He Said I’ll Die Poor

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.

Mistake #1.

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?

In between all of this he keeps asking me if I want to make money. Something about 35% and Paramount, and some other bullshit that escapes me (thank God).

I’m thinking that if I let this crazy motherfucker talk for a few minutes he’ll eventually go away. No. He kept going. Did I mention twenty minutes? And that’s just an estimate, honestly. It could have been seven minutes but it felt like twenty. Who knows? I was really looking at this man like, “You crazy motherfucker.”

I don’t think people in general think I look unapproachable. I’m realizing that’s only in club settings.

Moving on, Fila Fucker who smelt like Kool cigarettes and probably spent the previous two hours tongue kissing a bottle of Crown Royal initially thought I was dating my female friend. Maybe I shot him a gay look or some shit, because he switched the game on me suddenly.

Out of nowhere he stops talking and asks, “Are you a homosexual?” I answer yes and this fool goes, “Does my straightness make you uncomfortable?”

This is the part where I pull my glass of water closer to me. He goes, “Oh my man, I’m speaking over your water. From the bottom of my heart I am so sorry.”

Yeah, that’s not why I pulled the glass closer to me. I realized letting this fool talk for a few minutes wasn’t going to make him go away. No, not this Negro. He’s comfortable. I didn’t realize it but he shooed our waitress away. The second time she came over he was like, “Nah they’re not ready to order.” I said, yes we are homie, hold on.

Hence the glass being pulled closer to me. I’m wondering if this crazy ass man is going to steal off on me. If that’s the case, I’m going to at least bash this glass in his face just in case he tries something.

I am dead ass serious. It dawned on me that being civilized clearly wasn’t going to work.

Did I mention this man kept touching my arm while he spoke? I hate touchy feely people when they talk.

Finally this man finishes his soliloquy and asks me, “Now, what do you say? Do you want to make money?!”

I said no. And then: “No disrespect, man, but you’ve been here for a minute and I’m with my friend and we’re trying to enjoy our dinner.”

Fila Fuck: “Well fine! Die poor!”

Say what?

I’m going to die poor because I don’t want to write your book/biopic?

I officially understand why people say LA folks are out of their damn minds. I could spot cracked out dwarfs pop locking for bagels in New York and still say LA is crazier. In LA’s defense, the man said he was from Miami Beach, but hell I met him in LA so blame goes to Cali.

After the man told me I was going to die poor, he got up and left. The waitress asks if I know that man. Uhh, no?!

She assumed that was the third guest we were possibly waiting for. I thought my telling them to not give him any plates or silverware because he’s not staying was good enough clue.

The waitress: “I thought he was your father the way he was yelling you.”

He wasn’t yelling. Just loud. But, ya’ll know how a loud black man can be interpreted.

She tells the manager, he’s escorted out, and we got a free dessert. I guess?

On top of all of this, the live entertainment at the restaurant needed to be bitch slapped with a black history book. I didn’t pick up on it at first because she remixed it into some sort of jazz standard, but this place had a white girl singing “Wade In The Water.”

That’s right a white girl singing “Wade In The Water” in an Asian fusion restaurant. I can’t.

Anyone knows of any spots in Crenshaw I can eat? I bet they act better down there.

P.S. Please don’t snitch on me to any of my student loan slave owners providers. If they find out I guarantee I will get a call like, “Hold up, screw, you spending money on that but you’re complaining about us?”