over.

Sarah: But I shouldn’t have been frugging! I looked like a complete spazmatoid! And it wasn’t even a GOOD Bee Gees song! It’s a sucky Bee Gees song! And I dance worse than That Guy! It was really traumatic.

Couch Baron: Yeah, he did seem pretty traumatized.

Sarah: Shut up!

Couch Baron: In fact, I believe the words “convulsive” and “flailing” —

Sarah: Shut UP!

Couch Baron: And then I got a call from Elaine Benes, and she said —

Sarah: SHUT UP!

Couch Baron: Okay, okay. But it seems like maybe a sports bra might have —

Sarah: Oh, that does it. GET OUT OF MY COUNTRY, RIGHT NOW!

Couch Baron: Hee hee hee.

Sarah: I mean it. Just get an inner tube and paddle your ass right on out into international waters.

Couch Baron: Hee.

Sarah: God. I can’t believe you brought that up.

Couch Baron: Oh yes you can.

Sarah: Good try, though.

Couch Baron: “Good try” what?

Sarah: You know — trying to get me to not miss your bitchy ass because you made fun of my disco stylings.

Couch Baron: So it didn’t work, then.

Sarah: Not really. Although it did remind me of that time you ate an entire pound of plain cooked pasta in one sitting, kind of like — hmm. What’s the phrase I’m looking for here? Ahhh, yes. “A complete hog.”

Couch Baron: Oh, here we go.

Sarah: Except for the “kind of” part. And the “like” part.

Couch Baron: Heeeeeere we go.

Sarah: So, I’ll miss you rampaging through my refrigerator like a termite in a lumberyard.

Couch Baron: I’ll miss that too. If by “I’ll miss that” you actually mean “shut up about that already, because nobody told me not to eat that pasta.”

Sarah: Well, sure, if by “nobody told you not to eat that pasta” you actually mean “that pasta was supposed to feed four people and you ate the entire bowl in five minutes.”

Couch Baron: Shut up about that already! Nobody told me not to eat that pasta!

Sarah: That pasta was supposed to feed four people! You ate the entire bowl in five minutes!

Couch Baron: It was ten years ago!

Sarah: It was a POUND of PASTA!

Couch Baron: It was NOT LABELLED!

Sarah: You didn’t even take the time to SEASON it!

Couch Baron: It was fine!

Sarah: It was inhaled!

Couch Baron: I’m a fast eater!

Sarah: You are A HOG!

Couch Baron: And YOU are a — a pasta miser!

Sarah: But that does not CHANGE the fact that YOU are A HOG!

Couch Baron: You eat FUNYUNS!

Sarah: But I do NOT eat an entire BAG in FIVE MINUTES!

Couch Baron: But I wouldn’t JUDGE you if you DID!

Sarah: Of COURSE you would, because it’s DISGUSTING!

Couch Baron: And if I DID judge you, I wouldn’t KEEP judging you TEN YEARS LATER for eating a bowl of pasta that WASN’T EVEN THAT GREAT!

Sarah: If it wasn’t that great, then I must wonder aloud WHY YOU ATE THE ENTIRE THING IN FIVE MINUTES!

Couch Baron: I was HUNGRY!

Sarah: You! Were! A HOG!

Couch Baron: And YOU are A BITCH!

Sarah: Gee, THANKS FOR THE TIP!

Couch Baron: And I am KIND OF going to miss that!

Sarah: I know! Because YOU are a bitch also! And I am going to miss it!

Couch Baron: But ONLY KIND OF, and NOT when it is directed AT ME!

Sarah: Dude. That bowl was, like, really big. And full of pasta. And you ate all of it.

Couch Baron: I was hungry, bitch.

Sarah: You should put that on a t-shirt.

Couch Baron: You should put it up your butt.

Sarah: No, you should.

Couch Baron: Noooo, YOU should.

Sarah: Fine, I will.

Couch Baron: Fine.

Sarah: Oink oink. Oink.

Couch Baron: You know, my plane really can’t leave soon enough.

Sarah: Let me drive you to the airport. Please.

Couch Baron: Can we listen to the Bee Gees in the car?

Sarah: Sure. Let me just fill a trash bag with noodles so you’ll have a little something to snack on.

Couch Baron: You do that.

Sarah: I’m really going to miss you.

Couch Baron: Me too. Bitch.

Sarah: Hog.

Couch Baron: Aw.

July 15, 2002

Tags:   friends   travel