"So, who do you belong to?"
"No one." I was too sober to be witty.
"Oh no, I meant who did you come with?" Yes, I know what you meant.
"My father."
"Oh and which one is he?"
I point in the general direction of the courtyard, "Straw hat, shirt, face, pants." I was way too sober to be witty.
"I'm sorry. I just like to know which group you associate with."
"Mmhm." Yup, too sober.
Yesterday, my father and I were invited to an alfombra social event, meet new people that sort of thing, while outside they made a rug to be trampled upon. It was before I had work that day, so I take the initiative to look presentable. It was quite the walk from our house, and the sun was not making it enjoyable. Damn equatorial region.
We're the first ones to arrive. He know the host and he had warned me beforehand that he had a wacky family. We make our way to the back section of the house. We didn't have much to talk about, so we were sitting on some chairs and reading. His friend arrives. She comes to join us and tries to strike up conversation. She's truly a socialite in this town.
I like her. I really do, but something about yesterday afternoon had me not feeling all too cheery. Maybe it was all the red eye shots from working the night before.
Soon enough more people arrive with their spawn in tow. Some of the children though are clearly Guatemalan.
"The hottest new trend. Third world orphans." I think to myself. This small moment of being able to hear myself think quickly passes though. Suddenly, the reading corner is swarmed by little girls that can't sit in the suspended chairs, and they do not shy away from constantly voicing their frustration at their inability to sit in hammock-chair.
I quickly excuse myself. My father follows lead as I make my way to the bar.
"Who brings their children to a thing like this?" My father smiles and lets out a small chuckle, "Can't you just leave your kid in a cage, give it a water bottle, and say 'Peace out!'"
"I've thought about it."
Damn. He's not too sober to be witty. Time to get on his level. I order a tampontini. Obviously, I can't just say tampontini to the bartender and get away with it. He probably wouldn't even understand me, nor would he even know what I meant.
I point at the bottle of white cranberry juice. I don't know how to say cranberry in Spanish. I the point at the vodka. He doesn't understand my pronunciation of vodka. Maybe he doesn't understand my accent.
Happy with my clean (no red cranberry juice) tampontini, I venture outside to smoke. I see a man waiting by the door showing people inside. I should probably describe this man in more detail, as simply saying 'man' could leave you with a totally different picture of him than what he actually was. 'Man' was taller than 5'8", heavier than 150lbs, tattooed, bearded. I had seen him earlier, he was the owner of the property we were on. He had a dachshund named Molly. Molly had her own special panda-themed fold-up chair.
He stops me.
"You don't have to go outside to smoke. There are ashtrays on the table." He points to the central table in the courtyard. His voice fits his appearance.
"Oh, I don't like to smoke in front of children." It's true. Especially the white ones.
"Go ahead. They shouldn't give you trouble."
And he was right, none of the parents appeared to be helicopters.
He had joined me in smoking, so I ask him where the bathroom is. It's a door with colored paper streamers hanging in front of it. There is a woman sitting on the bench outside of it.
"I know you!" Here we go again.
"I don't think I've met you before."
"Oh, I- I've seen you around town, walking along fourth avenida." This is nothing new to me. I'm very noticeable. One of the reasons my dream to be an assassin will have to wait until my hair changes colors to something less neon.
I stay silent though. Still sober. Nothing witty. No conversation filler.
After another cigarette, another drink, and some party chatting, I check my phone. It's 2:45 in the afternoon. The processions and the shit show that come with them were going to begin soon, and I had to go buy a rubber ducky.
----
"They're peace corps. Maybe you could help them out?"
"I volunteer as well. I understand why you would want one, but no." A white lie. I did volunteer, but no longer.
A couple nights later, day off, but I end up at the bar for happy hour with my father.
"So, do peace corps volunteers get discounts here?" said skinny, overly british accent lady.
"No they don't" said pink-haired me who doesn't feel like talking about work on her day off.
"Most places they do though." Well not here lady.
She's a teacher at some school. I never really did pay attention too much. I just knew she like rum and diet coke with a lime.
"Yeah, well I volunteer as well and I don't expect to get a discount whenever I go out drinking with my NGO." I can tell this is going to be an issue with her.
"But they're doing good work for free." Anyone see The Dark Knight?
"If you're good at something, never do it for free." -Joker
Thank you imdb.
I decide to steal a phrase from my father's lexicon which I did not agree with, but it would get this lady to shut up.
"Volunteers ruin the initiative of the people they're trying to help."
Sure enough, she purses her lips and looks down at her drink.
I probably wouldn't see her at the bar for a few days.
Fine by me.
I had always thought that using Diet Coke as a mixer was just wrong.
----
Song currently stuck in my head: Netsky - Squad Up ft. Jimmy Jams
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