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2002-07-22 - 4:28 p.m.

While I was waiting for a co-worker to come out of the bank last Friday, a rather flashy red convertible Corvette pulled up in the stall next to where I was idling away, not really thinking about much. The sun was out, and I had the radio off, sitting there in my car with the windows down enjoying the day. The car was new, shiny, and flashed with a mica paint job. It may have been driven by Neil Diamond, or perhaps his poorly aging cousin. He had a Burt Reynolds circa Cannonball Run quality about him that bespoke sunken couches and waterbeds, poker games with nude playing cards, and jeans worn too tight with a sock strategically placed to impress the ladies. I'm sure he was in a band. Out pops a bimbo in a mini skirt and one look at her chest confirms the reason my corner of the world is called the Silicon Valley. Her clothing was skin tight, consisting of a belt of Lycra that doubled as a skirt and a steel reinforced sports bra, both very loud colors. Her hair bleached that shade of blonde made popular by prostitutes everywhere, and of course, given that this spectacle was right next to me, I noticed. The woman had been touched up, brushed, waxed, and otherwise surgically enhanced. Nothing about her seemed real or even inviting. Such women confuse me. I don’t even think that’s attractive, especially crammed into something tight and small that leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s not sexy or erotic, merely trashy and sad. Which was the look she was obviously going for, so there you go. My reverie into her psyche was broken by a derisive, "Would you mind keeping your eyes to yourself" coming from next to me. I have to admit, I was a bit taken back. “Oh, I'm sorry for staring at your walking Barbie, and your flashy car” I said. And then out loud I held my tongue. I glanced sideways at the guy, ignoring his heavy amber tinted sunglasses, his exposed matte of graying chest hair and a sparkling of chains glinting in the reflected sun. Everything about this couple was flashy, gaudy, and screaming for attention. Who drives a Red Pearl convertible Corvette in order to blend in? Who hangs around with the idealized Penthouse cover model and yet craves privacy and anonymity? Where he was flashy, I was classy, my pique polo and worn vintage jeans a nod to casual Friday, my car, while European was efficient practicality with a touch of elitism. My whole look spelling out that I was accustomed to nice things but I wasn't going to make a big deal about it. I was content, I was balanced, and I was a nice guy. The yin to the yang next to me. I know he loved to make a scene because it called even more attention to his jowley pinched features and prominent unabrow. The Baywatch casting reject was working her damndest at the ATM, probably distracted by the bright buttons and the confusing words on the monitor. "You got a problem Amigo!" Being mistaken for a Hispanic is the bane of my life. I returned his comment with a “Whatever” expression etched in my Aryan features, hoping that my rolled eyes and slight head movement came across as condescending. I saw my co-worker exiting the Bank. I leaned forward and a little bit out of the window, turning to the man and replying, in English, "No, I’m perfectly comfortable with the size of my Penis". I ignored him then and also his epileptic anger and in fact his very presence, which was the worst slight in the world to him I could imagine. To go to all that effort to be the center of attention, and then be invalidated like that. It was perfect. I started the car, rolled up the windows, and sat as the A/C came on. As we left the parking lot he was cursing at me. Who knows what he was saying, but his strumpet was still trying to figure out the ATM.

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