Sunday Storytime: Policy

It's Tuesday, I know. But this is the story that I failed to post on Sunday.

Last week, I told you one story that informed my Fake Breast Policy. This week, I shall present a second.

This story begins a year ago, at our neighbor’s birthday party. She turned 3, and the cul-de-sac as well as her parents’ Easter European friends were invited. What’s that? Their who? Oh. Right. My neighbors are Bosnians. And they hang out with other Bosnian, Croatian and, believe it or not, Serbian people who found their way to Colorado Springs.

Everyone at the party was very cordial. But after the greetings were exchanged, the cul-de-sac people ended up at one table and the Bosnians et al sat at theirs and spoke Bosnian, presumably.

Night fell and I was about to leave when the party hit that moment of critical mass—you know, when enough folks have left that there’s enough room around one table for all who remain and such remainders suddenly feel a little kinship in being Those Who Lasted.

So I sat down at this table and the conversation became interesting: This was July of 08, the Democratic candidate had not yet been decided and these Bosnian men were weighing in on what they thought of the options. None of them are citizens yet, and none of them seemed to care all that much about the outcome. This wasn’t apathy. It seemed more like cynicism—as in, “What’s the difference? Life is how life is.”

I had been very quiet thus far when one guy said Hilary should win it “Because she is a senator in New York.”

I shrugged and said, “So what? She’s a carpet bagger.”

You all know what this means. It’s a term from the Reconstruction, it refers to a politician who moves to a different state in order to claim the power up for grabs there.

This is not how these Bosnian men understood the term. At once, they all burst into laughter, Sasha jumped from his chair and rushed to me, yelling, “High five, you say that! You give high five!”

Wheels churned madly.

Ohhhh.

“No, no, no!” I tried to explain. “It’s a term from the. . .” but they were half drunk and not interested. Sigh.

I was going to leave then. I really was. But then one guy leapt from this political topic to religion in American. And he was not drunk, and he was the one guy who wasn’t laughing about the misunderstood comment. Specifically, he wanted to know why there were so many different Christian churches. And different Bibles. And why did some worship Mary as part of the Trinity?

He had grown up Muslim, and as is often the case among cultures, had learned a lot of disinformation about a different religion. I certainly wasn’t going to walk away from those questions.

While I was talking with him, my neighbor got to talking with Lucci. Ah, Lucci. He was a hip guy. Tall. Handsome to some, probably, with a receding hairline and locks that flowed to his shoulders. Lucci drove a Porche, paid for his house in an expensive development with cash and, when asked what he did for a living, said, “My business is my business.”

He interrupted all other conversation to pose this question: If insurance covers Viagra, then shouldn’t insurance cover cocaine?

He was not half-drunk. He was entirely drunk. Questions like these are not to be answered in general, and not to be answered when it’s a specific drunk man asking. My neighbor missed this lesson in What To Do With Drunk People and said, “Why would you do cocaine in the first place?”

I was thinking: Because a dealer has to sample his product.

Lucci grasped his highball of whisky from the top, swirled it as he leered over its rim and said, “Because I like to give my women pleasure,” he paused to take a sip, then pointed at us, “for three days at a time.”

And so began the litany of a drunk Croatian re: his physical prowess and personal standards as pertains to women. The most memorable: “My last girlfriend was 8 months younger than my mother.”

This conversation de-railed at one point and allowed me to get back to my other conversation with the Muslim guy. Once that wrapped up, it was time to leave.

And then, a year later, just a couple weeks ago, it was time to go back for the little girl’s 4th birthday.

As the Fake Breast Policy not yet well-formed, I had to consider my options. Mostly, I considered Lucci, and what he’d be likely to say if I went without, and whether he’d say it before or once he got drunk, and then what the fight would look like if Bryan were to hear what Lucci would say.

I wore it. Half hour into the party, I asked the host, “Where’s Lucci?”

He gave a little wave and said, “Lucci is away for a little while.”

I think that’s a Bosnian code for prison.

So, no perverts on the prowl. Just more Eastern Europeans who sat at their table while I sat at mine with neighbors who already know about the surgery. The sun was very strong that day and the yard had little shade. I couldn’t believe how hot I felt.

When I got home and de-fake-breasted, I couldn’t believe it. I handed it over to Bryan and said, “Do you notice anything?”

He said, “This is hot!”

Indeed. Turns out silicon microbeads absorb heat. My chest felt cooked.

And I was asking again: to what end?