Macho, Not

Macho, Not

 Me and Buf were shufflin’ it on down a dirty sidewalk in a hip neighborhood of Washington D.C., just after sloppin’ slop food into our mouths with our fingers at an Ethiopian restaurant called the Haile Selassie, a place neither of us could afford.  We settled with credit cards that had balances neither of us could pay.

“You get no lay, if you have no moneys,” said Buf, and I spotted a threesome.

“Bimbs, Buf.   Bimbs.” I said.  “They’re walking toward us.”

“What is ‘bimbs’?” asked Buf.

“Girls, Buf.  Girls.  American girls.  They’re all idiots.  That’s why we call them bimbs—bimbos, actually.”

The girls were 25, maybe 28.  They wore sun dresses.  One walked in platform shoes, and her dress was strapless.  She tugged at the front of her dress, because it slid down, exposing, she determined, too much of her breasts.  I thought it funny, the way girls wore strapless dresses and pulled ’em up and then wore miniskirts and pulled ’em down.

“You have no moneys, you get no lay,” said Buf.  He was resigned, but I wasn’t.

“Say hello to them, Buf.  Say hello.”  I was up, animal up—the way I get around girls 30 years younger than me.

Buf tilted his chin toward his chest and started swingin’ it real fast, like a pendulum gone mad.

“No, no, no.” he said.  “I get no lay.”

“But you’re a doctor, Buf.  American women dig doctors.  They put out for doctors.  I promise.  Just tell ’em you’re a doctor.”

“I a doctors, yes; but all my moneys go to government Thailand.  Paybacks for schoolings.  I got no moneys.   I get no lays,” he said.   “You say hellos.  You American tomcat. ”

The situation was, indeed, desperate.  I couldn’t say hello to girls.  I ain’t no tomcat.  I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.  Hell, they threw me in the loony bin six times, and I have no idea why they ever let me out.

The girls were close now, and you could touch ’em if you reached out.   They didn’t look at us, and I knew they wouldn’t.   American girls never look at men first.   The girls pointed their noses forward, and I thought that maybe this is why British men call bimbs “birds.”

I stopped and turned toward the women as they passed.  They walked on, disinterested.  I gagged and felt a depression coming on.  I reached into my pocket for a zyprexa.  Fucking American women, I thought.

“Do girls in Thailand want moneys too, Buf?”  I said.  I was hopin’ that maybe I could get a lay if I emigrated to an exotic country.

“They want moneys too.  They want car and house, but not so much as American girls.”

Me and Buff shuffled it on down the sidewalk some more.  A hundred girls passed by, maybe 200. They didn’t look at us, and they didn’t smile, and they didn’t say a thing.

“I a loser,” said Buf.  “I a loser with no moneys for the girls.”


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