Saturday, October 08, 2005

you, sir...

I went and saw Capote at the break of dawn, this morning. This is the movie about the book that I’m currently reading and the author that I’m currently obsessed with staring the actor that I love and the soundtrack which already haunts my soul. I’ve been desperate to see this movie since I read about it in Men’s Vogue, and could tell this this is the kind of flick I need to see alone. I’m way too into the subject matter to allow anyone else to intrude upon this experience.
I booked it out to West Portal, of all god forsaken places, and popped into the theater just in time for the 11:30am showing. The film was spectacular, amazing, perfect and fascinating. I could gush for pages about everything from the camera angles to the costume details to the moment Capote enters a Kansas police station, sees an officer staring at his scarf and responds, “Bergdorfs.”
It’s all fabulous.
But far more interesting to the readers of this blog is the appalling altercation I found myself in as I left. Parked in a small municipal lot behind the theater, I’d made it to Rhonda the Honda with 4 meter-minutes to spare. I took those minutes to secure my seatbelt and open a Diet Snapple. This was too much for the unnoticed anal retentive asshole in the “I’m not gay because I have a truck” truck behind me, his embarrassing Scottie dog yapping through the window as he screamed at me.
“Your reverse lights have been on for fucking hours, you idiot. Are you coming or fucking going?”
“Um, oh my god. Who are you and what is your problem.”
“I am smart and your stupidity is my problem.”
Deep breaths, deep breaths. This is the kind of altercation that can piss me off for the rest of this beautiful day. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I was in such a good mood after my movie, too. And now this?
“Hey, pal. I was putting on my seatbelt. If you’re going to be an asshole about it, I can stay right here in this highly convenient parking space and go get my nails done.”
But I could tell that he could tell from my Jackie O sunglasses and my cashmere cardigan, I had places to go and people to see. Unlike him.
“Give up the goddamn space. You were just about to go.”
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I pulled my car out, spun her around, and pulled up alongside him. He leapt out of his disgustingly clean and unnecessary truck and approached my window, beginning his rant as I marveled at the t-shirt tucked so purposefully into his generic denim. “You’re such a fucking idiot. Bitches like you don’t need brains. You get everything you want because people think you’re pretty.”
Having no idea that he just made my day, I smiled, placed my fabulous sunglasses upon my face, and in an uncharacteristically confrontational move, responded with, “You, sir, are a dreadful human being.”
With that, I pulled away, ignoring his incoherent screaming and delighted that this horrible, sad and poorly dressed man thought I was pretty…


Sunset Boy said...

Of all the places in the world, and especially in San Francisco, that you would expect to be called pretty by a guy like that, the parking lot behind The Empire is probably high on the list.

I know you saw "Broken Flowers" girl, did you like it?


Elliot said...

At least he thought you were pretty...

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