Class with a Capital Crime
I like to think of myself as a debonair person. A man of distinction and taste. I like to think, despite any evidence to the contrary, that I am a person of class, and I lord this over people accordingly.
I enjoy a fine cigar and a nice glass of bourbon (rocks will be fine, thank you. Keep your soda pop the hell away from my alcohol, you drug-addled sophomore). I love the arts and think about their significance in a modern world. I like to wear my suit.
However, every now and then, my little glass globe of self-actualization is shattered upon the Escher-cribbed staircases in the climactic Labyrinth scene of reality.
It's a good metaphor. Listen to my story, damn it.
I've decided to throw a little get-together next Saturday. A little house-warming party now that a) I've been living here for two months and b) I need to force myself to make this place livable. By setting a time limit on when exactly I need to have this place ready by, lest I embarrass myself, I am forcing myself to do all the little homey things I want to do but, unfortunately, have proven myself far too lazy to get up an hour earlier each day and take care of. So, I've picked up some essentials, I've finished the lights and gotten a working refrigerator, and have been looking for things that I think are exceptionally... classy.
One such thing is a decanter. I've been looking all over the place for a cut glass bottle with a stopper to hoard my liquor in. I equate the classiness of a decanter to the classiness of a straight razor. It's almost a meditative process, moving the alcohol form the bottle to the decanter, moving the alcohol from the decanter to the glass. Like an ice bucket, ice from the freezer, to the bucket, to the glass. Each extra step requires that much more thoughtfulness, like a Japanese tea ceremony. It's not something to be rushed.
Unfortunately, mot decanters seem to come in either the "God fuck that's expensive" or "What an ugly little shit of a blown glass piece" variety. I was having trouble finding anything both handsome and not a thousand dollars. Strangely, these are the same requirements I apply to prostitutes.
Finally, on craigslist of all places, I found someone in Yorba Linda selling a collection of six, mind you, six decanters for forty dollars. The lot. Some were crystal, some were antique.
They would all be mine.
Because of my ridiculous schedule, contacting the owner was hard, but after a few left messages I learned that the woman was Asian, a little bit nervous on the phone, and ready to get rid of these things quick. I finally talked to her in person on my day off when I was able to call during the afternoon, and she said I could pick them up immediately. Well, happy to oblige, mama-san.
We made arrangements and I set out. I had not driven into Yorba Linda for a while, and as I got deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, driving my malfunctioning, dented and unwashed pickup truck I began to feel out of place. I ride horses every day, but these were people who owned horses. Horses that were somewhere else. And weren't that large of a chunk of their budget.
I pulled up to the house and knocked on the door. She answered, and I smiled and introduced myself as nicely as I could. This is when our agreed upon discource must have fractured.
You see, this woman looked exactly like she sounded. She sounded like a well-dressed, middle-aged Asian woman fond of pearl jewelery and, I suppose, crystal decanters, and she was a well-dressed, middle-aged Asian woman fond of pearl jewelery and, I suppose, crystal decanters. I sounded like an educated, literate young man, with an interest in the finer things in life and a pleasant attitude. With my ratty corduroys, secondhand sportjacket and two-month beard, I looked like someone shot Jeremiah Johnson our of a circus cannon and through a thrift store. She said she would open the garage for me, and quickly closed the door.
It became clear to me that a very real part of this woman's mind believed, in all earnestness, that I was there to case the joint. She didn't want me in her house once she saw me, otherwise she would have met me at the garage. She made the decision once she'd laid eyes on me to keep me from seeing all the treasures hiding within her home. Smart move, Miss Saigon, very smart. A little untrusting, perhaps, but shrewd. And who knows? Maybe I would have. If there was something there that I wanted enough, who's to say that it wouldn't drive me to return there some night, when I was certain they were out celebrating Chinese New Year or some made-up holiday like that and savaging the place? Maybe I was going to rob her after all.
I began to look around the neighborhood, wondering if people were looking out their windows and wondering who that strange man was at Mrs. Ling's house (ed: her name was not Mrs. Ling. Probably). I began to get a little paranoid, and thought I could see movement in the large topiary garden across the brick path leading next door.
Who needs a path going to their neighbors? It's the only other place you know you don't need directions to. It's the next house down, man.
The garage door opened with me too close, and I deftly dodged it making a squawking noise I thought would break the ice. Michelle (her name) instead showed me the bag holding the treasure. I inspected each one carefully, then repacked them clumsily in the bag. So inexpert was my packing that she then corrected it, lest I hurt my own possessions.
I made a point not to look around. I didn't want to start appraising the contents of the tool shelf, or the relative ease with which I could access this back door.
She tries to hock another decanter off on me. It was ugly, with a picture of a boat on it. I said thanks and left.
Now, I have six good decanters, all for less than I would have paid for one good one. And yes, I could have paid more for a nicer one, but I made an older Asian woman uncomfortable and nervous with the threat of larceny and possible violence.
