My Juno-nominated roommate D and I were returning from the Little Chinatown market this afternoon casually discussing whether we should have rice or noodles (or even rice noodles) with our fresh vegetables and deep-fried soy triangles, when a man with very, very few teeth headed us off.
I pulled out a book of matches in which my fiancee and I have designed personal tattoos for one another, and separated a match.
B- "No problem."
We got very close to one another--his breath was sweet with the smell of high octane beer--and he cupped his hands around mine to protect the flame. After much wobbling on his part, and compensating on mine, we were able to light his cigarette.
A- "Youknow. . . this little whore come up to me last night (unintelligible) Come'ere!"
He gestured me to get closer, and raised his hand in a conspiratorial way, shielding D from his comment.
A- "Tell me I'm better than Elvis. Say 'Yes'."
A- (pointing to D)"I've got a witness you said that!"
B- "It was my pleasure; and, you are."
. . . better than Elvis.
Even though I didn't hear him sing, or see him swivel his hips, I knew in my gut that he must be better than Elvis. I mean, Elvis has been dead for nearly 3 decades; A smelled like he'd only been dead a couple of months.