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So my friend Dan, in town for the marathon, hoaxes me into meeting him for
dinner with his folks uptown on saturday. I scuffle up there fresh from a
40-hour gig on the desktop working for Moodie. Nice to see Dan and all, but
he's had his penne and is going to bed, and now I'm on 82nd and Amsterdam at
10:30, with no high-value targets on any of the scopes this evening.
Phone Zak once, twice.
Yeah, hey, man, I'm just walking the dog. Do you want to go to a Latin
halloween party?
Pfff, yes. What like a day of the dead thing? Holloween was 2 days ago,
man.
Yeah, I don't know. I guess.
Awright. I need a costume?
Meet me at my house. I have something for you to wear.
Hook with Syed. As he's pulling out my "Taliban" costume, I put my hand in
my pocket, find I still have my toucan beak mask from Holloween party on
friday, and once again seem to already have what I think I need.
We go to Queens to pick up Lisa.
Back to manhattan, party at 5th and D.
It's a hot red box bouncing from the music, I'm the only one here not
speaking spanish.
Introduce myself to the bar, and pull up on a very mysterious bottle of
Columbian liqor. Kind of a Columbian Ouzo thing, ferociously sweet,
definitely psychoactive.
So that happened. On a lot of rocks, nicely melted.
Lisa gave me my first salsa lesson. Met a solid-looking motherfucker who
plays league soccer, even in the winter, under an overpass in Queens. Kind
of guy who'd break your leg, and then giggle at you as he helps you up.
Towards the end of the night, Zak asks if I like one of the girls across the
room. From what came into focus, my impression was what someone once said
of Marilyn Monroe-- like two puppies fighting in a silk pillowcase.
Diana, I think her name was. Anyway, I'm like, Zak, what about it?
Well, she's availible, she's unattached. If you're interested.
Okay, man.
An hour later, I find the only empty chair, sit and look over, and it's her
sitting right next to me. I never saw it coming. She's wearing these
marilyn manson contact lenses, frog-green and kinda square. Trippy. And
she had running slashes of mascara which I wasn't sure were some kind of
costume, or she'd been working as a hooker for her third 8-ball in a row.
So, I seem to be saying something to her and she seems to be understanding,
but then she begins not understanding after all, and the vibe flips
immediately to both of us being kind of annoyed at the others' confusion.
She's saying something like, why are you still taking to me? And I say, are
you being the freak or am I?
She says I'm fine, it's you!
Alright, alright, I believe you.
That out of the way, we leap into a great discussion about where she's from,
which was 'Colombia, the most beautiful con-try in the world'.
And what makes it the most beautiful?
Because we have the most beautiful coca in the world, and in Santiago de
Cali, where I am from, we have also the most beautiful womens in the world.
Up walks a-- there is no better word, a dapper little older man wearing as
his costume, of course a yachtsman-themed sharp admiral's jacket, with the
scarf and the hat. Very alert, happy guy.
It's true! he shouts. And they are all bat!
Bad? Bad girls?
Yes! All bat. It's true. It's where I found her!
This is my husband, Orlando, she smiles.
Hmm, I say to Orlando. Expensive?
No! Well, yes! You must go there! Trust me my FRIEND! I KNOW what I am
talking about!
Much most beautiful conversation ensued, but at some point, I ask myself,
did Zak just invite me to hit on the 24-year old wife of the mysteriously
wealthy older Columbian in the room?
I mean is this it? Are we just on different teams now?
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