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"Are you a Russian?" he stammered in broken English as soon as I got into the cab. I was startled, first that he spoke to me in English (usually I feel very safe and padded in my "other-language world"), and second because I know very well what he means by that question. "Uh, no, USA" I responded. "USA" I said again slowly and deliberately. In other words, no, it's not a Russian prostitute sitting in the back of your cab. And no, I'm not interested. Unconvinced, he smiled and asked me my age. "Old enough to kick your butt," I thought to myself and ignored him. He eventually gave up. Hanging out with Scott has a lot has advantages, this being one of my favorites. I don't have to deal with men looking at me like I'm a hunk of meat, for one, avoiding cab drivers with mirrors positioned to look up my skirt (which I only wear grudgingly on Sundays in part for that reason). Besides, I love seeing the world through Scott's eyes. I love just padding around with him, burning time and concrete. I laugh as he throws himself up against the tunnel walls on our way to the Green World, feigning frustration at our mock argument. I laugh as he gives everyone we pass an appropriate English name (you, you're Sebastian--you? you're definitely a Dwayne). I laugh as he inserts every accent imaginable into all of our conversations, one minute as New York-Italian, the next playing a perfect Kitty Norris. I laugh as he finally gives up and lets the bus's jolts and starts throw him around the bus (he ends up laying on the floor near my feet). I smile at his delight with a "good cup of jo" and a few chocolates. I smile at his desire to consume "The Brothers Karamazov." I smile at his love for Chet Baker and his long explanations of the historical shift into cool jazz. It's so good to see him happy. It's so good to have time to spend with him. It's so good to SEE him. Definitely NOT Russian, ck [2003-01-26]
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