Anxiety and cigarettes. And pot.
On my way home from the gym, as we were waiting for the metro to arrive, Cap and I discussed my slight tendency to over-analyse, over-think, and freak out. In particular, I described how I’d spent the entire day worrying about how to tell my prospective date that salsa dancing, on a Monday night, at 10pm, was not my idea of fun because it was past my bedtime – and how using the phrase “past my bedtime” was the opposite of sexy, so how could I possibly communicate the source of my anxiety (timing of the date, and not the actual date itself) without forever branding myself as lame? To make things worse, I had willingly agreed to this nocturnal date, in the hopes that I would miraculously find myself able to survive on 5 hours sleep. The knowledge that I had no one to blame but myself for this uncomfortable scenario added to my dread, and I handled it smoothly by avoiding my date’s text messages and only rescheduling 1 hour before the appointed date time. #Maturity
Cap listened to me with a smile, “I’m surprised you’ve never tried smoking.” I embarked on a convoluted explanation about my asthma, and how smoke is my trigger, when I noticed a pronounced twinkle in Cap’s eye. I paused, mid-way through a description of the symptoms of an asthma attack, “You meant smoking pot, not smoking cigarettes, didn’t you?” Cap just grinned: no point in answering the obvious. #VanillaFTW
White people don’t pay sales taxes – a sales pitch
While we were on the metro, we noticed a black guy approach a lonely white teenage boy. I assumed, at first, based on the body language, that the black guy was asking for spare change. But then he started dancing. Drunk, I further assumed. But then, I saw him and the teenager exchange cell phone numbers. Realizing that whatever it was that I was witnessing was infinitely more unusual than the standard metro panhandling, I waited for the next developments.
Black guy wrapped up his convo with the teenager and turned to approach Cap and I. He was youngish (25?), and definitely not a homeless drunkard. I felt a twinge of shame for how unflattering my assumptions had been, until he spoke, “Hey, you guys, if I can take a minute of your time. I’m a musician, a singer, and I’m selling my album today. White people don’t have to pay sales taxes,” pausing as I broke into shocked laughter, “I’ve got nothing against my black folks, but I gotta hustle, and this is my best sales pitch.” He turned to Cap, “Bro, you not full white, I can see that, so you gonna have to pay some taxes. What are you?” Cap confirmed that was not, in fact, “full white”: he was a solid mix of everything – Jamaican, French Canadian, Tunisian and Irish. Singer dude seemed a little taken aback at that mix, repeating it a few times, “I’m gonna need a calculator to work out just how white you are.” I suggested that perhaps if a calculator was required, it was just too much effort and he should just waive Cap’s taxes entirely. “Nah, man, it’s so complicated, imma charge him double taxes!”
Next, it was my turn to be analyzed, “Where you from, you’re not from here – you too white. What are you? Irish or something? White girl, you’re a real white girl. Russian? You don’t look Russian, are you sure? Eeeesh, Russians. Are you all White Supremacy? You are?! Ok imma be nice to you. No sales taxes for you.”
Having established the basis for our respective taxation, he then asked us to buy his album – for only $5. Cap politely refused, because he didn’t have any cash on him. I declined because I am a White Supremacist.
As Singer Dude got off at the next metro stop, the teenager suddenly ran after him, wanting to know if Singer Dude had Instagram. Upon receiving Singer’s assurances that he would be added right away on Instagram, White Teenage Boy sat back down, satisfied.
I guess the “no sales tax” sales pitch really worked for him.