Monday, June 8, 2015

all reptile, no magic

enter a puffy-chested man. caucasian. mid-height. fortysomething.

in spite of the bit of John Goodman hanging over his belt, he looks a whole lot like Don Johnson: tight white tee, wannabe gentleman's blazer, and the presumption that he's "all the ladies want" spewing out from his hair gel.

he places his drink order.

the barista enquires as to whether Puff would like his beverage made with whole milk. affirmative. then: hesitation, distrust. quickly inflating his chest further, Puff lets out: sorry, um, is this the first time you're making that drink?

affirmative.

at once, and deadpan, Puff signals to the other, more familiar barista (has he just snapped his fingers at him?): yeah, could you make my drink for me instead?

at which point a silent cloud of smoke seems to bleed from the collective nostrils of the other customers.

and now back to translating...