For someone who’s been told that they look unapproachable I always manage to find myself in unwanted conversations with some of the craziest sum bitches alive. A few of them I share a blood line with so I tend not to have a choice in engaging them. Other times, though, random crazies just seem to find me at a time where there’s no escape route.
Such was the case for me on Friday, when some older man in a Fila jumpsuit decided to crash my time and my conversation while out at dinner.
I, along with a friend, were out at Crustacean. It’s a European-Vietnamese restaurant in Beverly Hills. If you’re wondering, no, I didn’t finally give into those go-go boy dreams nor have I signed my deal with Young Money. I don’t sell coke (no cola) either. I kept hearing about this place for so long that I wanted to try it. You know, be spiffy for once and not eat meat that wasn’t grounded or came from a fast food window. Next time I go there I’m selling plasma first. That being said, shout out to Wendy’s for still being the spot in this here recession.
Anyhow, so my friend and I are at the table looking at the menu as a part of me tries to figure out whether or not I should bust my ass on the floor to get this meal comped. Well, not really. I lost my health insurance months ago. I’m no fool: Dinner is one thing; seven million dollars for generic aspirin is another.
Now, your crazy uncle (not mine, see above link) who got in my space. So Mr. Fila spots my friend and I and asks my friend, “Are ya’ll from LA?”
She says she is, and tells him that I’m from Houston. He then asks me if I know Brad Ford…or whatever his name was. I say no and Fila Fool screams, “You from Houston and you’on know Brad Ford? What you, a medical student or something?”
I have no idea what one has to do with the other, but if you know who Brad is, feel free to clarify for me.
I tell the man I’m a writer and he proceeds to sit down.
It’s sometimes best not to tell people in LA that you’re a writer. One, because who isn’t a writer here? Two, some people might instantly think, “Oh, you can write my life story.” As if anyone besides the life side of his brain gives a damn.
Second scenario is what happened to me and for twenty minutes this man proceeds to ramble about the details of his life. As if I care.
I can’t even begin to tell you what all he said because I looked attentively but tuned him out for 98% of the time. The only reason he got that 2% was simply strategical. I needed to know just what level of crazy I was dealing with.
At first, the man was actually talking to both of us. At one point he pulled out two IDs. One had a residence in the hood (as told to me by the homie) while the other was some address in Beverly Hills. Why was he doing this? Your guess is as good as mine.
The man went on and on. He’s rich. He’ has a house in Manhattan. He came to LA on a Greyhound Bus with twenty cents in his pocket. He can walk into this “fine establishment” in a Fila jumpsuit. Because apparently he’s that dude. Ya heard?