Question Askers – Verb Café, Williamsburg, Feb. 17, 2003

“So hey, there’s this great show next Wednesday at Warsaw,”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I can’t remember the name, but it’s like this family or something, maybe like a backwoodsy, hillbilly kinda sound. I think they’re from like fucking bumpkin South Carolina, like out in the Ozarks and shit. And they play these weird homemade instruments, like carrots and zucchini. They carve instruments out of them and then at the end of the show I heard they throw their instruments out into the crowd and you eat them. It’s totally fucking hot.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I mean, I personally wouldn’t eat them, but um. Yeah, fuck, I don’t remember their name, fuck, it’s like some kinda family name, like the Waltons or the … Tanners or something, but yeah, it’s like a whole family, like a real family, mom, dad, and I think two or three kids. All playing vegetable instruments.”
“Really?” she said.
“Totally. Can you believe that?” he said. He pondered his statement at some length, eyes widened, and added softly:
“ … fucking vegetable instruments …”
Perhaps he was thinking about his considerable affections for this band/family. At any rate, she broke in:

“What, you mean really?”
“Really what?” he asked.
“I mean. I’m sorry,” she shook her head as if to clear it of some lingering cloudiness. “Were you just asking me something?”
“Oh, actually I can’t remember,” he smiled dumbly. “What were we talking about again?”
“Well, you were telling me about the vegetable instruments, and then you asked me if I could believe it.”
“Believe what?” he asked, conjuring a far too serious look.
“I don’t know,” she said dismissively. “You asked me. I guess you meant: could I believe that they really use vegetable instruments. Right?” she said tentatively.
“Hmm,” his face assumed a shockingly genuine look of bewilderment. “Maybe. But I just told you they do use them, so why would I ask you if you could believe it. I mean, it’s true. It’s not like I’m trying to bullshit you or something.”
“Oh, no, no!” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t understand the question. That’s all. I mean, I believe you.”
“Sorry,” he said. “But I don’t recall asking a question. Wasn’t I telling you? I mean, rather than asking you?”

Then she held up a vascular finger and mouthed the words ‘One Sec’ to him as she sidled a cell phone up to her ear, delicately.

He stretched a little and stared around approvingly. He seemed to regard this phone break as a chance reprieve, a time to regroup and launch a new conversational campaign in the face of flagging morale. But funny enough, it was unclear whether she was the caller or the called.

“Hey-eeee!” she squawked into the phone. “Oh nuthin!” and with this she stuck her finger in her ear and lowered he head, allowing her hair to fall over her eyes. She swung herself out of his direct range, crossing her legs.

Just leave it to a couple of caffeinated hipsters to get lost in their own conversation. This must have been their first date. They were sitting in a booth at the Verb Café, fingering sweaty cigarettes and drinking far too much coffee to maintain any sort of first-time conversation without falling into bizarre self-reflections and over-indulgences. And my transcription seems to have landed right in the middle of one of these. With the advantage of distance I could see quite clearly what was going on. I might have walked right up to their table and settled the whole matter by saying: “Hey, look I’m really sorry to tell you, but you two aren’t going to work out together because you’re both rhetorical question askers. It’s a hipster condition you’ve unconsciously cultivated as a way to keep conversations afloat and appear interested in what the other person is saying despite the fact that what the other person is saying is almost always complete bullshit. But of course you’re blind to the true nature of your conversations because you never listen. So I’ll make it real easy for you: either go home and fuck now, or finish your coffee go your separate ways.”
“You really think so?” they would have replied.
And anyway, I’m a romantic. I believe in fate.

“Sorry,” she said clapping her phone closed. “My roommate. It’s a long story.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Totally,” she said. “What were we talking about?”
“I don’t even remember,” he said.
“You don’t?” she asked. “Good. Me neither.”
They’d canceled themselves out. The canvas was cleared again. Perhaps I don’t give them enough credit.

“Yeah, so anyway,” he began. “If you wanna come, like if you don’t have any plans that night or something, I mean it’s like Wednesday so you probably don’t … I mean, of course you could, I didn’t mean that you specifically probably don’t have plans, but you are totally are welcomed along.”
“Yeah?” she said, reaching her hand out toward his in a surprise attack. “That’s really sweet of you.”
“Yeah?” he asked blushingly.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry, but what is it again?”
“What?” he asked.
“The thing, on Wednesday,” she said.
“The show?”
“I guess,” she said. “The thing you just asked me about.”
“Oh. Oh yeah,” he said. “Sorry. It’s the family band thing where they use the vegetable instruments.”
“Oh yeah!” she said. “Sorry.”
“Silly,” he said sweetly. They engaged fingers atop the table. “So do you wanna go? To the show I mean?”
“Totally,” she said.
“Great,” he said. “Hey, what’re you up to right now?”
“No plans,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Totally,” she said.
“Because I’ve got this totally awesome Matthew Barney video and some Annie’s Organic Shells & Cheese at home, and if you want to, we could …”
“Yeah?” she asked.
“Totally,” he said.
“I think I’ve seen something by that guy before, and I think I totally loved it,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Oh, totally,” she said.
And they got up and strolled out onto Bedford, hand in hand. But not before pushing fiercely on the door labeled ‘pull,’ several times.

So maybe I was wrong about them, but Lord help us if I was.