Redefining Rockel

You know I never discuss female thermodynamics - Lou; Rescue Me

Poll

Rockel Recipes

Untested Recipes (1)

All Recipes (6)

Peeps

Politics

News

Fake News

Stuff

The Film of the Week

The WORD of the Week

Matthew 3:7-10

But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming to where he was baptizing, he said to them: "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?

Produce fruit in keeping with repentance.

And do not think you can say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father.' I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham.

The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.

Stupid Fact of the Week

There was only one civilian casualty during the three-day Battle of Gettysburg

28 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 5)

As the cab sped off, I reached out for something to steady myself as I hung on to what little sobriety remained.

The city sped by in a dizzying spell of lights and sounds.

The dialect became a song. A free-flowing melody all too easy to take part in and enjoy. The conversation inside the taxi generally focused on us and how great we thought New York was.

However, as moments emerged where our gullible guests found themselves looking out the windows at the city, Adam and I found each other staring at each other, carrying on another conversation, silently, with our eyes and less-than-subtle facial expressions, unbeknownst to our fellow travelers, about our current situation.

What the--?
I know.
How did--?
I don't know.
Can you--?
Heck, no. You?
Never.
Man.
You're an idiot.
I know.

Or at least, so the inner monologues played out in my mind.

We got to the diner, found a table, and began perusing the menus. Immediately I realized my first problem. I really wanted eggs over easy with toast and hash browns. That didn't sound very British to me.

Ah well, I thought, I'll have a go at an American breakfast. And to complete the idea, I ditched the hot tea and ordered a coffee. Black.

As we waited for the food to arrive, the first large speed bump of our little game emerged. Or, perhaps, I should say, the first large speed bump that I noticed emerged.

Christy looked directly across the table at me and said, "So how come you didn't have such a strong accent earlier at the bar and now you do?"

Gulp. I had to think quick. Especially since between the gulp and me thinking about how quick I had to think, several seconds had passed and Shatarsky had not come to my rescue. Even he was stuck. This was bad.

"Did I do that?" I bought a little bit of time. "Was I speakin' like an Irishman? I sometimes do that when I'm pissed." (Had to remember the old slang) "Or at least, so I've been told."

"I don't know. It definitely sounded different." She thought. "Yeah, that could have been it."

My God, these women were priceless.

Adam finally decided to ring in now that I had alleviated the situation, but I was thankful none the less as he turned the conversation over on them. He was a ladies' man, through and through, which is why, I imagine, he did so. Either way, I was relieved.

We talked about how they were both from Georgia, how Debbie was recently divorced, and 35-years-old (we, the sly devils we were, definitely played the charmers and told her she didn't look a day over 28, which she didn't really), and how the two of them were up on a "Ladies Weekend" that they do every year with their friend Terri who was back at the room. Terri, the married one, was apparently not the partying type. She was 42. Christy, as it turns out, was 28 (again... not a day over 24... again, not too much of a stretch).

Somehow, the women managed to work the conversation back over to the two of us and the screenplay that we were to shoot that week. Christy asked me about it, and I described it as best I could.

"Wow," she commented. "Very interesting. I'm a writer as well."
"Oh really," I said, "what do you write?"
"Novels."

She said it in a very forced, very bad British accent. She did this quite often throughout the evening. It usually caused Adam and myself to laugh, which in turn caused both of them to smile. It was little things like that that made me believe that although I was going to hell for my actions that evening, perhaps I would at least get stuck in the slow lane... the one with the beautiful view on the way down.

"Or, novel, I should say. Only one so far. But it's nearly finished. Three Hundred and Eighty Pages."
"Good Lord," Adam reeled back. "Tryin' to set a record or something?"
"Well, it's a very complicated story."
"Apparently," I said.
"What kind of book is it? One of those naughty American ones?"

He was referring to Romance novels. Adam, I may have mentioned before, does not think on many occasion, and would very often repeat a certain word if he liked the way it sounded (or, even better, if the girls liked the way it sounded) in his Cockney verbiage. "Naughty" was one such word.

"No," she said. "It's a thriller. A murder mystery."
"Ooooh. Hello."

"Hello" was another.

"Well," Adam continued, "You'll have to let me have a look at it."
"Will I?" She was trying the accent again. It was cute.
"Yes. That way I can tell you if it's a load of shite. Keep you from wasting your time."

It was starting to get thick. His smile was almost as big as hers. It was sickening.

"No. I kid," he said, pulling out a pen and scribbling on a napkin. "There's my email. You send it there, I'll have a look see, tell you what I think. Deal?"

Alright. At this point he's relinquished one item of personal information. Now, granted, it's only an email, which can change on a daily basis and have no real national ties. I did notice, however, that he gave his T-mobile (Tmail) account, rather than his America Online account. So maybe he was thinking more than I give him credit for.

We enjoy our breakfast and everyone takes turns staring at the bill as though it were a piece of modern artwork. After we finally get everything squared away, we step out into the early morning air.

We ask the ladies where they are staying, and if we can walk them back. Christy answered with the name of a hotel that I have now long since forgotten. But at the time, I recognized the name from a sign right across the street of the hotel where Miss Devon was staying.

Oh my, I thought to myself, That's right across the street from the Marriott Marquis.

"Oh my," said Adam, "that's right across the street from where we're staying: at the Marriott Marquis."

I froze. You've got to be kidding me, I said to myself.

This was far beyond asking for trouble. This was schtick too good for a 1920's Vaudeville act.

Luckily they responded with merely a, "Wow, what a coincidence," and left it at that.

The walk back to their hotel was flavored with fun stories, horrible accents, pictures on cell phones, and Adam relieving himself on the side of the street. As we said our goodbyes outside their hotel, the girls mentioned that they were flying back to Atlanta the next night.

"We should do lunch tomorrow," Christy said.
"Yeah, totally," Adam responded. You could here the slight cynicism if you listened carefully. "Give us a call, here's my cell."

Never expecting to hear from them again, Adam handed over the 10 digits which were his New York cell phone.

posted by Rockel @ 2:50 PM

1 Comments:

At 29/11/05 8:02 AM, LT said…

Rock-El.

Sup boyee. Dropping a line to see how everything is. Also been linking to several blogs from your list over to the right. Say hi to Gretchen for me (Xanga wouldn't let me comment).

Lata.