Friendster, Part 2 – Verb Café, Williamsburg, July 19, 2003

Clair slammed two cups of piping hot, over-sugared Verb Café’ coffee onto the table, splashing a few drops onto Gloria’s arm.
“Ouch! Fucking watch it!”
“Sorry,” said Clair, taking her seat warily.
“It’s alright, I need to fuckin’ wake up anyhow,” said Gloria, stretching her elbow up to her mouth to lick the coffee off. “Fuck it. I’m just glad we got patio seats. This place is like a zoo on Saturdays.”
A bird chirped and they both stared up absently at the sliver of exposed sky above them.
“Nice day though, huh?” said Gloria.
“Guess so,” said Clair, shakily sliding a cup over to Gloria, then falling back in her seat and crossing her arms. Clair’s body seemed to be suffering the bizarre adrenal repercussions consistent with the desire to rip somebody’s head off before having a chance to wake up fully: inability to concentrate, goose-bumps, a weakness in the knees, elevated heart beat, throbbing temples, cold sweat, hot flash. It struck her that if another person could momentarily inhabit her body without any prior knowledge of the situation, they might easily mistake these symptoms for those of a common crush, rather than blinding rage. Reaching for her coffee, she smacked her elbow on the table edge.
“Ow fuck!”
“You are in rare form this morning my dear,” said Gloria, trying not to laugh. “Better gimme your lighter so you don’t burn down the fucking place.”
A garbage truck, dripping with its usual foul, milky juice, shivered to a stop near the patio.
“Fucking nasty dude,” Gloria continued, scrunching her face up. “Do they really need to pick up the trash on Saturday morning? I hate Williamsburg.”
Clair, normally a willing participant, instead stared off just above Gloria’s head, her expression hardening into a solemn sneer.
“Blah, blah fuckin’ blah,” she said. “You bitch too much. Did anybody ever tell you that?”
“Oh what-the-fuck-ever,” said Gloria, rolling a cigarette from a little tea-tin of tobacco she kept in her bag. “What’s wrong with you anyway?”
Clair sighed and picked some sleep out of her eyes.
“I dunno dude,” she said, casting a venomous glance at to the two guys occupying the next table.
“Do you know those guys or something?” asked Gloria, twisting around to survey them. “The tall guy’s kinda cute, right?”

Clair leaned over toward Gloria and started in a sharp, hushed tone:
“That fucking asshole was at the counter and …”
But the garbage truck rumbled back to life, blowing a hot billow of exhaust fumes over the patio. The shiny, panther-like man hanging onto the back end of the truck winked at them. They rolled their eyes, and he blew a kiss as the truck lurched up Bedford.

Gloria sipped her coffee and squinted.
“Ahh yes! There’s nothing like burnt, overly sweetened coffee and the smell of rotting flesh on a Saturday morning, huh?”
“Hmm?” Clair was examining her elbow.
“How many fucking sugars did they put in here anyway?”
“Oh, probably like two or three, about,” said Clair. “It’s self-serve.”
“Oh God, that’s right,” said Gloria, her voice high and righteous. “I forgot about the whole Williamsburg self-serve thing.”
“Gloria! Jesus Christ! I’ll get you a new one if it’s a big deal.”
“Relax,” said Gloria. “It’s fucking Williamsburg, not you. What a joke. These fucking morons think they’re so fucking sophisticated with their stupid self-serve coffee bullshit. I bet they think it makes them more free or some shit. Don’t you think?”
“More free?” said Clair.
“Seriously, it’s like somewhere in Williamsburg there’s some fucking jackass hipster king who sits on a bean bag and issues proclamations like, Hear-ye Hear-ye! Oh loser minions of post-industrial bohemia! From this day forth, all aspects of living in Williamsburg will reflect our liberation from the shackled, rat-race of bourgeoisies Manhattan! And in accordance with these – our founding principles – all coffee tending shall be SELF-SERVE, to reflect our commitment to freedom for all people, especially the poor Latino immigrant labor so shamelessly exploited to sugar and milk endless cups of coffee! Yay! We’re fucking awesome!” she spat. “Fucking losers.”
A pair of frumpy-haired hipsters a few tables away tittered and snorted into their coffee.
“Shut up!” said Clair, sinking further into her seat. “You’re embarrassing me!”
“Why? It’s true,” said Gloria.
“Yeah but Gloria, I still have to live here.”
“Well fuckin’ move then, God!”
“Why do you even come out here if it’s so lame?”
“Believe me, if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t come out here,” said Gloria, staring around disgustedly. “If I didn’t think there was some remote chance I could get you to move, I wouldn’t come out here at all.”

