"Sure Pal, I'd Love To Hear About It"
He asked what I had been drinking, motioning to the empty glass I was holding, without bothering to offer to get me one. I said vodka soda. He seemed confused.He was a jazz fan (apparently) and was impressed by my knowledge of Miles, Monk and Mingus. He hugged me when I said I liked Brubeck as though he had found the last person in the world who still actually liked Brubeck.
He asked questions:
What do you do? Where do you work? Do you like it? Write? You write? (Look of unimpressiveness) Like, write what? Do you have anything published? Whatdoyoureallyexpecttohappenwiththat?
For once I’d like someone to ask:
Who do you read? What’s your take on world politics? When’s the last time you left the country? If you could have any super power what would it be?
I avoided the incessant questions about the direction of my future, which he seemed to deem bleak and non-promising, and talked more about jazz.
He hadn’t the slightest clue as to what I was talking about, so I kept right on talking.
posted by Victoria Comella @ 3:36 PM
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