LET me tell you an odd little story, in anticipation of summer. Last June, just as New York City was turning back into a summer sweatbox, our friend Shirley called my wife and said she knew someone with a pool in New Jersey who was away for the weekend, and wouldn't mind our using it. An irresistible invitation.
We made haste. An hour later, we were heading up Route 9W, windows open, looking out over the Hudson River on a lovely day.
At my suggestion, we stopped for some snacks and drinks. I was the last of the three of us to leave the gas station, a bag bulging with goodies in my hand.
That's when I walked into a situation, right there in the parking lot. Three cars, one of them Shirley's, were simultaneously trying to pull out of their parking spots. The two male drivers were screaming at each other, at Shirley and at my wife.
Ever the conquering diplomatic hero, I decided to intervene. Channeling some bizarre amalgam of Basil Fawlty and Rodney King in his "Can we all get along" moment, I said: "Come on, gentlemen, let's be reasonable. We can settle this amicably and all be on our way."
Big mistake. The first driver, in a black S.U.V., gave me the finger while accusing me of having had sex with my mother (which was, moreover, completely untrue), just before making a wheel-spinning exit from the parking lot.
In a spirit of hopeful solidarity, I looked at the second driver, shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows in disbelief at the actions of the one who had just sped off. I turned and made my way back to Shirley's car.
That was when things really kicked off. The second driver — he was in a red convertible — started screaming at me, dropping an impressive number of unprintable adjectival expletives that circled around my being bald (true) and speaking like a limey (undeniable).
I paused for a moment, turned around, straightened my back, and slowly walked toward the sports car, my carrier bag gently rustling in the wind, full of diet sodas and trail mix. I took a good long look at the guy. He was nicely, if casually, dressed, with expensive shades and a deeply impressive mop of black hair. It was thick and gleaming with some kind of styling product. I said: "Excuse me, sir. Would you perhaps like to apologize?"
That was when I realized my real mistake, which had occurred hours earlier. Back home, after Shirley called, I had quickly found my swimming trunks and earplugs, pulled on some jeans and flip-flops and buttoned up a newish shirt, a birthday gift from my wife.
Let me tell you about this shirt. I loved this shirt! It was a beautiful, brushed cotton button-down in a dusty, slightly shocking pink. This shirt cost $200! I wore it to please myself, my wife and, on this occasion, to impress Shirley, who is an executive in the fashion industry.
Pride first; fall second. The sports-car guy lowered his shades, looked at me in my pink shirt and yelled: "Who are you looking at, pudendum boy? Why are you wearing a pudendum boy shirt, pudendum boy?" (I should point out that the sports-car guy did not choose the Latin term.)
I was taken aback. I mean, this was a nice shirt, right? This was a $200 shirt. This was a Steven Alan shirt. Maybe it was the color of Pepto-Bismol. Maybe I looked a little like living diarrhea relief. But this was no pudendum boy shirt. (I live in Brooklyn. I keep it real.)
Warming to his theme and realizing he had the upper hand, the sports-car guy began to improvise, Coltrane-style. Again, the number and rapidity of obscenities was truly impressive, but if I could summarize the drift of his reasoning, it would be as follows:
By virtue of the fact that I was wearing what we can call, for the sake of economy, a P.B.S., and, on the basis of the assumption, repeated once again (but still untrue), of my having had sex with my mother, he invited me repeatedly to perform fellatio on him. He emphasized the invitation with explicit hand gestures and by pointing to the area of his crotch. (I am not that slow. I got the point.) And so it went round and round for ages, like a three-stroke engine or the three persons of the trinity: P.B.S., incest, fellatio.
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