You are probably wondering why the hell you should care that I’m eating a cupcake?
Have I gone the way of millions of bloggers before me and begun to document every moment in my life in twitpics for the purpose of getting some sponsorship money?
Welcome to my story of tasty cupcakes and just desserts.
I was walking past the House of Lancaster, our local strip club, reading Mantel’s Wolf Hall on the way home from a delicious dinner of soft tacos and enchiladas from El Asador.
I stop reading for the span of 20 paces and let the book fall to my side.
There is a house at the end of my block inhabited by trendy anti-literacy hipsters. Some look like they bought brand name clothing out of a trash bin and others embody those jeans you buy with paint on them. They don’t like that I read when I walk and I don’t like them. This isn’t new.
In high school people would be so enraged by my habit of walking and reading they would often yell, “faggot” from speeding vehicles to break my concentration. Years have past and they’ve been replaced by a bunch of thugs in leopard print short shorts with unique haircuts but the principle remains the same. They don’t read, have had a few drinks and want to involve me in their lives. A few days ago they spotted me walking and reading and showed their willingness to drag me into their lives.
“Look at this fucking guy. He loves reading.”
“Walking and reading in the dark. Must be a good book.”
“I like it.”
“What’s it about?”
You’d probably expect me to say something witty.
I paused. Trying to think of what I should say. Feck.
I continue walking unable to think of anything clever to say.
About twelve seconds down the street I think to myself that I could have lectured them about the importance of literacy or possibly told them the book was about how I fucked their mother and how our children survived despite fetal alcohol syndrome. But I just kept walking. Left with my options, unable to turn back, feeling like George Constanza, muttering,”The jerk store was all out of you.”
This time I’ll just hold the book and keep walking.
Nothing will be gained by getting into a confrontation. There is some sort of cigarette and colt 45 conference taking place on dirty couches placed on their front porch. I make it past their front step without comment.
“Is that the bible?” asks a girl with a lip ring, dirty hair and the beauty of a hobo pageant winner. The sort of girl, who speaks French, knows how to use an squigee and might be good at French kissing. Most of the girls and boys look somewhat the same. Somewhat stylist clothing accented by dirt.
“Hey you….is that the bible?”
“No, it’s called Wolf Hall. Pretty good.”
It’s about Thomas Cromwell and the part he played in the English Reformation. I don’t need to explain it. I’ll just keep walking and go home and finish my book.
“Come up and read us some of that bible,” she says.
A dude with skinny arms and a Mohawk decides to chirp in. “There is a cupcake in it for you.”
I turn around and walk up the stairs. The deck gives me a big cheer.
“Now you promised him the cupcake. Fuck, dude. That was my cupcake.”
“Where is ma fucking cupcake?” I say in a gruff Nova Scotian accent.
They guffaw en masse.I have agreed to be their source of fun on a boring Sunday evening.
He opens up a small cardboard box and presents a tasty morsel in rewards for my efforts to be their favorite monkey.
“Read it with an accent.”
“A British accent.”
“Read us the bible, man,” says the girl with the lip ring who originally accosted me. I noticed the dude next to me has a ginger colored Afro.
You asked for it. I open Wolf Hall and pretend to be reading it.
“Thou hath found yourself in hell on earth.”
“What?” asks Ginger Afro.
“Silence,” I say to him. “Speak no more fool. I’m reading the good word so shut your trap.”
Everyone laughs. I have them.
“In dark times when the economy was bad and boys and girls sat outside and drank coronas across the street from a strip club they had little knowledge that their souls would be used to fuel the fires of hell. That across the street their mothers were showing their tits so that their children wouldn’t have to recycle their beer bottles to get funds or booze or even contemplate getting jobs. ”
“There were boys and girls with souls made of tight jeans and their parent’s credit cards. They had a surplus of Leopard pants and unique haircuts.”
“You sound like a pirate.”
“And they interrupted when they asked the handsome literate man to read to them even though he held them in great contempt. When the apocalypse came God ignored them, believing their souls useless and their cupcakes delicious. So now the man of the book left and finished his fucking cupcake. Have a great evening and give me ma fucking cupcake”
My trophy is handed to me.
I walk off the porch to their cheers and entreaties to come back and be their friend. Instead I continued walking.
“I already miss you,” Ginger Afro.
I went home and ate my just dessert as I finished posting this blog.
One point for literacy and bonus points for cupcake eating.
The cupcake tastes gross. Feck.