She rolled another cigarette and Clair kept one ear ruefully pinned on the conversation at the table in front of them. Of course they’re talking about sex, she thought. How perfect. I pity the poor woman who fucks that asshole. I should have punched that fucker in the face when I had the chance. You just can’t go around treating people like that.

Gloria caught Clair’s eye and cocked an imaginary gun.
“Listen!” Gloria whispered, jerking her head in their direction.
“I know,” said Clair, following up with a gagging gesture.
Gloria held the gun to her own head and mouthed something silently, discharging an imaginary, but apparently high-caliber, bullet into her temple, which threw her into the chair. A wicked smile formed on Clair’s face and she hunched forward: “What? I didn’t catch that, what’d they say?”
“Punching the rump?” Gloria whispered, baffled.
“What’s that? Anal?” asked Clair.
“Fuck if I know. Probably,” she said, dragging on her cigarette.
“Ask them!” said Clair, excitedly.
Gloria gasped dramatically and slapped her on the arm, “You dirty little whore! You ask ‘em!”
“Punching the rump!” said Clair. “Oh man, that’s fucking beautiful!”
“Fuck, maybe I should ask him out,” said Gloria.
“Be my guest,” said Clair.
“Nahh, I’m probably too much woman for him anyway,” she said, seductively crossing her legs. “He wouldn’t know what to do with little ole’ me.”
“Sure he would,” said Clair, gleefully. “He’d punch your rump, baby. Nuthin’ to it, right?”
“Oh yeah baby!” said Gloria, slapping her own ass. “Punch that rump, go on! Punch it! You big ole’ hunka man you! Punch it like you love me baby!”
“Shh! They’ll fucking hear!”
“No, seriously Clair,” said Gloria, suddenly pensive. “You know, ever since I moved to Manhattan, I’ve been looking for a good rump-punching, but goddamned if I can find a man who’s interested in punching my rump. Seriously! I don’t know what it is? Isn’t my rump worthy of such manly attention?”
Gloria half stood up and twisted around to get a look at her own ass.
“I just don’t see what the problem is?” she said. “Maybe Williamsburg is where all the real men are hidden.”

Clair erupted in a shrill fit of laughter, choking herself on a sip of coffee and knocking over a glass of water. The commotion at their table spread across the patio, and soon all of the other hipsters were snickering, faces downcast, with one eye on Gloria, who was still halfway out of her chair, slapping her own ass, laughing wildly while Clair picked up the broken glass. But the two guys at the next table didn’t seem to notice. They were frozen into some kind of conversational airlock, which irritated Gloria slightly.

“So do you know those guys or something?”
"I was trying to fucking tell you that when you started talking shit,” said Clair.
“Well tell me now for fuck’s sake! Do you know ‘em or what?”
Clair crouched over the table toward Gloria again and started in a whisper:
“That fucking asshole totally made a huge fucking deal and practically threw me on the floor while I was trying to get shit for our coffee.”
“Really?” said Gloria, her eyes lighting up.
“Then, in like a super bitch voice, he’s all: ‘Blah blah fucking stupid cunt wait your turn!’ and all this shit.”
“What? Seriously?”
“Yes! Then he pushed me back! I couldn’t fucking believe it! He backed up into me and tried to knock me down!”
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“Then, after he poured like half the fucking sugar in his coffee, he turns and he’s all: ‘Here ya go! Thanks for being such a good sport!’ Like he’s some fucking gentleman or something. Fucking asshole.”
“Wow, what a dick,” said Gloria. “So what’d you do?”
“I flipped him off and told him he was a fucking cocksucker.”
“Did you really?”
“What else could I do? I didn’t want to start a fight, but I had to do something!”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t put it past these fucking Williamsburg dorks to punch a lady.”
“I bet I could whoop his fucking ass,” said Clair. “Fucking pansy. I wish he would have punched me.”

Just then the asshole’s friend sprung from his seat and started yelling at him.
“… I don’t fucking care about that shit!” he yelled, his finger jabbing toward the asshole’s chest. “I DON”T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT FRIENDSTER OKAY!”
He brushed quickly past the girls and into the café.