And by god, what's classier than that?
I enjoy a fine cigar and a nice glass of bourbon (rocks will be fine, thank you. Keep your soda pop the hell away from my alcohol, you drug-addled sophomore). I love the arts and think about their significance in a modern world. I like to wear my suit.
Hell yes, it's purple.
However, every now and then, my little glass globe of self-actualization is shattered upon the Escher-cribbed staircases in the climactic Labyrinth scene of reality.
It's a good metaphor. Listen to my story, damn it.
I've decided to throw a little get-together next Saturday. A little house-warming party now that a) I've been living here for two months and b) I need to force myself to make this place livable. By setting a time limit on when exactly I need to have this place ready by, lest I embarrass myself, I am forcing myself to do all the little homey things I want to do but, unfortunately, have proven myself far too lazy to get up an hour earlier each day and take care of. So, I've picked up some essentials, I've finished the lights and gotten a working refrigerator, and have been looking for things that I think are exceptionally... classy.
One such thing is a decanter. I've been looking all over the place for a cut glass bottle with a stopper to hoard my liquor in. I equate the classiness of a decanter to the classiness of a straight razor. It's almost a meditative process, moving the alcohol form the bottle to the decanter, moving the alcohol from the decanter to the glass. Like an ice bucket, ice from the freezer, to the bucket, to the glass. Each extra step requires that much more thoughtfulness, like a Japanese tea ceremony. It's not something to be rushed.
Unfortunately, mot decanters seem to come in either the "God fuck that's expensive" or "What an ugly little shit of a blown glass piece" variety. I was having trouble finding anything both handsome and not a thousand dollars. Strangely, these are the same requirements I apply to prostitutes.
Finally, on craigslist of all places, I found someone in Yorba Linda selling a collection of six, mind you, six decanters for forty dollars. The lot. Some were crystal, some were antique.
They would all be mine.
Because of my ridiculous schedule, contacting the owner was hard, but after a few left messages I learned that the woman was Asian, a little bit nervous on the phone, and ready to get rid of these things quick. I finally talked to her in person on my day off when I was able to call during the afternoon, and she said I could pick them up immediately. Well, happy to oblige, mama-san.
We made arrangements and I set out. I had not driven into Yorba Linda for a while, and as I got deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, driving my malfunctioning, dented and unwashed pickup truck I began to feel out of place. I ride horses every day, but these were people who owned horses. Horses that were somewhere else. And weren't that large of a chunk of their budget.
I pulled up to the house and knocked on the door. She answered, and I smiled and introduced myself as nicely as I could. This is when our agreed upon discource must have fractured.
You see, this woman looked exactly like she sounded. She sounded like a well-dressed, middle-aged Asian woman fond of pearl jewelery and, I suppose, crystal decanters, and she was a well-dressed, middle-aged Asian woman fond of pearl jewelery and, I suppose, crystal decanters. I sounded like an educated, literate young man, with an interest in the finer things in life and a pleasant attitude. With my ratty corduroys, secondhand sportjacket and two-month beard, I looked like someone shot Jeremiah Johnson our of a circus cannon and through a thrift store. She said she would open the garage for me, and quickly closed the door.
It became clear to me that a very real part of this woman's mind believed, in all earnestness, that I was there to case the joint. She didn't want me in her house once she saw me, otherwise she would have met me at the garage. She made the decision once she'd laid eyes on me to keep me from seeing all the treasures hiding within her home. Smart move, Miss Saigon, very smart. A little untrusting, perhaps, but shrewd. And who knows? Maybe I would have. If there was something there that I wanted enough, who's to say that it wouldn't drive me to return there some night, when I was certain they were out celebrating Chinese New Year or some made-up holiday like that and savaging the place? Maybe I was going to rob her after all.
I began to look around the neighborhood, wondering if people were looking out their windows and wondering who that strange man was at Mrs. Ling's house (ed: her name was not Mrs. Ling. Probably). I began to get a little paranoid, and thought I could see movement in the large topiary garden across the brick path leading next door.
Who needs a path going to their neighbors? It's the only other place you know you don't need directions to. It's the next house down, man.
The garage door opened with me too close, and I deftly dodged it making a squawking noise I thought would break the ice. Michelle (her name) instead showed me the bag holding the treasure. I inspected each one carefully, then repacked them clumsily in the bag. So inexpert was my packing that she then corrected it, lest I hurt my own possessions.
I made a point not to look around. I didn't want to start appraising the contents of the tool shelf, or the relative ease with which I could access this back door.
She tries to hock another decanter off on me. It was ugly, with a picture of a boat on it. I said thanks and left.
Now, I have six good decanters, all for less than I would have paid for one good one. And yes, I could have paid more for a nicer one, but I made an older Asian woman uncomfortable and nervous with the threat of larceny and possible violence.
And by god, what's classier than that?
posted by DeadLanguage at 7:58 AM
2 comments
