It was slightly surreal, sitting in a chair across from a straightlaced reporter in a posh cosmopolitan coffee house, and answering questions about the writings.
"What inspired you to start writing?" He asked, clasping the knot of his tie with the inside of his knuckle and pulling it down as he sipped on a double frappenated hot iced latte.
"The suffra doesn't answer asslick questions sir," I said twirling my finger around so the caramel and whipcream melded deep inside my Espressinated Cocaramelcream Fluffer Nutter.
Like he was walking straight from a 1930's press room he tilted his fedora just enough to snake his fingers under the backside and scratch his head. Wiping his furrowed brow with an index card inscribed with the word Press he shoot me a beady eye stare.
"Listen Mac," he quacked, " you reffer to yourself in the third person one more time and this interview is over."
He stood up as if to leave, but instead spun around his chair backwards, sat on it facing me with his arms draped over the back and rolled up his white sleeves, and finally resting his hands on the knees of his pant suit.
I've spent the past few months avoiding e-mails from newspapers and weeklies accross the country, which in retrospect, really wasn't too hard, but this guy got me. When a man goes out of his way to find your identity, then shows up at your front door with a five dollar bill and a list of questions... you tend to give him the courtesy of a couple of answers.
"but I'll be damned if those answers are anygood," I muttered to myself as I watched this man strike an anywhere match on his shoe, and proceed to light a cigar.
"not legal anymore man," I said pointing to the smoke circling up above our heads, drowning out the room's color.
"I'm an anachronism," he shot back frankly, working out his lighting puffs,
"that's why I get to talk in this crazy manner, where these cooky clothes, own a press card."
Craning my neck, I search the crevices of the room for some type of sign that what he's saying is true,
"My god man," I say, "that's amazing."
Although it never got quiet, the drone of the rooms collective conversations flatlined, allowing the reporter and I a second to make eyecontact and realize that we had something to do.
"Now Kid," He continued, reading over print outs of my writing, "you got Moxie,"
"What's Moxie?"
"Listen Mac," He stammered visibly peeved, "I'm just trying to say that.."
"who's mac?" I asked, eyes wide open, staring blankly.
"YOU."
"I'm Suffra," I asserted triumphantly in my best, I'm an important person voice..
"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard..." He shot out, as he pulled a buffalo nickel out of his pocked and began to flip it over his knuckles, " What is a Suffra?," he demanded, "what does that mean?"
I did my best to shoot him a look that signified that he was an idiot for not knowing, but he's piercing glare assured me that he knew I didn't really know either.
He leaned in on me close. At this distance I could smell the after shave soaked deep in his five o'clock shadow as his sharp nose slightly brushed my cheek. I did my best to ignore his evil eye, but I could tell he was getting annoyed with me.
"Do you see what I'm doing here Mac?" He said sharply jabbing my cheek with his nose.
"Honestly?" I responded timidly, "I thought you were trying to do a story on the Suffra, but you're just scarin the shit out of me now."
"Story Shmory," He shouted as if it meant something as he grabbed the sides of my head, letting his fingers glide gently down my cheek, tucking his index finger into his palm and sticking it under my chin, using it to hold up my head.
"Listen," I said pulling back, "If you're doing what I think you're doing," I thought back over the past few months, trying to remember the last time I got any action, then sighed... "we should probably go back to my place... because I'm gonna need a shit load of Vodka."
"What inspired you to start writing?" He asked, clasping the knot of his tie with the inside of his knuckle and pulling it down as he sipped on a double frappenated hot iced latte.
"The suffra doesn't answer asslick questions sir," I said twirling my finger around so the caramel and whipcream melded deep inside my Espressinated Cocaramelcream Fluffer Nutter.
Like he was walking straight from a 1930's press room he tilted his fedora just enough to snake his fingers under the backside and scratch his head. Wiping his furrowed brow with an index card inscribed with the word Press he shoot me a beady eye stare.
"Listen Mac," he quacked, " you reffer to yourself in the third person one more time and this interview is over."
He stood up as if to leave, but instead spun around his chair backwards, sat on it facing me with his arms draped over the back and rolled up his white sleeves, and finally resting his hands on the knees of his pant suit.
I've spent the past few months avoiding e-mails from newspapers and weeklies accross the country, which in retrospect, really wasn't too hard, but this guy got me. When a man goes out of his way to find your identity, then shows up at your front door with a five dollar bill and a list of questions... you tend to give him the courtesy of a couple of answers.
"but I'll be damned if those answers are anygood," I muttered to myself as I watched this man strike an anywhere match on his shoe, and proceed to light a cigar.
"not legal anymore man," I said pointing to the smoke circling up above our heads, drowning out the room's color.
"I'm an anachronism," he shot back frankly, working out his lighting puffs,
"that's why I get to talk in this crazy manner, where these cooky clothes, own a press card."
Craning my neck, I search the crevices of the room for some type of sign that what he's saying is true,
"My god man," I say, "that's amazing."
Although it never got quiet, the drone of the rooms collective conversations flatlined, allowing the reporter and I a second to make eyecontact and realize that we had something to do.
"Now Kid," He continued, reading over print outs of my writing, "you got Moxie,"
"What's Moxie?"
"Listen Mac," He stammered visibly peeved, "I'm just trying to say that.."
"who's mac?" I asked, eyes wide open, staring blankly.
"YOU."
"I'm Suffra," I asserted triumphantly in my best, I'm an important person voice..
"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard..." He shot out, as he pulled a buffalo nickel out of his pocked and began to flip it over his knuckles, " What is a Suffra?," he demanded, "what does that mean?"
I did my best to shoot him a look that signified that he was an idiot for not knowing, but he's piercing glare assured me that he knew I didn't really know either.
He leaned in on me close. At this distance I could smell the after shave soaked deep in his five o'clock shadow as his sharp nose slightly brushed my cheek. I did my best to ignore his evil eye, but I could tell he was getting annoyed with me.
"Do you see what I'm doing here Mac?" He said sharply jabbing my cheek with his nose.
"Honestly?" I responded timidly, "I thought you were trying to do a story on the Suffra, but you're just scarin the shit out of me now."
"Story Shmory," He shouted as if it meant something as he grabbed the sides of my head, letting his fingers glide gently down my cheek, tucking his index finger into his palm and sticking it under my chin, using it to hold up my head.
"Listen," I said pulling back, "If you're doing what I think you're doing," I thought back over the past few months, trying to remember the last time I got any action, then sighed... "we should probably go back to my place... because I'm gonna need a shit load of Vodka."
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