“Fucking morons, I swear,” Clair whispered.
“Totally,” Gloria said. “Although I have to say, I’m with him on that. Friendster is horseshit.”
“I dunno,” said Clair. “I’m still hanging on.”
“Oh yeah! Speaking of, Ms. Siouxsie, how’re things going with Mr. Beach Boy anyway?”
“It’s PetSounds17, actually,” said Clair.
“Oh, well excuse me.”
“He’s fine. We’re going out on our first date tonight.”
“What’s his deal again?”
“He’s an architect, he lives in Chelsea,” said Clair, wistfully.
“You don’t actually believe that shit do you?”
“No, not really,” said Clair. “I mean, it would be pretty cool but …”

But actually, she did believe it. She believed it passionately and secretly. She’d had initial doubts, sure, but those had all been long since washed away in the glimmering tide of dedicated emailing, two weeks solid. Then, when the time was right, the next step: instant messages, which, it seemed to Clair, had added a new dimension of relative intimacy, in real-time. Their exchanges had since taken on the air of cozy routine: ‘how was your day?’ ‘work is sooo boring!’ ‘I had this crazy dream last night …’ She’d even begun pasting all of their correspondences into a word file for posterity. And on the day of their first face-to-face meeting (we’ve come so far already!), the very thought of him made her swoon: bookish, yet athletic; dapper, yet rugged; silhouetted in the doorway (the profile picture was admittedly blurry); earthenware coffee mug in hand; a shrewd smile just barely visible in the evening light; a shock of dark hair thrown back raffishly. And so what if he wasn’t exactly the man she expected? There was definitely something about this one, something special.

“Well, don’t believe a goddamn word until you see him. That’s my advice,” said Gloria.
“Oh don’t be such a cynic Gloria. My God. I mean, I know he’s at least smart. And …”
“And what?”
“And I know we have some of the same interests.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, for instance, he just read Fast Food Nation and he really liked it. And he’s a vegetarian.”
“What the hell does that mean? You’re not a vegetarian.”
“Yes, but I’m considering becoming one. Plus, I think it denotes a certain kind of intelligence. I mean, lots of the greatest minds in history were vegetarians. Einstein was a vegetarian you know. And he sea-kayaks too.”
“Whatever,” said Gloria. “I bet you have just as good a chance for chemistry with Mr. Chelsea architect as you do with that fucker from the condiment table.”

That fucker. Clair wasn’t listening anymore, not really anyway. She was busy being swept up in a potent daydream, the only one that had a chance against the tried and true walking-along-the-Chelsea-pier-hand-in-hand with Mr. Right fantasy. She was imagining violent retribution. She was imagining Mr. Right beating the living shit out of the asshole from the condiment table: Breaking his nose, his jaw, his ribs, throwing him through the plate glass window into the street. Then the asshole’s tearful apology, clogged by blood and snot, and Mr. Right’s wing-tipped foot perched menacingly on his quivering neck. And Clair would wipe the blood from Mr. Right’s swollen knuckles, as he calmly explained to the asshole that this is what happens when you don’t treat a lady with respect.

“Well,” said Clair, dreamily. “Who knows, maybe PetSounds17 will be Mr. Right.”
“Yeah well. Hope springs eternal I guess, but don’t hold your breath,” said Gloria.
“You’re just bitter, that’s all.”
“Whatever. Hey, where’d you say you’re meeting him again?”
“The Red and Black,” said Clair.
“Hmm, interesting. Which picture do you have up on Friendster? Do you still have that picture of me with just the black panties?”
“Yeah, but it’s kind of a joke. Why?”
“Has he even seen a real picture of you?”
“No, but he said he wants to be surprised. Why?”
Gloria leaned over and cautiously whispered to Clair: “You’re not gunna believe this shit, but I think your friend from the condiment table might be, him.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Right.”
“Bullshit!”
“Seriously, he’s was just talking about his Friendster date at the Red and Black tonight. I’m not fucking kidding.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well I dunno, but he said …”
“Wait! Shut up a sec!”
Clair focused in on their conversation:

“Well, her screen name’s Siouxsie Sioux, which is …”

“Oh fuck! We have to get out of here! Right now!”
Clair grabbed Gloria’s hand, digging her nails into her palm, and started dragging her away from the table.
“Why? What’s wrong? Chill out a second,” said Gloria, gathering her things.
“Oh fuck! I can’t fucking believe this! That’s the Friendster guy! It’s him!”
“Hang on for a second, Christ!” said Gloria. “Are you sure that’s him? That asshole? I want you to be absolutely sure, because I was only eavesdropping. I mean, don’t take my word for it.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here! I gotta go cancel my date!”

“Hey!” The asshole called to them as they rushed past.
Clair stopped and turned around, her heart beating violently.
“Better go easy on the sugar next time honey!” he hollered, clapping his friend on the back.

“Fuck you!” she screeched.

Then they walked quickly along Bedford in silence for a few minutes until Gloria broke in.
“Look, I’m really sorry Clair. I shouldn’t have even …”
“It’s alright, actually,” she said, a villainous smile crossing her face. “I have that fucker’s address, and I know where he works.”
“Yeah, if it’s not completely made up.”
“Oh yeah,” said Clair. “Shit. It probably is.”
“I told you Friendster is bullshit. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
“Yeah, fucking Friendster.”