Two New Friends
by Albert Russo
The swarthy guy whose
muscled body shone as if dipped in a thin layer
of olive oil - yeah he looked scrumptious -
chuckled and said:
“Mademoiselle has a
nice sense of humorrr!”
In the meantime, my uncle
had difficulty opening his mouth, he seemed
awestruck by the sudden apparition of these two
splendid Israelis, who, there could be no doubt
about it, were gay buddies, or even partners. For
every now and then, they would wink at each other
all the while pursing their lips in mock kisses.
There was nothing sissy
about them, which, I believe, made Unky Berky
feel even more spare. Unlike in Paris, when, on
my insistence, we join the sun-bathing August
crowds on the banks of the Seine, everybody keeps
to his/her quant à soi (meaning, ‘to
each his own’), and if someone happens to
give you the once over, he/she pretends that you
are not the the target of hir (his/her)
curiosity, as if you were totally transparent.
This is so very parisien. And that is
when I prefer being American, even if you smile
at people you don’t know, hypocratically,
for, at least you exiiist! Then you can pull
faces back, pretending you are a bit retarded. I
know how to do that, and people, who at first
want to insult me, end up saying “the poor
soul, she’s a bit deranged”. But when
some of them conclude that I shoud be locked up
in a looney bin, I retort, cackling like a
chicken ready to lay an egg, “Kot kot kot,
go look at yourself in the mirror, your face has
gone all funny, you must have caught the cowvid!”
And they freeze like Lot’s wife in the Bible,
turning into statues of salt.
If you can’t defend
yourself, people trample on you, like they do
with my uncle who thinks he can get away with
silly compliments they don’t even deserve.
As I said before, I serve as Bonka’s
bodyguard, acting so fiercely that no one dares
laugh at him when we are together. Coz, between
you and me, he sometimes dresses like a Christmas
tree, wearing socks of different colors,
unmatching shoes, or buttoning his shirt wrongly.
I oughta charge him for my makeovers, like in the
reality shows, specially since he praises me for
making him look decent.
For someone who grew up in
Italy where women and men dress beautifully, my
uncle must have been so traumatized by his father
that he lost all sense of taste.
“How about joining us
for a drink at the beach café after showering!”
suggested the Viking-looking blonde.
“That’s very nice
of you,” pussy-mouthed my uncle, who
suddenly seemed to have caught a sunstroke,
“but my niece and I should really go have a
rest.”
“Wa wo wee,” I
blurted out, “If you are so tired, put your
jammies and go to bed. And, facing the two guys,
I added, “Thanks so much, I’m coming
with you.”
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